“So? You killed him. What else is new? You killed me too. Rackin’ up quite the record, aren’t we?”

“It wasn’t my fault. He was an idiot.” Amber arched an eyebrow. “OK, so he wasn’t an idiot. I killed him. Is that what you want me to say? Will you leave me alone then? Go back to wherever you came from?”

“Your mind, for example? It’s darker reaches, I dare say. I can’t exist anywhere else. There is no life after death, and I am clearly and provably dead. Empirically dead.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Leave me alone. Now that I’ve…”

“Hmm. Alone. It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be. You of all people should know that. Besides…oops. It’s the cops. Gotta go. Bye.”

House’s eyes flew open as Amber disappeared into the dimness of the room, replaced by the sound of Cuddy’s voice. “How’s his pulse? It was a little fast when…”

“It’s 120. Should I give him anything…? He’s talking to himself. Something about killing someone. No fever, so he’s not delirious. I’m not sure…”

“It’s OK, you can go back to… I’ll take over from here.” The nurse disappeared; Cuddy closed the door after her and approached House, who had been warily regarding her from the bed.

“You are dehydrated and your heart is racing. Do you remember being in the morgue?”

“Am I dead?”

“No. Just down the rabbit hole. What were you doing down there? In the morgue anyway?”

“I don’t…” House turned his head. He had no recollection of having gone down there at all. “I was in…”

“House. Do you know where you are now?”

“Playing doctor with the dean? Gonna tie me to the bed?” Cuddy refused to engage. “I’m fine.”

“That’s the last thing you are. I’m ordering a complete workup. Neuro, blood work…how long has it been since your leg was MRI’d? The works. You collapsed in the morgue after standing poised to do an autopsy for 90 minutes. You were unresponsive to questions, which the path people took as you being a jerk. Someone finally had the brains to come and get me. You are not fine. You having other symptoms?”

“I…” He was too tired to fight this fight. House sank back into the bed, defeated and weary, his eyes closing, craving slumber. But with his eyes shut, Amber awaited, smiling, her long legs dangling from the bed. He willed his eyes open and found himself staring into Cuddy’s concerned gray eyes. House could only imagine what she saw in return.

“I need some coffee. Better yet some Java Juice—high octane. I’ve put in 24/7 for the last week, since you’ve insisted I can only cope with Kutner’s death by working one case after the next. Give me some caffeine and let me out of jail. Hand over the next hopeless cause.” Best defense…he thought. But it cost him. He could feel his hand tremble and hoped that Cuddy wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t stand that look—the pity.

“I’ll let you get some rest, maybe that’s all you need. Maybe not,” she added doubtfully. She began to rise from his bedside when House grabbed her hand. He suddenly needed to know she was real and not another hallucination. That *this* wasn’t a hallucination. One was enough.

“Cuddy, wait.” She stopped, sitting back on the mattress, her hip resting against his leg. She peered into his ravaged, sleep-deprived eyes and it was all she could do to keep from weeping for him. How could she not have noticed before. She had been concerned; they all had. But this…

“Cuddy, I…” House considered how to say it without sounding completely insane. “I see dead people…worse: I talk to dead people,” just wasn’t going to cut it.

“Visual hallucinations,” he decided finally. Clinical. Sharp. Simple. “I’m having them. Not sure why; probably the sleep…”

“When did they start?”

“Yesterday,” he lied, hoping she wouldn’t make too much of it. “I haven’t been sleeping; it’s probably…”

“How much vicodin you been taking since Kutner died?” She knew he wouldn’t tell her the truth, but she wanted it on the record. “And how much have you not been sleeping?”

“About an hour a night. Not counting catnaps in the clinic. Two weeks.” She arched an eyebrow. He, of all people should have made the connection between Kutner’s death and the sleep issues. Which could cause the hallucinations.

“How are you even functioning?” Bad question. Easy answer—he’s not. Hence his being attached to an IV. “Can you describe the hallucinations at all?” She knew before the sentence was complete that he would deflect somehow, offer innuendos instead of the truth, but she had to try being as clinical as possible. Maybe if he talked…

“Amber.” A barely audible word: a whisper. “It’s Amber.”