Cate quietly approached the sleeping man and bent down, lifting the crumpled jacket and lightly placing it over him.

Milton heard the barest hiss of indrawn breath, then the still figure exploded into motion. A sharp pain blossomed in her collarbone where his shoulder clipped her as he jackknifed upright, then she was falling backward, off balance and almost twisting her ankle as she caught herself. House was no longer in the chair. She hadn't actually seen him move, but as she recovered her balance she saw he was now wedged in the corner behind the chair, eyes closed, hands jammed under his armpits, head tucked down to his drawn-up knees.

"Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap," she groaned to herself, a silent mantra as she realized how badly she'd screwed up. This was a man who was programmed to expect violence, to whom any new experience, any stranger or sudden change, threatened pain and fear. She was a psychiatrist. She should have predicted this -- but she hadn't expected him to wake up.

MIlton swiftly put aside her self-recriminations. They wouldn't help here. She moved further away, giving him a large buffer zone of personal space as her thoughts raced.

He needed to know he was safe, that she wasn't a threat. She had to be as harmless and comforting as possible. Calming herself, Milton let her shoulders slump, bowing her head and folding her hands demurely, trying to make her body language submissive, her outline small.

Pitching her voice low, she spoke softly. "Dr. House? It's all right, you were shivering, I thought you were cold." Damn it. She might have frightened him into a psychotic break.

He stayed tightly curled, the sound of his breathing fast and harsh. The white shirt he wore hung on his thin frame.

She had to keep talking, give him her voice to focus on. "I came here to talk to you. I need your help." She saw how his muscles trembled from the shock and fear and the strain of holding that clenched position. If he'd had any broken ribs in the past that posture must have them aching, and he surely didn't have much stamina by the look of him. Keep talking, she reminded herself. "I know you have your own patients, but I hope you'll give me some of your time to help me."

He didn't move or otherwise indicate that he heard her, but after a moment she heard a change in his breathing. House began drawing long, steady breaths, exhaling slowly -- a breathing exercise to calm himself.

For a while there was only the sound of his labored breathing, then he slowly lifted his head to rest his cheek against the wall, eyes still closed. She didn't move or say anything. After scaring him so badly, the least she could do was be patient and give him the time he needed to recover.

Milton took the opportunity to study him. An orthopedic walking boot encased his right leg from foot to knee, indicating a fairly recent surgical procedure, and a pair of crutches leaned haphazardly against the wall near the chair he'd been napping in. The way his clothes hung on him, his lined, unshaved face and unbrushed chestnut-going-gray hair brought to mind the image of a tattered scarecrow. It didn't surprise her. This was a man plagued by evil memories during the day and terrifying dreams at night. His sleep was undoubtedly poor, his health precarious and physical pain was a given. The mental and emotional anguish she could only guess at. He was not going to worry about how he looked when surviving each day took precedence.

His eyes slowly opened, a blank stare into the middle distance. "Why're you still here?" he whispered. There was absolutely no expression, no inflection. The total lack of affect made her skin crawl.

"I wanted to talk to you, Dr. House. I really need your help."

His blank gaze eventually tracked to her face. "What do you want from me?"

Catherine kept her body language feminine and unthreatening, her voice low. "First, I want to apologize. I'm sorry I startled you. It was stupid of me." She didn't mind repeating herself. He was coming out of a nasty shock and likely hadn't heard anything she'd said previously.

House leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again, drawing steady breaths.

"I just thought ... you were cold, and ... " She remembered falling back, and ruefully rubbed her aching collarbone. "Wow. You really can move fast."

His mouth twitched in an expression of wry annoyance. "Survival mechanism."

Milton grinned, relieved that his eerie blankness was receding and normal emotions were coming back online. "Second, I came here for a consult. I have patients who need your help." It was important to put him back into a position of control, of being a physician who could help her and her patients. Surely he must be sick of being treated like a victim.

Staring at the ceiling, he let out another long exhale. "So who the hell are you?"

"Dr. Catherine Milton."

He slowly realized how he was sitting, jammed into the corner with his legs drawn up and his hands protected under his arms. Moving cautiously, he began to uncurl, extending his legs a bit and letting his hands rest on his hollow belly. This was just too, too perfect. As soon as this woman left his office she'd tell everyone in the hospital that Dr. Headcase had had a relapse. That he'd dived for the floor like a 1950s schoolkid in a bombing drill.

