Thanks for all your kind reviews, guys. Your enthusiasm for this story basically made my week!

Lisa Cuddy was trying to make herself invisible.

She was sitting at the far edge of a wooden bench in the Trenton PD holding cell, her knees pressed together, her hands in her lap. She was conscious of the fact she was barefoot and that the floor was very sticky. She was conscious of the other women in the cell—two strung-out looking blondes; another, larger woman with a tattoo of a woman's face on her neck; a fourth woman that kept moaning that somebody had taken away her babies; and another woman, with scratch marks on her arms and face, fast asleep on one of the two narrow cots.

The cell was filthy and smelled of urine and body odor.

Lisa Cuddy had never been to jail before.

She had never even been to detention.

At first, she thought Tritter was bluffing. Even as he bent her over the desk and roughly strapped on the metals cuffs—she thought he was flexing his muscle a bit, teaching her a lesson.

But then he began reading her Miranda rights and she realized it was real and she started to feel sick. She didn't want to appear weak or scared in front of him—but that was the thing about bullies with actual power. They usually won.

"You're arresting me? On what charges?" she managed to stammer.

"I could charge you for assaulting a police officer," he said. "But since I'm such a nice guy, we'll call it 'Disobeying an order.' You'll get off with a fine—after you spend in the night in Trenton's finest motel."

He pushed her toward the door.

"Let's go, doctor," he said.

An attractive female officer, early 30s, with kind eyes, had been observing the whole scene. Now she stood up.

"I'll take her down, Tritter," she said. "I'm going that way."

"She's my perp," Tritter said. "And a close, personal friend, too. I got this."

It was clear, once they got down to booking, why he was so keen on taking Cuddy personally. The arresting cop had to pat the perp down before handing her over to the booking officer.

He pat Cuddy down slowly, his hands lingering, splayed out over her breasts.

"She's clean," he said, with a satisfied smirk. "She's all yours Martha."

Martha was the one who took Cuddy's wallet and cell phone and shoes.

When she took the shoes, she looked at them disdainfully and said, "These could probably feed my family for a month."
She wasn't smiling.

Cuddy was fingerprinted and a mug shot was taken.

"You can make your phone call now," Martha said.

"Phone call?" Cuddy said. "To whom?"

"I don't know, honey. Your husband, your girlfriend, your pimp. Whoever's going to post bail for you. You get a minute."

In some sort of alternative universe, House would've been the perfect person to call—resourceful, non-judgmental, the kind of guy who knew how to find a bail bondsman in the middle of the night.

But of course, House was currently sitting in a cell of his own, several miles away, in the New Jersey Department of Corrections.

Calling Arlene or Julia was equally out of the question.

So she called her most reliable friend—Dr. James Wilson.

"How could you Cuddy?" he said into the phone. (By now, he knew the whole story: About Cuddy, the wire, House's arrest, even Tritter.) His voice was thick with disappointment.

"Wilson I need a huge favor," she said.

"I shouldn't even be talking to you," he said. "I'm not sure I am talking to you. What you did to House was unforgivable."

"I know it was, but right now I . . ."

Suddenly, in the background, a fight broke out between two men who had been waiting for an officer. They were both screaming and cursing at the top of their lungs.

"Where are you?" Wilson said, finally realizing that this phone call was highly irregular.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. I'm at the Trenton Police Department."

"You can't visit House yet. And besides, he's at the state pen."

"I know that. . . I'm the one who has been arrested."

Wilson made a sound—a cross between a gasp and a squeak—and then there was a stunned silence.

"You were arrested?"

"Twenty seconds," Martha said, tapping on her watch.

"Wilson. I gotta go in 20 seconds. I got arrested for. . . disobeying an officer and I need you to post my bail. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he said cautiously.

"And I need you to call my mother and tell her that I had a little too much to drink and I'm spending the night with a friend, okay?"

"Okay," he repeated mechanically. He still seemed to be in a bit of shock.

"Thanks Wilson. I owe you, big time. I'll tell you everything tomorrow."

She hung up just as the line went dead.

And now here she was, sitting in this cell, wanting to cry, wanting to die, just hoping to make it through the night.

She had to pee, but there was no way she was going to use that toilet. It looked diseased. And there was no door, only a flimsy, see-through curtain.

For a brief moment, her mind flashed to House: She had been in jail for only a few hours and she was already cold, dirty, and terrified. She couldn't imagine what it had been like for him. What it was like for him now, because of her.

The large woman with the neck tattoo must've noticed Cuddy's attempts at being invisible.

"BOO!" she said loudly, sneaking up behind her.

Cuddy jumped half a foot off the bench and the woman laughed.

"Don't be scared," she said. "I'm not going to bite."

Cuddy gulped, said nothing.

