A/N: This is it, friends...the story she is done. Thanks so much for reading, reviewing and hopefully enjoying. It was indeed a labor of love.

If you're interested, the 'snapping' deprogramming method mentioned in this chapter was developed by Ted Patrick, a man who claims to have deprogrammed over two thousand cult members. Wikipedia can tell you more. You can also Google 'Ted Patrick' for a wealth of information.

Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either.

Thanks: to Betz88 for her encouragement and help. My gratitude also goes to NaiveEve who helped with the first chapters of this story.

-35-

"Aftermath"

Allison dreams of a service station/convenience store out in the middle of nowhere. Purple sky, setting sun. It is always twilight here. Not surprisingly, there is not much business, a fact which doesn't seem to disturb its proprietor. Settled comfortably in a wooden chair under a tattered orange awning, he pulls his Gravedigger cap lower over his eyes. A cane leans into the shadows against the wall behind him. His right foot rests on a large brick.

He is her knight, the Disappearing Doc...yet he is not.

She awakens slowly, leisurely, to the hum of the plane's engines. Joe sits beside her. Headphones on, he is immersed in the in-flight movie, something about cops and lawyers. Across the aisle the girls chatter away.

They are going home.

It feels good to put distance between herself and New York. And, although she regrets not staying long enough to say farewell to Dr. House, it is probably for the best. She knew he would be okay, knew he would live to tell the tale...or keep most of it to himself. Maybe one day she will call him. Touch base, as they say. Closing her eyes again, she imagines the conversation being rife with clipped, terse sentences and lots of dead air.

Maybe some things are better left as they are.

Are they? She has a feeling about Dr. Faulkner. A bad feeling. The moment she laid eyes on him, she knew. But she doesn't feel inclined to warn him.

Is that bad? Is she a bad person?

Joe pats her hand, his eyes still on the movie. A burly man with a gold chain around his sweaty neck just took one in the gut...

...as Dead Kid and Alexandra drift arm and arm through the cabin, like a couple strolling through the park. They pause before her to bow low, then disappear.

She sighs contentedly, leaning her head against Joe's shoulder. No, she thinks happily, she is not a bad person at all.

Six months later:

The dream is always the same.

First he needed to come to terms with the physical, the hand. Nerve damage is the reason for the post-it note size patch of numbness in the center of his palm. It may eventually shrink and disappear. The peripheral nerves are doing their job; regeneration is progressing. So...no problem.

It's good news, old man, pass the pint.

The physical rehab is nothing, really. Piece of apple pie washed down with a strawberry shake. Kid stuff.

Maybe Faulkner did him a service by convincing him to carve up his wrist. Nothing politically correct about that thought but House laughs anyway. He knew all along there were perks and benefits to being damaged. Since he returned to work, Cuddy lets him out of clinic duty whenever he asks. And he asks every day. The reason for her compliance is simple. She knows.

She was given a glimpse of the big picture, a little tickle of knowledge that nearly sent her over the edge.

The fact is, Lisa Cuddy and Gregory House are connected now in more ways than they ever were.

The emotional rehabilitation is a longer, more complex story, one he is not sure he will pass through unscathed. The memory of Faulkner Time: the weeks prior to his entry into the world of 'deprogramming' or 'exit counseling' are a blur. Wilson has been reluctant to spill the details about them, fearful too many facts will rouse the demons from their pit.

But that's okay. House feels good, scrubbed clean, glowing like a newly minted coin. Eddie Walker, the 'exit counselor' recommended by Dr. Gurand, really did a number on his head, pushing him harder and harder through the days and weeks until...he 'snapped'. It was a moment. Yeah...it was something else. He 'snapped' and the truth hit him with a one-two punch, tearing him away from Faulkner's once iron clad hold once and for all. Eddie Walker had given House back his free will, his goddamn free will that nobody, no how will ever take from him again.

Still...there are bad memories tucked away in his gray matter, like parts and pieces of a body in the trunk of a car. They are impish devils assaulting him at odd times, during a diagnostic, when he is mounting his Honda or placing a bet on a ten to one shot at the track. Sometimes he flashes on a train, other times the moon or a blue reclining chair. Someday he will excavate all the pieces and stitch them up like a Frankenstein's monster, to give them form and shape...and meaning.