Fuck. He was too tired for this. Tired or not, though, he figured he'd better do something. She was staring at him with something perilously close to compassion on her face. "Thanks for the wake-up call. You can go now."

Milton ducked her head to hide a smile. Score one for the ass. "Without my consult?"

"Giving me a heart attack precludes your consult."

She didn't look offended or angry. If anything, there was a bemused glint in her eye. Cate gestured vaguely toward his ortho boot. "Looks like you're recuperating from surgery. Can I help you up?"

House sighed. "There's bottled water in the fridge in there --" he nodded toward the conference room. "Go get me one. And make sure it takes a couple of minutes." He'd be damned if anyone in this hospital was going to watch him crawl.

When the connecting door closed behind her, House allowed himself a heartfelt groan. The surge of adrenalin was long past, leaving him weak and shaky. And in its ebb his body strongly objected to the sudden burst of activity he'd subjected it to.

Staying on the floor was an option he was perfectly okay with, if he were alone. Unfortunately, it probably wouldn't come off as very professional if he conversed with a colleague while cowering abjectly in a corner.

He clenched his teeth and finished uncurling, letting out his breath carefully around the assorted aches. Then, slowly and carefully, House crawled to his chair, bracing his arms on the frame to lever himself up. He sank gratefully onto its cushions. Maybe he should start locking his office door, he mused. He really hadn't expected strangers to just start dropping by unannounced.

"May I come back in?" came the woman's voice from behind the conference room's door.

As tempting as it was to tell her to go away, she had his drink, and he was thirsty. "Yeah." He watched her come in, sizing her up. Milton looked to be in her thirties, until she came closer and he could see the fine lines around her eyes. Forties, then. Blond and slim, maybe 5'8" or so. Her white lab coat emphasized the athletic grace that marked her movements. An aging ski trainer or former college runner, maybe. Certainly not hard on the eyes. She held out the bottle, but he shook his head. "Open it."

Milton hid it well, he thought, watching the tiniest flicker of emotion cross her face as she realized he couldn't open the twist-top himself. She took off the cap and offered the bottle again.

He took it in both hands for a better grip.

"You swallowed."

House blinked at the non-sequitor and looked at her, then back at the drink he was holding. "Not yet."

She shook her head, frowning. "No, I mean, when I came in ... I thought you were asleep. But you swallowed. People don't swallow in their sleep. I should have realized you were ... having a flashback?"

It was a guess. She was fishing for information, and he didn't take the bait. "See what happens when you break and enter?"

Milton had moved away again, giving him room. "No, I knocked, but you didn't answer."

"For future reference, that means 'go away.' So what do you do here, Milton?"

"I'm a psychiatrist on staff."

That won her a sharp glare. "Uh huh. Couldn't resist, could you. Gotta check out the famous nutcase in his natural habitat."

She sighed, then smiled to herself. "That's not why I'm here. But really, you should put up a sign over your habitat. 'Jerkus Sarcasticus.' At least give people some warning."

House cleared his throat lightly and took a sip of water to hide his smile. The mischievous spark in her eyes was irritating him. "You're the shrink, but you need my help diagnosing your patients? Fine. I'll go out on a limb here. Your patients are either schizophrenic, neurotic, have anxiety disorders or separation issues. Glad I could help. The door's over there."

Her smile grew into a grin. "Nice try, but those aren't the patients I need help with." Moving deliberately, she turned one of the visitor chairs around to face him, sliding it a little closer before settling on it. "House, the truth is, I wouldn't bother you with this if I could do it myself."

"Appealing to my ego? Smart move."

Leaning toward him a bit, she let her hair fall across her face and gave him a mock 'come hither' look. "I'll stroke your ego all day if it'll get you to help me," she replied in a bad Mae West drawl. At his dumbfounded stare, Catherine waggled her eyebrows. "If you know what I mean. Will you hear me out?"

House was still staring at her, surprised by her bantering innuendo, but he quickly collected himself. "You know, I usually don't put out on the first date."

"But for the sake of my patients I hope you'll sully your reputation. Just this once." Milton knew she had his attention now. Softening her voice, she tried to meet his eyes. "Dr. House, you've been through an ordeal that's almost impossible for anyone to comprehend. You've had no chance -- and certainly no reason -- to look at its effects on other people."

She noticed his gaze was on the bottle he held, his expression closing off. She hadn't warned him that her consult involved his personal history. Her mention of it stirred dark memories in him, feelings he wouldn't let show.

"But what happened to you did affect a lot of people. Not just your friends and family, but your colleagues and acquaintances, too."