"What are you in here for, princess?" the large lady said. "Cause you're not drunk and you're not a hooker—unless you are the most high-class hooker I've ever laid eyes on."

Now all the other women in the cell were craning their necks, listening in with curiosity.

"I spat on a police officer," Cuddy whispered meekly.

"You what?" one of the strung out blonde girls said.

"I spat on a police officer," Cuddy repeated, a little louder this time.

"What the hell is that?"

"Spat," the big lady barked. "It's fancy talk for spit." Then she broke into a huge grin: "You spit on a cop, princess?"

Cuddy nodded.

"I've always wanted to do that," the big woman said, and she slapped Cuddy's back approvingly.

####

Somehow, Cuddy managed to fall asleep. She woke up to the sound of her name being called.

Her head was resting on the large woman's shoulder.

She straightened herself quickly, rubbed her neck. Her new friend shifted a bit, belched in her sleep, but didn't wake up.

"Lisa Cuddy, you've made bail," a female officer was saying.

She opened the cell and let Cuddy out.

Wilson was standing in the waiting room, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, pacing anxiously. He watched as they gave Cuddy back her belongings, then he followed her outside.

Cuddy's car had been impounded. ("We don't run a valet service, lady," one of the cops had told her.) Wilson would have to drive her home.

"You okay?" he said, tenderly.

"Yeah," she nodded, trying to convince herself.

"You look like shit," he said, with a small smile. "And you smell even worse."

"Gee thanks, " Cuddy said, continuing to rub her neck, which was stiff. "I need a shower, a bed, a massage, and a toilet, not necessarily in that order."

"Tell me everything," Wilson said, as they pulled out of the parking lot.

"Where to begin?" Cuddy said.

"Start with how you and House managed to get arrested on the same day," Wilson said.

"I . . . spit on Tritter," Cuddy said.

Wilson actually laughed.

"You what?"

"I spit on Tritter."

"I thought Tritter was your new best friend," Wilson said, the tiniest bit of contempt in his voice.

"Partnering with Tritter was a horrible mistake," Cuddy said. "I realize that now."

Then she put her head in her hands.

"This whole thing was a horrible mistake," she said. "I tried to call it off, but it was too late. The wheels were set in motion. Tritter wasn't motivated by justice. He was motivated by revenge."

"So you spit on him?"

"Basically."

"House would be proud," Wilson said, chuckling.

And then they both realized what an absurd thing that was to say.

"House is never going to speak to me ever again," Cuddy said.

"Can you blame him?" Wilson said.

"No," Cuddy said. "Actually, I can't."

#####

She called the DA, again. But he said it was out of his hands.

So she called the mayor's office and the head of city council and a circuit court judge she had met at a PPTH party once.

She wrote a letter to the Governor of New Jersey.

She wrote another letter to a lawyer in Michigan who specialized in cases of abuse of authority.

She wrote to the ACLU and the Human Rights League.

All dead ends.

But she wasn't going to give up. She would write a letter a day, all the way up to the President of the United States, if she had to, to try to get House out of jail.

Then, two weeks later, she contacted the New Jersey State Penitentiary about getting on the visitor list to see him.

"He doesn't want to see you," they told her.

She figured he couldn't refuse her if she showed up in person. So she got into her car and drove 3 hours to the prison.

"You're not on the visitor list," the prison guard said. He was a youngish guy, blond, with a buzz cut. His hair was so light, you could see through to his skull.

"Can we make an exception?" Cuddy said, batting her eyelashes at him. "I drove all the way from Westchester."

The guard smiled conspiratorially at her.

"Hold on."

He made a phone call.

"There's a Dr. Lisa Cuddy here to see Inmate Number 697? Uh yeah. . .Uh huh. . .You sure? . . .Okay."

He looked up, pursed his lips.

"I'm sorry but the inmate doesn't want to see you," he said, sounding shocked.

"Does he know that I'm here?" she said, trying to blink back a tear. "In person?"

"They told him. He said no."

So she drove back to Westchester.

######

A few days later, she got a phone call.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy?" a woman said. "I'm Officer Carla Robinson."

"I'm not giving to the Police Auxiliary League this year," Cuddy said, with a dry laugh. "Hasn't been a banner year for me and the police."

"It's not that," Carla said hastily. "I work with Detective Michael Tritter."

At the sound of his name, Cuddy's blood ran cold.

"I don't want to hear that man's name ever again for the rest of my life," she said, starting to hang up.

"No! Wait!" Carla interjected. "Hear me out. I think we're on the same side here."

Cuddy narrowed her eyes.

"I'm listening," she said.

"A few of us here on the force think Detective Tritter is bad for law enforcement and even worse for the state of New Jersey. We're filing an official complaint against him to Internal Affairs for abuse of power and sexual harassment of suspects and, uh, fellow officers."

