A/N: Thanks to all who've been reading, reviewing and enjoying.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.

Thanks: to NaiveEve and Betz88

-13-

"I Fall Apart"

The first piece of armor to go is the right sleeve. It cracks clean through the middle, then lands with a clank on the seat beside him. The knight hangs his head, his sigh metallic and harsh, as if he has been transformed into some monstrous creature inside that helm.

Allison sits opposite him, wishing she could offer some comfort but is hesitant to touch the newly exposed arm of his suit jacket. If she does, he might pull away, go deeper into the mire that seems to be slowly consuming him.

Clink, clank. Two fingers of his left gauntlet break away like rotting tree limbs. They fall to the floor and roll beneath the seat.

"Hello...?" she tries.

He raises his head. Fwoomp! The blue glow behind his visor ignites and flares, burning like a gas jet, morphing into fingers of warmth: now azure, now aquamarine, now deep blue as a summer sky. The heat rises until it is at its zenith; hot like noontime beach sand on bare feet. The blaze burns steady and brilliant, caressing the edge of the visor's blackened, pocked metal before lashing out (like a sword) at Allison. She gasps and winces as it singes her brow, her cheekbones, her chin...

...as the armor continues its mutiny, its heavy components crashing around the knight like metal rain.

But the helm stubbornly remains in place, the last holdout. His moans can just barely be heard...

...as the train seems to float rather than roll, moving on to...somewhere.

"He thinks he's cursed," Dead Kid explains from the other end of the car. He sits beside Alexandra, one arm slung across her shoulders, the other raised to get Allison's attention. "That's my dad's fault."

"Your dad...put a curse on him?"

The loudspeaker crackles. "Think of us when you hurt," it squawks in response. "When the pain gets so bad you wish death would just...take you. I wish you twice as much pain as what's in my heart."

"Why?"

From behind the visor comes a soft sob, then another. The knight hunches over, burying his helm in his hands. His shoulders shake as he begins to cry in earnest.

Allison watches him for a few moments. Her hand reaches out of its own accord. But she pulls it back, fearful a touch will cause him to alienate himself further from her. But that hand is insistent, moving toward him once again. She takes a chance, allowing her fingers to rest on his arm. Surprisingly, he shifts only slightly, the ruined metal surrounding him clashes its complaint.

"My father is an ass. He always did like to play head games." Dead Kid jabs a forefinger at them. "Tell him he's not cursed, that it's not his fault."

"What's not his fault?"

"Just tell him,"

Allison is taken aback by Dead Kid's tone. It is surprising in its confidence, it impels her to move.

"You heard him," Allison leans forward, lips brushing the warm metal. "Please...at least let me see your face."

The knight responds with one long, exaggerated shake of his head.

The curse can be heard over and over, repeated on a loop (think of us when you hurt). Each word, each phrase seems to pull him further down.

"He has to know the consequences..." Dead Kid is shouting, struggling to be heard over the dark mantra (when the pain gets so bad...) as its volume increases, causing the walls to tremble as the loop spins round again. Alexandra burrows her head into Dead Kid's chest. He strokes her hair but his expression remains resolute, those eyes are stony, like two shining chips of jade. "Once he steps into that last car, he's done," he growls, waving a free hand at the door between the cars.

Despite the urgency of his words, Allison's attention is called away by a strange liquid warmth seeping through the silken material of her dress. With a start and a sharp gasp, she rears back, palms scrubbing her thighs. Her dress clings to her legs, as her hands come away moist, red and sticky as...

...the knight sways in his seat, the jet blue flames behind his visor dim as they flicker, like they are fighting for life. His hands are in his lap, palms up, blood dripping from the jagged vertical cuts in his wrists. The blood saturates his jeans, the cuffs of his dress shirt, beading up on the chair's orange-red upholstery. Something shimmers at his side: a jewel encrusted sword, the edge of its blade stained a deep arterial red...

...and then she knows.

"He has one more day to plan an escape. He has to get away," Dead Kid shouts, his hand falling to his side. "Do something!"

