Author's Note: The cyclical fevers referred to in this story are culled from an actual case. The malady seemed like one they might consider for the show (even though the eventual cure was kind of simple).

Thanks so much for sticking with the story! I'd like to thank Betz88 for her support, encouragement and for agreeing to be my first reader. Her help has been immeasurable.

-32-

"Welcome"

"You look like hell."

House raises his head and fixes Wilson with a sinister glare. "My teeth hurt."

"Generally when these things happen, normal people make an appointment with a dentist." Wilson folds his arms across his chest. "Perhaps you'd like to pick up the phone and...give it a go?"

Grumbling, House reaches past the file folder, pen cup and pig snout eraser to retrieve his hand mirror. He tilts it just so and scrutinizes his left canine and right front tooth, wondering how they could have possibly started to rot. Just like that.

"They're grey," he whines.

"Nice observation." Wilson leans over House's desk, grabs the receiver from its cradle and thrusts it at House, who ignores him as he continues to gaze morosely at the discolored enamel.

"So?"

House slams the mirror down and snatches the phone from Wilson "I'm going Friday. Happy? I'll wait while you mark the big event in your date book." He drops the receiver into the cradle.

"You've been a real pain in the ass since you got back," Wilson says. "You know that?"

"My teeth hurt."

"That's no excuse for dozing off when you've got clinic duty. It's no excuse for giving your staff a double shot of fire and brimstone when their DDX is not up to your standard."

"They've gotten lazy over the past two weeks."

"You mean during the time you were rolling around the honeymoon suite of The MGM Grand with three hookers?"

"They had pleasure tasers." House sighs, suddenly growing warm in all the right places.

"What the hell is a pleasure taser?"

House opens his mouth to reply, but Wilson stops him with a curt wave of his hand. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Are you sure?" House cocks a brow and smirks.

Behind him are footfalls, muted voices and the sound of the office door opening. Reluctantly House swivels his chair around in time to see Cuddy leading a short, dark-haired woman into the room. Accompanying her is a much shorter, dark-haired child.

"Dr. House, you remember Felicia and her daughter Eloise." Cuddy smiles that toothsome professional grin.

"I'm busy," House says, swiveling his seat back to its starting point.

It doesn't help. The mother is driven, rounding his desk with her spawn in tow. Her eyes flash a mix of glee, awe and gratitude, giving House even more of an impetus to want to take flight.

"This is one of the fever kids?" he asks after a moment, his gaze fixed on his hand tapping the pig snout eraser against his desk.

"You cured her and the other two," Felicia breathes. "How did you know-?"

"I'm a doctor. It's what we do-" His head whips toward Cuddy's for a half second before reluctantly meeting Felicia's eyes. "-or at least it's what we're supposed to do."

"Still." The mother's showing all the signs of imminent meltdown. The trembling lips, the shivery hands. Any minute she is going to dissolve in a puddle of tears, which makes House want to throw the eraser at her. But the kid steps up to save the day. Mother gives daughter the floor, stifling a sob and taking a step back. After grappling with some crap in her purse, Mom finds a lipstick smeared tissue and presses it against her eyes.

"Thank you, Dr. House." Eloise possesses a glow few kids have when they smile. Like there is nothing dark, or secretive or bad in her life. She reaches out her hand. To reciprocate, House places the pig snout eraser in her palm and closes her fingers around it.

"Go away now," he says softly.

She grips the eraser a little tighter and turns her head to beam at Cuddy. After a moment, she takes her teary-eyed mother's hand and leads her out of the office.

Chuckling, Wilson shakes his head as Cuddy seats herself on the edge of House's desk. "How did you know?" she asks.

"Took a chance." He rubs his fingers together. For some inexplicable reason, he is beginning to regret giving that damn eraser away. "According to two teeny tiny reports in an obscure Swedish medical journal, a number of kids over there suffered the same type of unexplained cyclical fevers as your fever kids. Some of them got better after having tonsillectomies. Figured if it worked for the Swedes why not us? Even if they do have better endowed nurses who are a lot more willing to put out."

"Doesn't it bother you not to know why it worked?"

Running his fingers along the chains of his 'Greg' ID bracelet, he mulls over the fact that there is always a reason. "Yes," he mutters.

They are watching him too closely, waiting for the revelation that is not to be had, at least not today. The wheels are clickety-clacking but the train has derailed.

"In the meantime, your team is waiting with a case for you," Cuddy says. "Forty-two year old woman-"

House stops her with a look. "Forty-two year old woman suffering from status epilepticus seizures, no prior history of convulsions or other psychic symptoms. Taub and Kutner are getting an electroencephalogram and a para-sagittal MRI. Now go away."

Cuddy heaves tolerant sigh, and offers House a somewhat disappointed frown. Foiled again.

"You've been hiding out in here since you got back three days ago, House," Wilson continues to stand with his arms folded over his chest. It's a defensive stance. In this world it's always best to be prepared. You never know what might just jump out and bite you on the butt. "Why?"

"I like it here. Did I say 'go away'?" House closes his eyes and dismisses both of them with a hitch of a thumb over his shoulder. "Why, I believe I did."

They leave, muttering to one another. Don't like it? Too damn bad. When he hears the door hiss shut, he moves to his Eames chair by the window and stretches out. No one understands that it takes time to recuperate from vacation. Getting back into the routine isn't easy, especially when the memories of the downtime are so vague.

What did you do? The question has been nagging at him, tearing into his grey matter like ragged, rusty nails.

Dreams are good, he thinks, closing his eyes, willing himself to drowse. They usually help to make sense of the conundrums that stymie him in the waking world. But lately, he thinks, drifting deeper, those dreams haven't helped much. First off, Amber is there. Always. She does the 'walk and talk' before him like some pissed off 'man-in-the-street' interviewer, guiding him through some world that could only exist in his skewed mental meanderings. Buildings move, seasons come and go on the whim of a god with an interesting sense of humor.

She's no friend; she never offers him a way out. All she does is force him to move deeper, look harder...

Sometimes she leads him to an emerald green bench and abandons him there, saying she has better things to do than be his babysitter. That's when he is forced to watch the passing parade: the moving throng is a blurred wash of watercolor, yet he knows them and they know him. They march along to steel drums and calypso sing-a-longs. "Matilda" and "Jamaica Farewell". Around the corner the corner they go, and the minute he is satisfied they have disappeared, they return. This happens many times before they finally give up and take a permanent hike. Only then is he permitted to see her again-the woman hanging clothes. Her coffee and cream colored skin shines softly in the waning sunlight. Her boy plays leapfrog over wooden crates until the clothes on the line become much more enticing to him.

This is when longing and melancholy attack House like a tag team.

He wants to run.

Not likely. Amber sits beside him on the bench. He is glad when she deigns to stick around, but it doesn't always happen this way.

Look.

One thing remains static in this dreamscape. It always ends with the kid smiling, dancing, weaving in and out of the cotton, linen and denim that float around him like spectral guardians. "Welcome!" He squeals and laughs, while twirling and dancing with his ghostly minions.

The sun burns red over the trees as the woman turns toward him; her laughter rises like champagne bubbles, embellishing the boy's raucous, joyful noise. After a moment, she leans over to ruffle his hair, inspiring him to wrap his arms around her legs. His smile is beatific, angelic.

His lips curl up and his eyes fall closed. "Welcome." The word is soft and wistful, crooned like a lullaby. "Welcome."