The way she paused before saying fellow officers, Cuddy had a hunch she was no stranger to Tritter's unwanted advances.

"I was in the station the night Tritter arrested you," Carla said. Cuddy suddenly had a flash to the pretty officer with the kind eyes. "I saw the way he . . .handled you. It seemed like a pretty good representation of what we're talking about."

"It was," Cuddy agreed. She still remembered that creep's hands on her ass—and the ways his thumb had purposefully brushed against her nipple as he pat her down.

"We feel that having a powerful woman like yourself—a pillar of the community—on our side would be very useful. And we were wondering if you'd be willing to write a letter of complaint and possibly even testify at an Internal Affairs hearing if necessary."

"I would love to," Cuddy said.

#######

Wilson went to visit House in prison. That night, when he got home, he called Cuddy, at her request.

"How is he?" she said anxiously. She was sitting in bed, with her knees pulled up to her chest, a blanket over her shoulders.

"He's. . . bad, Cuddy," Wilson admitted.

Her heart began thumping.

"Bad how?"

"He got the crap beaten out of him on Day 2—apparently those Neo-Nazis are not so quick to forgive and forget. They broke his arm and cracked some of his ribs. So they had to put him in solitary confinement. For his own protection."

"For how long?" she said. The thought of House sitting alone, for days on end, in a small cell, with no human interaction, was almost too much to bear.

"They don't know," Wilson said. "They said for as long as it takes."

"How did he seem, though? Besides the physical wounds, I mean."

"He seemed. . .subdued. Out of it a bit. Not really himself."

Cuddy sighed.

"Did you at least give him my message?" she said.

She had asked Wilson to tell House how sorry she was, how worried.

"Yeah," he said.

"And?"

"And. . . he didn't say much. I told you, he was barely communicative."

She wrapped herself more tightly in the blanket.

"Shit Wilson. I've ruined him," she said.

"He'll be okay," Wilson said, not sounding totally convinced. "He got through this once. He can do it again."

"It's different this time, and we both know it," Cuddy said.

It's different because this time, I betrayed him.

"It's just six months," Wilson said.

"Six months alone in a cell. He'll go mad!"

"Don't do this to yourself Cuddy. You'll end up going crazy yourself."

She closed her eyes.

"I don't know what to do, Wilson. He won't see me. I need to talk to him, apologize, tell him how I feel."

"Then write him a letter."

"He'll just rip it up."

"Maybe," Wilson said. "Maybe he'll rip it up. Or maybe he'll read it."

######

She dreamt that House was in a tiny, narrow cell and the walls were closing in on him. The walls kept getting closer and closer. He wedged his cane between the walls to keep them from moving, and it worked for a few minutes, but then the cane snapped in two and the walls kept closing in, inexorably, until he couldn't breath, until he his bones were getting crushed, until the walls were smothering him.

She woke up to the sound of her own voice, screaming.

######

Dear House-

Please don't rip up this letter.

I realize that no apology is adequate and that no explanation can possibly undo the terrible things I've done.

But please at least let me least try.

Yes, I wore the wire. And yes, I worked with the DA.

After the crash, I was so angry at you. I turned you into a monster in my mind. How could I not? You ruined my life. You gave my little girl nightmares.

And then, when I found out that you got out of jail and you were back at PPTH, just living your old life, like nothing had happened, I admit it. I kind of . . .snapped.

The injustice of it all, it enraged me.

So I contacted the DA. I never knew Tritter was going to be there. He was just this unfortunate part of the arrangement. And I thought. . .sure, he's a strange bedfellow. But right now, we were on the same side. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. . . that sort of thing.

But then, of course, I started to spend time with you. And I realized that everything I thought I knew was wrong.

You weren't triumphant or smug or gloating.

You were broken, just like I was. And you felt guilt and remorse. And you had nightmares about hurting Rachel. And you were still in love with me.

Everything I said to you in Princeton, I really felt. Every emotion was genuine. Every word was true. And yes, I really did want to have sex with you that night. I wanted to be as close to you as humanly possible. Because I still love you, House. I managed to convince myself that I didn't. But it was a lie.

But then you discovered the wire and it all went to hell.

Tritter had heard the tape and he knew I was trying to withdraw the charges, so he went behind my back to the assistant DA and there was nothing I could do about it. What was done was done. And here we are.

I know you're in jail because of me. And I know they put you in solitary. And I swear House, there are some days I can hardly live with myself.

You said you had nightmares about hurting Rachel. That you woke up screaming. Now I'm the one with nightmares. I'm the one who wakes up screaming.

So, if nothing else, I hope this letter at least gives you a little bit of satisfaction.

Always,

Cuddy

#######

Five months later, Cuddy was home paying her bills and doing some laundry and Rachel was at her friend Willow's house for a playdate, when she heard the distinct sound of a motorcyle sputtering to a stop and then a knock at the door.