Now he sits, propping his back against the brick wall of the stairwell, enjoying the twilight. It fits his pensive mood. The clouds make their last stand of the day, wearing their golds and purples like medals before fading into the night sky. His mouth lifts into a small satisfied smile, eyes going wide as he takes it all in.

The roof of Princeton-Plainsboro has become his sanctuary. It doesn't matter that his leg protests as he struggles up those stairs. The feeling of freedom he gleans from the early evening breeze and that open sky is worth the pain. More than his leather sofa at home, more than late nights at the piano, he enjoys sitting here. Here he can savor the ritual, placing three Vicodin on his tongues, swallowing them dry, removing the folded newspaper from the back pocket of his jeans while his gaze traverses the heavens.

House but not House owns a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Boondocksville. Grassy plains, dirt roads. His home sweet home is the dusty, book strewn room above the tiny store where he sells Grape Ne-hi and beef jerky sticks.

His deprogramming appointments will continue for another month at least. Like a car, the improvements must be followed up on, maintained. Another ritual.

At first he was driven to Eddie's office every afternoon. Now it is every other day. Next week, if he is a very good boy, the appointments will be cut to twice weekly.

Wilson used to drive him (House wasn't trusted to make the trip himself in case he became...distracted or disoriented). But one day, without explanation, Cuddy took Wilson's place behind the wheel. The two were silent en route to the appointment and said very little on the return trip. When Cuddy took a detour to House's apartment, their silence took on a whole new texture. Rough, needy, expectant...

They took a purposeful path to the bedroom. After stripping off their clothes with languorous care, they lay atop the comforter, staring at the ceiling before finally touching one another. Faulkner's hold on both of them had dissipated, but that connection they had, that irksome, disturbing knowledge never would. Perhaps if they distilled it, utilized it for something positive, it would serve a purpose.

The sex was a soothing balm, like warm salve massaged onto an open wound. They held each other for a little while after, breathing against each other's shoulders, waiting for their heartbeats to slow. After showering together, they dressed and went back to work.

Nobody knew. Nobody would ever know. Not even Wilson. At work House would continue to let the barbs would fly, keep the jokes about cleavage, the heels, the walk, the ass, ebbing and flowing from day to day. But the sex...it was just something that happened and would most likely keep happening in the same calm, methodical way. It was part of the routine now, one more step forward in the in the healing process.

A very good boy...

A shard of memory cuts him like the slip of a penknife against his thumb. House shudders at the sudden sharp chill in the air and slaps the newspaper flat against the gritty black floor of the rooftop.

The Thunderbird rolls up and parks in its usual spot round back. Right on time. She pours out of the driver's side door, long legs, her dark hair flowing down her back, over her breasts. She is like some harlot from a film noir. Her lips are scarlet, like fresh roses, like arterial blood. He can taste her already. Lisa. He quirks a grin, clicks his tongue. Without a word, he grabs his cane and leads her to his room.

By now, House has read The Ledger article so many times, he could probably recite it in his sleep. But the physical act of reading, of letting the words sink into his brain is another ritual. At some point he will have to let it go, to force these memories to fade, the same way he almost did.

But not yet...

Pressing his lips together, he turns the page and begins to read.

The Disappearing Doc: Aftermath

by

Peter Emery

Staff Reporter

Weeks have passed. The dust has settled. The case of The Disappearing Doc is history. But you know as well as I do, nothing ever just 'goes away'. There are layers to this tale as there are with any story. Peel them back and you might discover secret hidey holes you weren't supposed to find. But this is where resourcefulness leads you.

You, my loyal readers, deserve more than what the mainstream papers are telling you about what really happened to Dr. Gregory House. You deserve the truth. Not one interview with the players in this drama has surfaced. But I have met them all, talked to each one of them. Yes, William Faulkner too...before his number was called.

And that is where we begin our recap:

Dr. William Faulkner. After weeks of intense research into the reason behind the rhyme, I can now tell you that Faulkner calculated his initial meeting with Dr. House with meticulous care, dangling the promise of drug free pain reduction over the desperate doc's head (House suffers from chronic leg pain because of an infarction in his thigh).

