House stood in the silence of his living room, gazing out the high windows into the dark, equally silent street below. Nothing moved. The lamps shed a circle of light, but there was no one anywhere to use that light. It was just there. It was a beacon in the darkness, but people were already home and asleep.

It was two a.m.

House had been home for two hours. Two long and sleepless hours.

Chase had kicked him out of the office. Gutsy wombat.

He had to smile.

Chase was turning into a formidable sparring partner, though he had a long way to go to reach Wilson's level. James Wilson had known House for too long to easily cave in and surrender. Except in bed.

Another smirk, but there was hardly any amusement in it.

Blue eyes studied the darkness.

Wilson had already been in bed when House had arrived. There had been a note that food was in the fridge, ready to be nuked for a late night dinner, but House hadn't been hungry.

Sometimes patients touched him.

Deeply.

He would never show, but something about a child being diagnosed with a fatal disease, something so rare and unknown, could touch him.

Cameron would probably faint in shock. Foreman would scoff and say it was a ruse. Chase might believe it, without commenting, and keep an eye on him. Just to be sure.

Sometimes patients touched the Diagnostic, not the other way around.

Being a Diagnostic, being able to see what was wrong with a person, was something House had always been. The Vicodin had at first dulled, then numbed the paranormal abilities. Now they were back. He was free of the pain in his bad leg and his abilities had come soaring home. Normally he needed hours, maybe over a day or two to connect to the person he treated, to actually see what was happening and going on.

Not this time.

Tabea-Ceyla Cengiz. Two years old, nearly three. Her birthday was next week. Her parents had brought her in because her development had been far behind her crib mates.
 

"Tabea has Metachromatic Leukodystrophy. It's a genetic disease where the lysosomes of the cell don't store materials correctly, resulting in an abnormal accumulation of lipids, which causes progressive deterioration of motor control and neurological functioning."

House watched as the parents gazed at Cameron in confusion. She had once again gone and done it, fleeing into the safe world of med talk. Her eyes were overflowing with compassion and she was having a hard time looking at them.

"MLD is an autosomal recessive genetic defect."

"What…?" the mother whispered, shocked. "What are you talking about?"

"Your child is genetically damaged," House translated. "Irreparable. Untreatable."
 

He had connected to the child. He had gone into that room and looked at the small body, had met the unfocused gaze, had watched her clenched hands and strangely absent-minded behavior, and he had known. Not because of his medical knowledge, but because the child had connected.

There were exceptions to the rule.

Chase might claim Wilson was another exception, but House had known his best friend a long time before the infarction, when he had still 'functioned'. And throughout the years of being his best and only friend, Wilson had somehow connected to him, too.

Today their relationship was a lot more complicated and interwoven than being mere lovers and friends. It was too intimate to be called just a relationship on a physical level. Wilson was an empath who connected to him, House was a Diagnostic who did the same.

Tabea-Ceyla had been neither, no paranormal at all, and he had known. Just known.

And it had left something inside of him hurting.

Some patients did that to him.

Too few to actually count on one hand, but those who had touched him, those House remembered quite clearly.
 

"MLD?" the father echoed.

"Basically people who are affected by MLD lack an enzyme in their blood called Arylsulfatase-A. Without this enzyme, sulfatides are not broken down and instead build-up in the white matter of the brain and CNS causing destruction of the myelin sheath, or demyelination. Without an intact myelin sheath there is a breakdown in communication between the nerves and the brain. This loss of or miscommunication accounts for the loss of acquired functions, paralysis, blindness, seizures and eventual death."

More Cameron rambling. House sighed and leaned a little more on his cane, a left-over gesture from the days this rambling had caused him leg pain. Right now it was phantom pain and he grimaced.

"She's… dying?" the mother finally stuttered.

"Eventually," House confirmed.

And then the tears came.

He hated tears.
 

House could still see the child, surrounded by her parents. Crying parents. He was never touched by relatives crying their hearts out. He usually turned around and walked away.

"I'm sorry."

It was the only time he apologized, the last time he saw them. But he couldn't forget the child's eyes. She didn't understand what was happening to her, she didn't understand a word about her condition, and she wasn't some freaky paranormal kid like Zoe Chester, but he had connected. And it hurt to be so close and to see the sickness and to be so… helpless.

House hated helplessness. He hated knowing – knowing there was nothing anyone could do. Not even a healer could right the wrong. It was a severe birth defect. And it would be the child's death.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the window. His leg twinged a little. He had really abused it today, to the limit, and it was protesting. While the nerves leading to the missing muscle tissue were dead now, the others were still quite active and they reminded House that this was so not good for him.

Especially the long, long walk today.

His bike was still back at the hospital. Wilson would have a fit.

There was a soft sound and House suppressed a sigh, knowing who had just found him. Of course there was only one person and that person happened to be empathic.

"House?"

And sleepy.

He had probably woken his lover because of his emotional turmoil or something like it.

House only gave a grunt, eyes back on the street. Wilson came closer. He finally stopped next to him. Brown eyes gazed at him and House met them briefly, then stared at the street again.