She blew a stray hair off her forehead, peered through the peephole. Then she blinked hard and looked again. But it was really him.

She opened the door.

"I have no weapons," House said, holding out his palms.

He was wearing a teal blue tee-shirt, untucked, and a pair of dark jeans.

He looked skinny, but not unhealthy. Quite fit and lean, actually. His hair was short and poky. It peaked into a small point at the top.

"House!" she said. "What are you doing here?"

She wasn't surprised to see him out of jail. Wilson told her he had been released, last week. But she was positively stunned to see him on her doorstep.

"I was just in the neighborhood," he cracked.

"How are you even here? In Westchester? Don't you have to wear one of those ankle monitor thingies?"

"I figured out a way to remove the 'ankle monitor thingie,'" he said.

"You're kidding!"

"Yes, I'm kidding," he said. Then he said: "I guess one of those hundreds of letters you wrote stuck. The judge said I had a loyal—if slightly annoying—advocate and that I was free to leave the state."

"Wow," Cuddy said. "I never got a response. I was beginning to think my letters were going straight to a landfill in Trenton."

"No. They were received," House said, with a tiny smile. "You can apparently be quite convincing when you put your mind to it."

She still wasn't sure why he was here—why he was standing in her doorway, smiling at her. But she realized he was being rude.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked.

"Actually," he said, almost sheepishly. "Do you have a deck? I'm partial to open spaces these days."

Of course, she thought, with a tiny chill. He'd been in solitary.

"Yeah," she said. "We can go out back."

So they traipsed through her house and sat on her backyard deck, next to the grill and Rachel's scooter and a few pink soccer balls.

Cuddy made lemonade.

"Did you hear about Tritter?" she said.

"No," House said. "Please tell me he was the victim of some horrific accident and that he is a dying a slow and unmercifully painful death."

"No, but he got kicked off the force," she said. "For 'conduct unbecoming of a police officer'. He's working as a mall cop in Jersey City now."

And then she gave a slightly proud smile.

"I testified against him."

"Was this before or after you spit on him?" House said.

"You know about that, huh?" she said, slightly chagrined.

"Know about it? Are you kidding? One of the first things I did when I got out of jail was find this."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, showed it to her—Cuddy's mugshot.

"Holy shit!" she said.

"Look how angry you are," House said, looking at the mugshot fondly.

"That's not anger, that's fear," Cuddy said.

"You look hot," he said, with a shrug. And he folded the paper and put it back in his pocket.

"House. . ." she said, looking at him searchingly. "I need to know. . . what are you doing here? The last I checked, you wouldn't see me, you weren't even talking to me."

"I got your letter," he said.

"That letter didn't say anything you didn't already know."

"No. But it got me thinking."

"Thinking what?"

"That I should thank you," he said.

"Thank me?"

"Yes." And then cleared his throat, as if about to give a speech: "You see Cuddy, once I drove a car through your house, the possibility of us getting back to normal was pretty much shot. I mean, even if we tried. . .it would always be this thing hanging over us. This imbalance: 'Oh hey, there's House. He ran a car through my dining room, but he's a really great guy once you get to know him!'"

House laughed a bit at his own joke. Then he swallowed.

"But now. Now. You sent me to jail for six months. You wore a fucking wire. You conspired with evil forces against me . . . That's some heavy shit. . . And apparently, you feel so sick about what you did—you have nightmares."

He eyed her.

"Welcome to the club," he said.

"What are you saying, House?"

"I'm saying a bit of balance has been restored in our relationship. Not total balance, mind you. Driving a car through your house still trumps the whole Double Agent Cuddy thing." He made a weight with his hands, to show the near balance. "But it's close."

He looked at her, to see if she was still following him. She was.

"It's close enough that maybe we can think about. . . being together again. But that maybe, I dunno, you'd let me be your boyfriend again."

It was like Cuddy had been holding her breath for 6 months and she could suddenly exhale.

Quite unexpectedly, she burst into tears.

He stood up quickly, was at her side, giving her a hug.

"You silly girl," he said. "Don't cry, Cuddy. Don't cry."

"You forgive me?" she snifffed.

"Of course I do," he said. He began to kiss her eyelid, her cheek. Then he found her mouth.

"And you want to be with me?"

"Yes," he said. He was kissing her harder now, his tongue in her mouth and his hands beginning to roam her body. He clearly didn't want to talk anymore, but she had to be sure.

"And you still love me?" she said. She was pressed against his torso and it felt so good to be in his arms again, with his mouth against hers, his hands hungrily exploring her. It felt like home.

"Of course I still love you," he whispered. "Of course. Sometimes I wish I didn't. But I can't help it."

THE END