Behind the knight's eyes the light is low, gentle, a flicker of farewell. Fighting off her reticence, Allison stands and places her hands gently on either side of his helm. It is a signal for his strength to return. He is a big man, tall and lean. If he were in better shape he could easily fight her off. As it is, he makes a valiant attempt, tilting drunkenly to one side, then hitching forward to grasp the hilt of his sword. Blue light flares behind the visor, its scorching flame singeing her brow, her cheeks. The helm grows hot, hotter, hottest, searing her palms. She cries out in pain but holds on, well aware an external source is responsible for this sudden powerful showing. Her struggle is with it, not her knight.

A chance remains; a blood spattered ace flutters from her sleeve to land on her knee. On it is a name written in bold blue calligraphy. She studies the forbidden name, rolls it around on her tongue, sensing its power, considering what it means before speaking it. She hesitates only a millisecond before opening her mouth, letting the name fly...

"Lancelot"

Whoompf! The knight falls back into the seat, as limp as a rag may as well have punched him in the solar plexus.

"Hurry," Dead Kid's voice is fraught with desperation.

The speakers squeal and screech their protest. But Allison hardly hears it. In the zone now, she chews her lower lip, pulls up on the helm, sees the grizzled stubble for the first time, the slack mouth, straight nose, high forehead and shock of matted, damp brown hair. His head lolls against the seatback as Allison lets the charred, cooling helm fall to the blood saturated carpet. She sets her hands gently on his shoulders.

"Open your eyes."

Her wish is his command. With some effort, he reveals the eyes that are that same cool blue as the gas flame. In another life, another world, she might have called them beautiful. But here they are red rimmed, bloodshot, frightened, crying out for...something.

The din from the speakers is deafening now, causing her head to pound. It feels as if hatchets are hacking an exit path through her skull. Fighting the urge to press her hands to her ears, she presses them against the sides of his face instead, fixes him with a hard stare for a few long moments before giving him one final command:

"Run."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trio congregates outside House's office, gaping through the window like kids waiting for Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe to open. Wilson is next to Cuddy, who stands beside Doctor Edmund Gurand, one of three clinical psychologists on staff. In his mid-sixties, he is the elder of his group. And at six foot five, he might be the tallest physician in the hospital. His height lends him a air of Abe Lincoln-esque prominence. He is wise, well respected and can be somewhat grandfatherly in his quiet declarations. His thick silver-grey hair is longish, swept back from his brow to curl over his ears and brush the tip of the collar of his lab coat.

The group continues to observe their subject, who sits at his desk, running his thumb over his red and grey ball, his cupful of pens and a pile of medical journals. Ball, pens, journals, ball, pens, journals. It is a pattern he repeats over and over again.

"He shaved." Cuddy folds her arms, her voice is low, but not quite a whisper. "Got a haircut. Changed his jacket." She tilts her head, offers Gurand a questioning look. "Sat through a diagnostic this morning and was more focused than he's been over the past few days."

"Maybe he's getting back to himself," Wilson offers, although the slump of his shoulders and downtrodden air makes Cuddy think he doesn't quite believe it.

They both look to Gurand, who strokes his chin with a forefinger, narrowing his eyes as he gazes through the glass. "From what you've already told me, this abrupt 'getting back on track' sounds suspect, as if he's preparing for something momentous. Something life altering. I can't tell if this is a positive change until I talk with him."

"He won't." Wilson shakes his head and scoffs. "No way will he let anything out to you."

"He will if he doesn't want to risk me forcing a leave of absence on him." Cuddy says. "I can't have him here if he's not going to do his job."

"He's sly," Wilson says, "He'll make it look like he's doing his job, so no one will suspect he doesn't have his head on straight. Just like this morning-"

"Sure. This morning he was in rare form. But that was this morning," Cuddy says. "What about this afternoon and Monday, all of next week and the week after that?" Her heartbeat quickens. She sets a hand against her bosom, pausing to swallow and catch her breath. "He's not better and you and I know it." She fixes Wilson with a hard look. "He hasn't eaten, has he? Have you seen him in the cafeteria?"

"It doesn't matter anymore." Wilson wanders away from the window. When he reaches the wall, he turns to face them. "Go. Do what you want. I know you'll be out of that office within five minutes. You're wasting Dr. Gurand's time here. Just give House that slap on the wrist you're so eager to apply and send him home to think things over. Like that's supposed to fix everything." He throws them a dismissive wave with the back of his hand. "Go."