What Faulkner desired most was revenge. He attributed his sister Danielle's suicide to a callous betrayal of trust on Dr. House's part. During the course of treating her husband, Jack Moriarity, for an undisclosed ailment, House offhandedly told Danielle of her husband's indiscretion with another woman.

It was Jack Moriarity who stole into Princeton-Plainsboro hospital two weeks after his wife's death and pumped two bullets into Gregory House. Failing in his murderous quest, he escaped to Arizona, where he became involved with the now incarcerated serial killer, Curtis Weir. Faulkner took up Moriarity's battle, attempting to do House in by using more subtle methods: mind control and hypnosis.

As we know, it almost worked.

But fate played a hand, saving Dr. House from death's hand...again.

Dr. Faulkner was not so lucky.

I was there when it happened. I can tell you that tragedy strikes in slow motion before becoming a snow squall of confusion. I have stared death in the face and it has changed me, left an emptiness in my soul (read my detailed account of these moments, plus complete interviews with police and witnesses in next week's Ledger).

We were on the steps of the Princeton police station, following Faulkner, his lawyer and a group of officers and detectives inside for the deposition. Faulkner was to give his official rendering of his relationship with Dr. House and the events leading up to the doctor's attempted suicide.

He never made it.

As we stood on the steps, an officer moved to open the precinct's door. There was a loud popping sound, then another. I felt a strange whizzing heat by my temple, and then Faulkner fell, his blood and brain matter spraying the area, leaving residue on black shoes and crisp blue uniforms. Half his face was gone. An officer and detective flanking him were also mortally wounded.

The assailant, Dorie Ann Schumacher was an educator in the Trenton area and spurned lover of Dr. Faulkner. She is currently incarcerated in the New Jersey State Prison, serving three life sentences for the murder of Faulkner, Detective Irv Trisdale, and Officer Milos Gervais.

The chances of yours truly being granted an interview with Ms. Schumacher are looking good. More about that soon!

I remain here, fate's humble servant, left behind to tell this tale.

And Jack Moriarity is still at large...somewhere.

Drs. James Wilson and Lisa Cuddy are colleagues and stalwart friends of the Disappearing Doc. They put up the reward money when Dr. House ran away in an attempt to escape Faulkner's unshakable hold on his psyche. The two doctors were aided in their quest by a woman named AllisonDubois, a self professed psychic, who claimed to be in touch with Dr. House via her dreams.

We don't believe in such claptrap here at The Ledger. It was luck and resourcefulness on Dr. Wilson's part that led him and the others to Dr. House. We take issue with the fact that Dr. Wilson gives Ms. Dubois a good deal of the credit for finding the Disappearing Doc. At the time Dr. Wilson was exhausted, an emotional wreck. Surely he would have been open to any port in the storm.

In her own way, Ms. Dubois was just as much of a Coney Island huckster as Dr. Faulkner. I talked to her. I know. She is self righteous and cunning. These people who play on the weaknesses of others for their own gain must be stopped. This is an issue we will explore in our special Sunday supplement "Are Psychics Psyching you out?"

And finally we come to Lois Weatherly, co-founder of The Church of the Rising Age, an organization we commonly refer to as a cult. I was the only reporter invited to stand behind the observation mirror as Ms. Weatherly told her tale to the police: how she found Dr. House in a 'bad state' on the steps of the New York Public Library, how she then brought him to the church, cared for him, attempted to help him regain his mental acuity. Only when the cult's brand of therapy failed, did she decide to notify the police of Dr. House's whereabouts.

Could the offer of reward money have had something to do with Lois's decision to produce the Disappearing Doc? After all, the church's co-founder, Stefan Perrault knew nothing of her plans.

We at The Ledger do not condone the acts of these self professed churches, and I, for one, am pleased that Lois was not issued the reward money. It was decided that her actions had not been in the best interest of her charge and that she held him against his will, no matter how emphatically she protested to the contrary.

According to Stefan Perrault, Lois left the church, and is headed for parts unknown.