"They wanted lies," House finally said after almost ten minutes of silence.

Wilson didn't comment. He simply tilted his head a little, eyes dark and deep.

"They wanted me to tell them their child would survive this. Handicapped maybe, but that she would grow up. She won't. She'll die, Jimmy. And they wanted me to lie about it."

"Hope is the strongest emotion in desperate times."

House grimaced. "There is no hope."

"Not for them. But they want it. They want the illusion."

"I can't give them that. They need to face reality."

"Sometimes people don't want that. Reality will come soon enough."

House grunted. "I'll call you then next time. You can listen to their sobs and pleas. You can have the mother break down in you manly arms and comfort her. And you can send them home with false hope."

"It's not easier for me, House. I don't give my patients lies either. It's only a matter of how you present the facts."

House knew that. No one was left unmarked by the pain of those who suffered with a patient, who had to listen to the maybe fatal or devastating diagnosis. House had his shields, and he had his reasons to stay away from patients and relatives if he could help it.

Wilson dealt with the worst every day. He was in oncology. He was the damned head of department.

"They know the truth and they crave the lies," House murmured. "What a stupid, stupid world."

"It's how it works."

House reached out with his right hand and tangled his fingers in the ratty old t-shirt his lover was wearing. It might have been blue once, now it was a strange grayish-something. He pulled and Wilson took a step closer. He buried his face against Wilson's neck, stubble scratching over naked skin, and exhaled softly. James wrapped one arm around him, the other tangling in his unkempt hair.

"I could feel her, Jimmy," House confessed.

"How?"

No stupid exclamations of 'What?' and 'Feel her? Impossible!'. Just a simple question.

"I don't know. She just… connected. I was walked into that room, looked at the kid and wham. Instant diagnosis. Freaky."

Wilson curled his arm so his hand came to rest on House's shoulder from behind, and he pressed a kiss against one temple. The Diagnostic felt the empath's powers caress him, touch his turmoiled mind, and he chuckled darkly.

"Soothing, Jimmy?"

"If you let me."

House raised his head from his comfortable place on Wilson's neck and sought out his lover's lips, kissing him hard. The other man didn't retreat, only drew him closer, and gave as good as he got. Wilson drew back, but not before House had delivered a little bite. His breathing was rough, his eyes burned, and House felt this strange need in him that didn't come from simple arousal.

He wanted to erase this day. Completely.

"That's not Soothing," James commented.

"For me it is."

"Let me…"

Wilson leaned for another kiss, this one slower, more sensual, and filled with different emotions. Fingers danced over House's spine, massaging, making him relax. This wasn't just paranormal powers at work. It was the familiarity of his lover, the scent, the feel, the touch. House could lose himself in James Wilson. It was comforting and it was frightening, because those emotions were incredibly strong.

"Come to bed," Wilson murmured. "Get some sleep."

"Call in sick tomorrow?" House added hopefully.

His lover smiled, not commenting. He only ran a tender caress up and down House's flank.

"Cuddy would track you to the end of the world to drag you back into the clinic," Wilson finally said.

"Hm, really? That theory calls for testing."

Wilson was still nibbling at his lips, then dragged them across the rough stubble. "Don't test your boundaries too much, Greg," he murmured.

House suddenly turned them so Wilson was leaning against the sturdy brick wall between two windows. He was looking into the well-known dark eyes, their depth magnetic for him. He liked to lose himself in that almost black color. They could be hard and cold, warm and full of emotions, and they could be filled with something solely meant for him.

"Make it go away," he whispered harshly.

Wilson blinked, gazing at him in bewilderment. "House, I can't… I'm not a telepath. I can't influence you like that."

"You're a Soother. Make it go away. For tonight."

A hand cupped his cheek, the thumb moving over it. He felt his partner's powers rise, caressing him, touching him in a way no physical touch could. He couldn't and wouldn't forget, but this would soothe his nerves, would make him relax.

He'd get a handle on his emotional upheaval soon. By tomorrow he would be his old self. Right now, the memories of that little kid, of her instant connection to him, still rattled through his usually so unshockable mind.

House leaned down and their kiss was again slow and tender, hands moving over the other's body, caressing and reassuring. Wilson's powers were wrapped around him and he felt so much calmer, so much better, so secure.

Somehow the ended up on their bed, but not to make out. House let Wilson undress him, get him under the covers, draw him close. It was a safe world in here, with James, and House wasn't ready to leave it to face the real world just now. The next hours were just for them.

* * *

They were gone by the next morning.

His strange emotions, his uncomfortable feelings, and the kid's parents. Including the kid.

Cameron told him they had decided to give their daughter as much of a normal life as possible, however long she had. It could be months, it could be years. House didn't know that himself. He just looked into the emotional eyes of Allison Cameron and snorted as she continued to go on and on about little children and parents and the comfort of home.

"Case over, Cameron," he told her and turned to limp into his office.