"Ridiculous," he muttered.

"It isn't ridiculous," she told him gently.

"If people had any reaction at all, it was to Cameron's death." His eyes flashed to her face for only a second, to see if she recognized the name. "That would have been hard for them to accept. If anyone felt anything about me, it was probably vindication. Greg House behind bars, right where he always belonged."

She'd heard plenty of those sentiments when House had been arrested, both from her patients and from the hospital grapevine. Milton couldn't imagine this man being so vilified back then.

"Dr. House, no one here had any idea what was going on until after Robert Thompson was shot. It was ... it was an indescribable shock to everyone when it was revealed what you'd been caught up in. More people came to me for counseling after that than when you were first arrested." She tried unsuccessfully to meet his eyes, so she leaned forward slightly to emphasize her words. "Survivor's guilt, Dr. House."

Wordlessly, he shook his head.

She sighed. "Look. I don't know if you're prepared to talk about this, but I think you need to know. There are so many ramifications to torture -- not just for the victim, and not just for the perpetrators. Bystanders are affected, too. They have to deal with the fact that this terrible thing happened right under their noses. That because they had no knowledge of what was happening, they didn't know to do anything to stop it. The atrocity you lived through was allowed to happen because the people around you were blind to it." She opened her hand, a small gesture to beg him to listen. "They see you, House, and put themselves in your place. They would have wanted someone to notice the signs, to ask questions, find out about their suffering and put an end to it."

House was managing to keep his expression composed, but his lips were pressed in a thin line that whitened the scars around his mouth. "So? Tell them the world sucks, and crap happens. Then tell them to get over it. Not much I can do about it."

"No, that's where you're wrong. There is something you can do."

He snorted. "Yeah? Like what, a group hug?"

"Tell me what you want from them."

House stared at her. Tell her what he wanted from people? He had plenty to say on that topic. For starters, there was, 'Leave me alone. Don't stare at me like I'm a freak. I don't want your pity. I'm still that mean-tempered bastard you used to hate.'

Except that he wasn't that person anymore. Not really.

And he was a freak, so why shouldn't people stare at him? It was normal behavior, and with the stares came the pity. He'd always have to deal with it.

As for being left alone, well, wasn't that easy enough? He could quit his job and stay home the rest of his life. Exactly what he'd decided not to do. If he wanted to work, he had to be in the public eye, at least a little. And being around people meant being stared at and everyone acting weird around him.

He couldn't even work up much anger over that. Any loud noises or sudden movement startled the hell out of him. No wonder people acted weird. He looked like ten miles of bad road and no amount of surgery would roll back time to fix him up good as new. Nothing left to do now but mark time, try to be useful until his number came up.

He hated these maudlin, useless thoughts.

Milton watched him, saw his lips part slightly to draw in a long breath, but not to speak. Clearly he had no ready answer for what he wanted.

"I had a patient last year," she murmured into his silence, "a young man who was a successful artist. He was in great demand for his historical murals, made a good living. Then he was in a major car accident and lost the hearing in both ears. He knew he was lucky that he could still pursue his career. Use his talent. But he told me that now, when his work was reviewed, or he did an interview, everyone referred to him as the deaf artist." She smiled wryly. "He hated that, being defined as deaf before anything else. He even said he'd be okay if they'd refer to him as 'the artist, who is deaf.' At least then he'd be an artist first." Cate studied House's battered face, how carefully he guarded his expressions. "House, what happened to you can't be undone. But I think maybe you'd like to tell people that it doesn't define who you are. That it isn't all you are."

His lips twitched in a tiny, harsh smile. "Sure, if it were true. There's only one thing that hasn't been broken, Dr. Freud. This." He used his eyes to indicate his office. "I'm still the best damn diagnostician on the East Coast. Or the West Coast, for that matter. Everything else ... is gone." House drew another deep breath and closed his eyes a moment. "Tell your guilt-ridden patients whatever you have to. But we both know sometimes there is no closure. No right answer. No fairy-tale happy endings. Sometimes life just crushes you like a bug."

Milton could see how his shoulders sagged, hear the strain in his voice. She'd scared him awake and then wearied him with her questions. "Dr. House ... do you want that to be how others see you? Treat you? Like a bug squashed under Robert Thompson's shoe?"

"No." His voice was fading. "But I don't see much choice." House held out the water bottle to her. "Put it on the desk on your way out."