Cuddy heaves a weary sigh, lifts her hands and lets them fall to her sides. "What's your solution? Should we let him continue on like this? Maybe tomorrow he'll slice his other hand-"

"Maybe it was an accident."

"So he says."

"There are all sorts of accidents," Gurand tells them gently. "Some more accidental than others."

Wilson bows his head and wraps his arms around his chest. A defensive gesture, Cuddy thinks. She doesn't have to be Edmund Gurand to see that. "So, Dr. Wilson," she says, "what do you think we should we do?"

Speaking slowly, he keeps his eyes averted, his head low. "Getting the name of his therapist would be an excellent start."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Run.

Some dreams never completely take their leave. Remnants stick like colorful Post-it notes to her clothes, her hair. She might peel a pink one off herself to find, another (this time orange or lime green) has taken its place.

Lancelot...

Each Post-it depicts a beautiful pencil drawing of the knight or the train, the two dead kids, the jewel encrusted sword--or a cozy shot of the entire group. But she has no time for this now. She needs to maintain her focus for the task at hand: one final meeting with Curtis Weir.

She pulls into the police station parking lot, then hurries up the steps, heels clicking purposefully against the concrete. Her first stop is the ladies room to fix her makeup and check her look. Frazzled since she woke, she managed to put on a good face for the girls at breakfast but could barely hide her anxiety from Joe. After years of dealing with her dreams and 'feelings', he can always tell what kind of mood she is in. He asked her more about the train and the knight, and she would have told him, but relating the experience before dealing with Weir wouldn't have done much for her already fragile state of mind.

So she kissed him, gave him her best brave smile, and left it at that.

The woman in the mirror is well dressed, professional, in her late thirties. Her shoulder length blonde hair is set in a fashionable yet simple style; her skin is fair, clear. Her cheeks are a bit too pink, and some would think she had been heavy handed with the blush. But the dream is the culprit, the reason for her high color, the wispy, troubled look in her eyes.

She reaches into her purse, finds her lipstick and uncaps it, then brings the wine colored tip to her lips.

"You did good."

Her fingers quake, causing her to almost drop the tube into the sink. Dead Kid stands behind her in the mirror, leaning against a stall. He shouldn't reflect, but he does.

All in your mind, Ali.

"But it's not over yet." He shakes a forefinger at her as he fades. "Miles to go, Allison."

Where are these dreams leading you? she wonders, making her way out of the ladies room and back into the colorful world of law enforcement. Usually by this time in the great scheme of nocturnal wanderings, a sense of direction has been established. Some reason peeks out from its hidey-hole in her psyche. But this time, this time the process is skewed, a true puzzlement. This time she is clueless.

Allison chides herself for complaining or yamming, as her mother might say. After all, she is making progress. The grand prize is now in her possession. Like Charlie Bucket claiming the golden ticket, she has been rewarded with a look at... the knight's face. Finally. Yeah...and? So what? No momentous revelation here. Recognition factor: nil, zip, zero. He might have preferred remaining that faceless Lancelot of her dreams. He fought her all the way, which means...

...which means...what?

This would be so much simpler if her dream had taken her one...step...further to throw her a name. Yeah, that would have really helped, since Mr. Blue Suit Jacket with a side of Sneakers is in a serious mess. From his reaction to the "Lancelot" prompt and her vision of his torn, bloody wrists, she assumes he is being set up to do himself harm. Could someone be forcing him to consider suicide? The notion seems far-fetched. But unless she is misinterpreting the vision, this poor guy's being twisted and turned to do just that. She shivers in the too warm reception area. Holds back a cringe as the stench of stale booze sends her a hearty welcome from derelict row by the wall.

If there were some way to load a dream onto a hard drive, shoot it out in an email to the proper authorities, she would be all set. Someone, somewhere would have a clue as to what it all means.

Nah, not going to happen.

But wait. What if she describes this guy to the police sketch artist? Yes. Now that is an idea she can live with. Studying a well rendered image of the mystery man might open her up to another vision: one that will be of more help, bring her a few steps closer to knowing...

...knowing what?

"Hey, I hear New York, New York is a hell of a town." Scanlon taps his foot, standing by the entrance to the cells and interrogation rooms.

