A/N: Another Huddy-esque story. This one is little different. I hope you like it.
Light spilled across the bed where Gregory House lay sleeping. He was on his back, one arm curled over his chest.
Cuddy watched him from the doorway. Minutes ticked by and she stood unmoving. Her shadow stretched across the floor, all the way to the night stand. She could see the scrape across his knuckles, the dried blood leaving a dark smudge across his pale skin. There was another scrape on his chin that was masked by his scruffy beard. She stepped forward, wanting to wrap those long musician's fingers around her own when she felt a tug on her sleeve.
"He's fine," Wilson said quietly, though a worried glance toward his friend and the anxiety in his voice told her otherwise. He looked as drained as she felt. "Don't wake him up."
"I wasn't. I just–"
"Come on and sit down before you fall down. Both of us could use a drink. I don't think he'll mind if we borrow some of his scotch."
Cuddy sighed and shuffled towards the sofa. "I'll buy him another bottle," she muttered.
Wilson headed to the kitchen.
The bedroom door was left open.
"He's not here."
It was Foreman, calling from House's apartment where she had sent him to drag House into work after a half hour of her calls and pages went unanswered.
"Dammit, I'm not playing games here. Now tell him to get his ass down here now." The entire morning had been one fire to put out after another, and Cuddy wasn't in the mood for any kind of practical joke, especially one played on her.
"He's not here," Foreman said again, emphatically. "Dr. Cuddy, I don't like the looks of this..."
"What is it?" Her anger at House deciding to play hooky at the worst possible time began to slide into dread.
"The television was on when I got here. His motorcycle is still here. There's a sandwich and a Pepsi on the coffee table. The sandwich has maybe two bites taken out of it, and it's hard and crusty, like it's been sitting out all night. And the Pepsi is warm and flat."
Cuddy stared at the phone, incredulous. "Foreman, I swear if you and House are playing some kind of sick–"
"I'm not." His tone was anything but playful. The line crackled with the seriousness of his words.
More dread hit her stomach like an avalanche.
House didn't show up at the hospital. He didn't go back his apartment. He didn't call, send an e-mail, or a registered letter.
He was gone.
Six days. It had been six days since Dr. Gregory House disappeared from his apartment in Princeton, New Jersey.
Those six days had been spent in a fog of promises from the police to do all they could to find him, condolences and reassurances from friends and colleagues. The whispers and false notes of sympathy got to be too much and she locked herself away in her office, venturing out only if necessary. Nights were spent alone. Reaching out to the other side of the bed to find it empty. Making dinner for one. No one to play her requests on the piano.
Where did he go?
No note left behind. No calls for a ransom demand. No nothing.
Wilson gave her a shoulder to cry on. He sat with her while they waited and waited for the phone to ring. Waiting for the call. The police had been looking high and low. House's credit cards hadn't been used. No money had been taken from his bank account.
The call might bring bad news but neither of them said it out loud.
Wilson decided to stay with Cuddy and keep her company, saying she shouldn't spend another long night alone. He sat in House's spot on the sofa and it just seemed wrong. He didn't put his feet on the table. He let her pick what she wanted to watch. She bit her lip and swallowed the words before she spoke them and ended up regretting it.
The phone rang. The number was on the caller ID was from New York City. It was the phone number for Detective Robert Goren. He was probably calling for an update and to offer a sympathetic ear. She had filled him on everything that was happening and he had called nearly every day. She picked up the phone and gave him a warm greeting.
He told her that Dr. Gregory House was sitting in a chair at his desk
Twenty seconds later Cuddy and Wilson were out the door and racing to New York City.
From what they could piece together, a disheveled and bleary-eyed House had found himself in Greenwich Village. All of his money and credit cards were missing from his wallet, but he had found a card tucked behind a picture of a dark-haired woman. The card was for Detective Robert Goren. House somehow managed scrape together enough change to use a payphone and call the detective. Luckily, Goren was at his desk when House punched in the numbers.
He recognized House's voice. The man who had been missing for nearly a week. He was alive and on the phone.
House didn't recognize the voice of his friend. He didn't recognize the names Robert Goren, Alex Eames. He didn't his own name. All he knew was that he standing in a phone booth with a detective's card. He had dialed the number on the card because he didn't know what else to do.
The ride home was long and quiet. House was stretched out in the backseat. There were a few scratches and bruises on him, otherwise he was physically okay. He didn't chat with his friends because he didn't know them. They were strangers to him. He had been reluctant to go with them, but Goren had apparently won his trust and told him they were his friends and he was in good hands.
The police had nothing to go on concerning his disappearance and how the hell he ended up in New York because House couldn't tell them anything. All he remembered was waking up in an alley in Greenwich Village and finding the phone. It isn't a crime for an adult to wake up in a strange city.
House stared out the window until the drone of the engine eventually lulled him to sleep.
Wilson drove while Cuddy glanced into the rearview mirror every few seconds. She remembered the look in his eyes when she had walked up to him after not knowing whether he was dead or alive for past six days. He only recognized her as the woman from the picture in his wallet. He didn't know her name. He didn't know who she was.