"Doesn't it touch you just a little bit that she will die?" she demanded.

"Everything has to die one day."

"She is a three-year-old, House! Almost still a baby!"

He met her outraged eyes, let her anger wash over him, then continued his path. Cameron had been having all kinds of emotional cases lately and she always got herself deeply involved. She either took a few days off or he would confine her to lab duty. This was getting out of hand. He couldn't care less what she yelled at him, what she called him. The moment she started tearing herself to pieces though, that was his problem because Cuddy made it his problem.

Foreman just watched the argument, wisely not interfering, and House closed the door after himself – only to find his office was currently occupied by his one permanent staff member.

Chase looked up from where he was using his computer, a quizzical expression on his narrow face. "You're in early," he remarked.

"As if you couldn't tell by the harpy screeching outside," House replied gruffly.

"Cameron's been having a bad week. I tried to get her to leave her last clinic case, but she nearly took my head off." A shrug. "She's a grown woman. And I'm not her boss."

He gave him a pointed look.

House scowled at him. "And you're barely out of your puppy years, Chase. You think you could handle it so much better?"

Blue eyes, harder than he remembered them, met his. "Maybe. Maybe none of us is as immune to emotions as we all like to believe."

House reared back a little in mock-shock. "Wow, Dr. Chase, taking psychology courses?"

"Simply observing."

Chase rose from the computer after having logged out. He picked up a large stack of printed paper and House discovered that they were patient files.

"Anything else?" Chase asked neutrally.

House met the level gaze, aware of what was being asked. "You're not needed," he replied.

It got him a brief smile. "I figured that. I don't know what happened when you walked into the room, House, but I have an idea. As long as you can deal with it, I'm out of your hair."

"Just leave already," he snarled. "You're not my shrink!"

Chase nodded, grabbed his things and relocated to the second computer out in the meeting room. Cameron was already gone, probably blowing off steam somewhere, and Foreman was reading whatever interesting book he had found. Maybe he was hiding some good porn under a respectable cover. House wouldn't put it past him.

Sitting down, House swiveled the chair to look out the window. So Chase had figured out something had happened. Frightening, yes. It meant the little kiwi was getting closer and a lot better at reading the master of the house. Then again, he was an ally. It was his job to keep an eye on those close to him, the paranormals he protected.

House checked his watch. Four hours till lunch time. What a bore. Thoughts swirling lazily, House finally sighed and pushed to his feet. He should go and scavenge. Maybe there was an interesting case to wile away the hours.

Limping out of his office he headed toward the nurses' station to peek at the files.

Time to find something juicy to sink his teeth into before Cuddy decided to stick him into a room with sniffle noses and hacking coughs a four-year-old could diagnose.

* * *

Wilson was ready to leave for the evening. It had been an exceptionally long day and he knew House was probably already home and browsing delivery menus. Or he was waiting for Wilson to cave and cook. Not that James minded – most of the times anyway. He liked to cook.

Grabbing his bag he opened the office door and found himself looking at Greg House, leaning against the opposite wall. Wilson stopped, slightly baffled.

"House?"

"I need a drink," his lover only said.

The corridors were deserted. It was late. Late enough for the offices to be empty, for the nine-to-five people to be gone. The clinic was closed for the night and only the nightshift nurses and doctors roamed the halls.

"Okay…" Wilson said slowly. "Where?"

"The Red Door."

That had him give his lover a much closer look. 'The Red Door' was an English Pub style establishment. Small, lots of wood, live music on most nights, a plasma TV in one corner, some sports magazines among the newspapers freely scattered on the tables, and very good beer on tap. It was also a place run by one of Wilson's ally contacts.

"You drive," House only said and started to limp toward the elevators.

Mystified, Wilson followed. He knew that to ask questions now would be so wrong. It would get House to clamp down on whatever was weighing on his mind – and it had to be really weighing for him to choose a place he had only visited once or twice in the past year.

Wilson drove, the silence between them a comfortable one. He parked the car near The Red Door and House took the lead again, walking straight into the place, past the bar and into a corner. Wilson nodded at the man behind the bar. Elias Jona Gabriel McGreth, his ally, his friend, and past agony aunt whenever he had needed an ear.

Eli nodded back, took two beer bottles out of the fridge, grabbed a basket full of snacks, and wordlessly deposited them on their table. Then they were left alone.

House nursed the beer, eyes straying around the room. A game was going on and most patrons were watching it on Eli's new big screen TV in another room. Others were reading the paper, talking with each other, playing cards, or having home-cooked dinners.

"Greg?" Wilson probed carefully.

House met his eyes. "I freaked," he finally said.

Wilson just regarded him curiously. He wasn't probing empathically – just yet.

"The kid freaked me out," his lover continued softly.

And then he started to talk. James only listened as House told him anything and everything, whatever he had felt and experienced, what he thought and what he feared, and he just listened. Somewhere throughout that time he reached out, when the worst was out of House's system, and he grabbed one hand, wrapping his finger's around it.

House just talked.

And Wilson simply listened.