"Start spreadin' the news," she responds, hoping to sound glib but failing miserably. A sense of foreboding has crept up on her, causing her to look through Scanlon toward the next stop on the tour...

...where Weir is waiting.

------------------------------------------------------------

This time they are not alone. She has been forced to face him again in the company of the authorities. The only way he would agree to confess...to everything.

Weir's court appointed attorney sits beside him at that sad looking wooden table. The table has borne witness to more lies, excuses and pleas than anyone possessing a heart and mind. Maybe it's better to be that way: listen and absorb, keep that face wooden, stoic, never betray what you might think...or know.

She seats herself across from the brawny sociopath. The fact that his eyes lit up the moment she entered the room was not lost on her.

Scanlon stands behind her. She can hear the soft rustle of his suit jacket against his holster, smell the faint tobacco/aftershave scent that is uniquely his. It provides a small sense of comfort. Still...she shivers as Weir's too bright eyes caress her...everywhere. That mouth parts slowly to form a wide, toothsome grin.

"Hi Allison," he says, like he is greeting an old friend.

"Hello, Mr. Weir."

He claps his shackled hands and giggles. "I love when you say that."

The attorney clicks on the small cassette recorder that rests in the middle of the table. "Mr. Weir has agreed to give a full confession, asking only that his cooperation be taken into account if this case goes to trial both here and in Minnesota.

"I wish it could be just the two of us, like the last time, pretty Allie."

She returns his beatific grin with one that's humorless and flat.

"Get on with it, Weir," Scanlon growls.

"Say please...?" Weir's head tilts like a little boy begging his mom for a treat.

"Please," Allison replies for Scanlon.

Weir's eyes grow misty as he begins his recitation. Clouds settle in, like morning fog over a moss covered lake. He is gone, deep in the memory, seeing it, living it all again. Loving it. His words compete with breaths that come hard and fast. At times he is so flustered by his excitement, he needs to stop, twirl a strand of sweaty hair that has fallen across his brow, before picking up where he left off.

Most of his story is new to Allison; she is witnessing it for the first time.

This is live, in color, just like being there!

Yes. This is the ultimate, the Imax Theater version in high-res:

Such clarity, so vivid, it's just...like...you...are...

she feels the force of every knife plunge...hears each shout out to 'Johnny' on the cell phone... watches trails of blood wind like lazy streams from living room to den to bath...studies the scarlet kissy-poo artwork on bedroom walls.

...there.

Alexandra is here, standing, staring at her over Weir's right shoulder. She listens intently, her brows furrowing at the particularly graphic parts. Allison wishes she could grab the girl by the arm and lead her out into the corridor. But now Dead Kid is here too. He is a distraction, seated Indian style at the head of the table.

"You're wasting time here." His voice rises over Weir's gruesomely descriptive chatter.

Damn, but Weir is good. He could put Stephen King through the paces.

"This guy is a done deal," Dead Kid continues. "Want the spoiler alert?

Allison frowns, blinks and shrugs.

"He fries."

Her brows rise at the newsflash. Suddenly she is dressed to the nines, traveling in style on the Orient Express. Her hands are set gently but firmly against the cheeks of Blue Suit Jacket guy. This time she can feel the tickle of his stubble against her palms, smell the rich pungent scents of his blood and sweat.

..."Allison?

She gasps, grips the arms of her chair, waits for her heart to slow before she dares raise her head.

Wearing a benign smile, Weir waits too...

...almost as if...he knows.

"Do you have any questions for this guy?" Scanlon asks. The room is silent, except for a soft, tuneless noise emanating from Weir's throat.

Dead Kid takes Alexandra by the hand and leads her through the wall.

"Not for him," she murmurs, hoping the sketch artist isn't on a coffee break.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, well, well." Leaning back in his chair, House gives Cuddy and Gurand a tepid once over as they enter his office.

"House..."

"Not interested."

"Hou-use!"

"Not interested."

"Well, get interested." Cuddy crosses her arms and fumes. "We need to talk."

"Didn't Mommy ever tell you that touting your troubles door to door is very gauche. Not to mention dangerous?" There is not a trace of humor in his tone. "The bad crazy gimp might beat you senseless with his cane."