I say, good riddance.

Currently, Dr. Gregory House is under the care of an exit counselor. From all reports he is responding well and has returned to his work and his colleagues

We wonder, though, how will this change him? Will he ever be the man he was? Will this traumatic experience haunt and plague him through the rest of his days? There is no way of knowing. But we will stand by, as always, to bring you any updates to this report.

For complete interviews and a photo gallery, please visit our website.

As always, Your News Is Our News.

The edges of the newspaper snap and rustle in the balmy breeze. The wind is picking up. The air smells damp and close; rain is on the way. House rolls up the newspaper and tucks it under his arm. Throwing the sky an accusatory glower, he grabs his cane and pushes himself to his feet.

"Pizza?"

Shit.House taps the tip of his cane against the side of his sneaker. "You get off on standing in the half-light, observing a crippled man reading the newspaper?"

"It's what I live for." Wilson moves next to him, a cocky little smile on his face. Only lately has the haggard, stressed out look turned to one of mild contentment.

"How long?" House asks, moving toward the wall overlooking the hospital's entrance and guest parking area.

"What?"

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Oooh, I don't know...ten, fifteen minutes." Wilson taps the paper with his forefinger. "Strange thing is, you never turned the page once."

"Mmmph," House grunts, and leans one forearm on top of the wall. "Shouldn't you be on your merry way to hotel and hearth?"

"I don't know, House. It's much more fun hanging out here with you, waiting for the rain."

"You're bothering me."

"No, I'm not. You're glad I looked for you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

House shakes open the paper, separates the pages, then hands half of them to Wilson. "Here."

"What's this for?" he asks. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

"Just...take them."

"Okay." Wilson takes the pages. "Now what?"

"Do what I do." Holding his half of the newspaper in both hands, House rips it down the middle once, then again crosswise before letting it flutter off into the wind.

"Is that The Ledger?"

"Yeah."

"The latest issue?"

"No, it's the one from last month about Simon Cowell's affair with Britney Spears." House gives a rakish little chuckle. "That girl will go with anyone with a stylist..."

"I can't blame you for tearing up that rag. Peter Emery is a supercilious bastard. " Wilson raises his brows and frowns over the wall. "Still and all, it's littering."

"Ohhh. Like someone's gonna catch you. Just..."

"They could..."

"I should have known." House heaves a disgruntled sigh and holds out his hand. "Give."

"No, it's alright." Wilson rips the pages three ways, then tosses them up like confetti, letting the wind send them flying off to...wherever. "Happy now?"

"Yeah, I'm giddy with delight." House brushes by him and heads toward the door. Fat drops of rain land on his shoulder, the top of his head.

Good boy...

"Pizza?" Wilson calls again. The rain is falling in earnest now making Wilson look like a soggy Ken doll.

House backs into the push bar and opens stairwell door. "Vitos?"

"Sure."

"You're all wet. Don't you have to change your shirt, dry your hair and put that mousse shit in it?

"So I'll change at your place."

"Forget it." House begins to turn.

"House...wait." Wilson rushes over, shoes sploshing in the fresh new puddles. "We'll go. Now."

With a chuckle, House steps into the stairwell. "You'll get to the car and want to go change."

"No," Wilson maintains with a soggy shake of his head. "I won't."

"I'll bet you dinner you will."

Uncertainty flickers in Wilson's eyes but disappears just as quickly. "You're on."

Gripping the banister, House smiles to himself as he takes the first step down. He can't help but notice the despondent hunch of his friend's shoulders, the way his hand scrubs through that limp, rain soaked hair.

There is no way you're paying tonight, old man...

"God, I'm soaked!" Wilson's voice bounces off the walls. His shoes squish, squish, squish, announcing each sodden step.

House giggles so hard he needs to pause and steady himself against the railing. Wilson shoots him a glare. A drop of water drips from the tip of his nose to plop against his shoe, which causes House to giggle even more. Now he is on a serious roll. Those giggles turn to chuckles, the chuckles become guffaws, the guffaws bloom into full out belly laughs. He stands on that third step a long time, shoulders shaking as he throws his head back, as the laughter takes him away.

fin.