She took the bottle but otherwise didn't move. Her gaze was steady on him and a tiny frown line appeared between her brows. "That's not good enough," she murmured. "My patients need more than that."

Moving gingerly, House lay back in his chair. "Who is it?"

"What?"

"Which member of my team is your patient?" House looked up at the ceiling tiles. "We can eliminate Raja. She's new. Got no reason to care."

Cate smiled in spite of herself. "I have quite a number of patients. None of whom I can identify to you. Ever hear of confidentiality?"

His eyes began to settle shut. "We can probably rule out Foreman, too. He doesn't give a damn. But Chase ... well, he's just a fount of daddy issues. And mommy issues, too. A regular emo kid."

Setting the bottle on his desk, Catherine noted how quickly House had dismissed Foreman from his list of suspects. She also realized he was trying to bait her for clues. "What happened to your finger?"

Although his eyes were closed, his brows rose, furrowing his forehead. "Well, see, there was this rich, evil guy --"

"The one in the splint," she clarified.

House was silent for several long moments. "Milton." He sighed, voice flagging. "Tell your patients to get over their guilt. There was nothing they or anyone could have done. And if they'd tried to help they'd only have been killed. Just ... tell them to forget about it and get on with their lives."

Cate bowed her head, unwilling to admit defeat. She didn't think House was lying to her, or even evading the question. It was just that his pragmatic, water-under-the-bridge viewpoint was not going to help her patients. She tried to imagine herself telling Foreman, "House doesn't give a damn what you think about him. Sorry that doesn't give you anything to go on."

Problem was, House wasn't ready to tackle other people's reactions to him. It was too early in his recovery. When she'd sprung the question on him, Milton could see in his face it wasn't an issue he'd given much thought to, except to assume they'd be curious.

So ... what now?

"You married?"

The harsh whisper almost made her jump. She looked at House. He appeared to be totally relaxed in his chair, feet up, heavy-lidded eyes sweeping over her.

"No ring," he added.

"I'm divorced," she told him in a neutral tone, letting him see that she didn't mind the question.

"Who dumped whom?"

"It was a mutual dumping. Do you have a point, or are you just looking for some buttons to push?"

His tiny smile was quickly banished. "How long has it been? You dating yet?"

Cate smiled. "Why? Are you asking me out, doctor?"

House chuffed a laugh. "That'll fuel some nightmares for you. No, I'm just thinking ... we could strike a deal."

Now her interest was piqued. If he wanted a deal, that meant he wanted something from her. She couldn't imagine what it could be. "What kind of deal?"

He was silent for a few moments, considering. "I'll think about what you can tell your patients about me, if you ... go out with Wilson."

She just stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. "Go out ... with Dr. Wilson?" She tried to process the idea. "I've never even met him."

"I'll take care of that. Got Friday night free?"

"Hold on. I think you're confused. Although they both begin with the letter "P", psychiatrist and prostitute are two different thi--"

House waved a hand impatiently. "I didn't say 'put out.' I said 'go out.' Believe me, Wilson's too nice a guy to put any moves on you that you don't encourage. Come on. A play or a movie, a nice dinner ... he'll be paying. It's not like I'm asking you to empty bedpans."

She folded her arms. "If you tell me why, the answer is 'maybe.' If you don't, the answer is 'no.'"

"Think of your poor, suffering patients," House intoned sorrowfully.

"Hunh." She dismissed the fake appeal to her better nature. "Wilson's your best friend. Why are you setting him up on a blind date with me?"

"It won't be a blind date, you can meet him Friday ni--"

"Why, House?"

He let out a long breath and stared fixedly at the connecting door to the conference room, rather than meet her gaze. "Because ... Wilson needs to get out. Relax. Get a life. You're single. He's single. About the same age. Both of you are decent-looking professionals. And Wilson's hobby has always been psychoanalysis. It's a good fit."

"Have you got our china patterns picked out yet?"

That got her a direct look, albeit a glower. "Believe me, you don't want to marry him. Anything short of that, it's up to you two."

"And if I do this ... one date with Wilson ... what do I get?"

House shrugged lightly. "I'll think about what you said. Try to give you some kind of real answer, if I can. Truthfully, I don't see how anything I say will help people deal with their guilt, or whatever. But I'll try."

Milton cocked her head slightly, considering. "You really care about Wilson, don't you."

"He's just whiny and mopey when he isn't getting any fuzz. I'm hoping going out with you will take some of his edge off."

She laughed. "You're full of shit, Dr. House. So what's your plan for Friday?"