Cuddy exhales sharply and steps up to the desk. "Damn it, House, this is serious."

"Ah-ah-ah. You'll never get on the A-list using language like that, Mistress." He tosses his ball at the wall, catches it on the return bounce. "Besides, you must know some other poor schlub more worthy of a reprimand than me. Take for instance... Leaning over, he purses his lips and peers through the slats of the vertical blinds. "...the village wimp out there in the hallway."

"Wilson is worried about you."

House's left cheek twitches. "I get it. So that's why he's stalking me like my lone male groupie." He faces her again. "Why isn't he with the rest of the class?"

"After what happened in the diner he's a little...gunshy," she says, studying his eyes. He fixes her with a tolerant look, but something about him is skewed, like a clock with its hands running backwards. His banter is 'on', his tone just right. But she can tell most of his head is somewhere else, like something has a grip on his psyche, letting him out to play...for a little while.

"The diner...," he murmurs, tapping a finger against his stubble. His cheek twitches again. He runs his thumb across his lips, then stares out the blinds. "Hungry..."

"This is Dr. Gurand."

"Not interested."

Her eyes wander over his light stubble, the hair cut short and neat, the black suit jacket, freshly washed t-shirt, wondering if he cleaned himself up of his own accord. Was it his idea or might someone have placed a gentle suggestion in his ear?

His cheek jerks.

"Dr. Gurand is here to talk with you a bit."

"You're a psychologist," House spits the words out like an accusation, still staring out the blinds. "I have a therapist."

"Who are you seeing?" Gurand asks lightly.

House is silent, his mouth set in a bloodless line. His head turns like a clock's second hand (one...two...three...four). He stops, glares at Gurand, rubbing his thumb against the forefinger of his hurt hand.

"That's okay. You don't have to say."

"You don't have to tell me that. I can do what I want, say what I want." He nods his head, his fingers roving lightly over the pens in the cup. "I do my job."

"It was a simple courtesy, a matter of respect." Gurand's smile is tight and small.

Why are you here?" House asks.

"Just to talk."

"I do my job."

"Yes, you do." Gurand pulls out the chair opposite the desk.

"Don't get too comfortable."

Gurand rests his hands on the back of the chair and remains standing. "Would you like to talk about what happened to your hand?"

House lifts his bandaged left hand, holds it out in front of him as if noticing it for the first time.

"Did you have an accident?" Gurand's words are light, airy, flittering and fluttering as if dancing lightly over eggshells.

"I do my job."

"That wasn't the question."

House folds his hands in front of him, furrowing his brow as if preparing for a consult. "I have a therapist. He is my friend. He taught me how to stop the pain."

Gurand drums his fingers once against the back of the chair. "That's a good thing, Dr. House. Pain management is important. But..." He glances at Cuddy, who offers him a pained look and a quick little shrug. "...a therapist is not a friend."

"Get out."

Something tugs at Cuddy's insides, like whatever has House in its grip is giving her a sweet little warning: He's my dance partner now. He does his job, plays the game, cleans himself up nice to face the crowd. But...he's mine.

"Who is he, House?" she blurts out.

His cheek twitches. Those vacant eyes take her in and spit her out. "Get...out."

"Alright." She folds her arms across her chest. Tough Love, tough love. "If you're not going to cooperate with Dr. Gurand, you can leave."

Gurand touches her arm, his mouth twists opens and closes before he gets out the words. "Dr. Cuddy..."

"...take the weekend to get your head together. When you come back Monday, you will either cooperate or we're going to have an even more serious problem..."

House keeps a grim watch on her as eases himself out of his chair. He grips his cane then grabs his pack from the shelf behind his desk. Slinging it over his shoulder, he brushes past her and Gurand, and ambles out the door. He step-thumps down the corridor at breakneck speed and disappears around the corner. Through the glass, Cuddy catches Wilson's panicked, befuddled look just before he takes off in House's direction.

Shaking his head, Gurand sighs grimly, fixing Cuddy with a reproachful look. "You shouldn't have let him go."

"Sometimes he's got to be told. He has got to learn..."

"Dr. Cuddy," Gurand's look turns to one of pained regret, "you may have just seen the last of him."