Disclaimer: I own a house. I own "House" on dvd. I like the movie, "My Life as a House." But as for the show and its characters, they belong to FOX.

A/N: This chapter follows "Sleepless." Cameron's insomnia (and the inability to get House out of her mind) drive her to brave a blizzard to get to work. It's perfect timing for House, who needs a partner in crime. Cameron's along for the ride. I'm still new to writing in this genre. I appreciate reviews, and try to read and review the works of everyone who reviews my work. I like specific comments and constructive criticism -- what works and what doesn't. Thanks to all who have reviewed the story, and especially to my beta, Timbereads. Also, thanks to Houseketeer for raising the bar for all who attempt to write House and Cameron fics.

Please note that this fiction aims to eventually change its rating to M. I don't think I'm quite there yet, but if you disagree, kindly let me know. And bear with me as I attempt to write smut for the first time. I don't want it to get in the way of the romance.

Clad in jeans, with a lacy camisole peeking out from under a creamy silk shirt, Cameron clicks in ankle high boots toward the office. Before she gets there, she pauses long enough to shake snow from her hair and draw its brownish red strands into a ponytail.

She hears House before she sees him.

The clack of his cane in the corridor precedes him. The instant he sees her, he speaks.

"Cameron. I need you."

Not, why are you here so early? Not, how about that snowstorm? Pleasantries and small talk are lost on House.

Her whole body flushes. She's not sure if it's what he has said, or simply the sound of his voice that makes her feel as if his hands are moving all over her skin. How would it feel to be touched by him? Sometimes she thinks that his voice is a caress, sometimes a fuck, depending on his tone and her needs. Either way, House's words are like palm prints on her body. His voice is all she has.

He needs her? To do what? It's 4:30 in the morning. She decides to play along. No matter what her body's reaction to the man, she's slaphappy to see his scruffy self. He looks good in his leather jacket and a t-shirt displaying the graphics and title of Steely Dan's "Can't Buy a Thrill."

"You want me, too, House. But 'there ain't no way you're ever gonna love me. Two out of three ain't bad,'" she warbles.

House plugs his ears at her tone deaf rendition of Meatloaf. "I don't want you. One out of three sucks. Come on. Grab your coat."

"It's in the car. And by the way, you lie. You want me." She wishes she had her lab coat on. It's always easier for her to play House when she looks like a professional.

"I think we've established that, smartypants. You were on to me from the start, like when I told you I didn't like you, and you didn't believe me." House leans on his cane with both hands, looks down at her with eyes narrowed a fraction.

It's hard to pick up on House's frame of mind this morning. He's slightly snarky, but there's something she's missing. She folds her arms and steps so close to House she has to tilt her chin up to meet the blue pools of his eyes. In them she sees pain, and behind the pain, something else. She glimpses love, hope, desire, kindness.

He looks away, and all of it is gone.

She keeps it light.

"I could tell you just how much you want me, and in what ways, and then --."

"That would be...titillating. I'll take a rain check. Hold those thoughts. But, for now, stop talking and start walking."

House sets off toward the elevator at a pace that for him is close to a jog. She scurries to keep up in her heels. Click click to the clack clack of his cane.

"Where are we going? We don't even have a patient. Do we?"

"I don't pay you to ask questions."

"Yes, you do."

"Okay...," House draws out the word. "We're making a House call." He offers her a faux grin at his own lame pun.

"This can't wait for Foreman and Chase?" Please, God, say no, she thinks.

House whips around so fast that Cameron walks into his chest. He reaches out to steady her. "I thought you'd jump at the chance to be alone with me. Or at least to jump me," he says. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, then vanishes.

She's only thrown against him for a moment. It's long enough. He's a drug that she's free-based and the effects are immediate, potent.

Like the sound of his voice, the smell of him envelopes her, inflames her. It's like having hives of desire, she thinks, inanely. She inhales him, her face pressed against the faded cotton of the shirt. His scent is leathery.

The last time she was this close to House was when she sat behind him on his bike, her crotch snug against his back, her arms around his chest. She is caught by the memory of the motorcycle throbbing between her legs -- the way she came to the beat of the bike's vibrations emanating from below. How the friction of her mound rubbing against him flooded her with waves of pleasure. It had taken all her will power not to slip her hands under his jacket and stroke his nipples with her fingertips, or to locate the waistline of his jeans, and slide her fingers down to see if he was as hard as she was wet.

House never even knew.

He pushes her away, gently, then grasps her arm with his free hand to speed her along. "We don't have time to wait for Foreskin and Chucklehead."

Not for the first time, Cameron wonders what insulting and irreverent names House calls her when she isn't around.

"House, I need to know where we're going. The visibility getting here was dicey, and there's a blizzard warning in effect."

The two doctors step out into the subzero predawn. Cameron notes that a few inches of snow have fallen since she arrived at the hospital. Clingy, wet flakes mixed with arrow-sharp sleet torpedo their faces, and she flings up a hand to protect her eyes.

"It's not a warning. It's a reality," House observes dryly, as painful slivers of snow and sleet assault them. "You drive."

He hands her a set of keys adorned with a Monster Truck key chain emblem. She looks at the key chain, astonished, touched. She had given it to him when he took her to the Monster Truck rally as Wilson's proxy.

"Why me? I drive like a girl, you know."

"Because, Little Miss Inquisitive, I may have a wee bit of morphine in my system, and, believe it or not, I don't want you to die."

That begs the question, she thinks, does he want to live?

"First LSD, and now you're shooting yourself up with morphine? Jeez, House. All the cool rockers your age have graduated from rehab. Why don't you skip the drugs and stick with sex and rock'n'roll." It occurs to Cameron that without Chase and Foreman to pick up the slack, she has found herself with more of an arsenal of snark that she knew she possessed.

House humors her. "Come on. We have to find my car."

"It's a good thing you park in the handicapped spot," she says.

He grabs her wrist and they feel their way over to his ride. Once they get there, he says: "Pop the trunk." She complies. He reaches in, hands her what looks a little like a life preserver. "Put that on."

"House. What is this?"

"One Kevlar vest. Hope it fits. Where we're headed, we might need it." House gets in the passenger side.

"I thought you said you didn't want me to die," she says.

"I said it and I meant it...trust me."

Cameron is silent.

"Okay. Don't trust me. You should probably make that your mantra. And, I should know better than to ask you this, but --." House exhales. "You wouldn't happen to have a gun in your car, would you?"

It dawns on her then. What this is about.

"You found Moriarty."

House has never claimed to have the slightest interest in the man who shot him, as far as Cameron knows, but that didn't stop Wilson and Cuddy from sneaking a look at the police report. Wilson had told Cameron the man's name, but not much else. Apparently, she thinks, House has been sleuthing. If he starts to play the violin and shoot up opium, she'll start to call him Holmes instead of House.

The car is quiet. Cameron turns the key in the ignition, and switches the heater and the defrost up as high as they will go. She cleans the windshields by turning on the wipers, turning them off.

"Cameron," House finally begins. "Don't worry. He won't be there. But we've got to go now. It's about his wife. Look. Can you just drive?"

"I thought his wife died, House."

"So did he." House looks out the window, although all he can see is the hypnotic siren of the snow. "So did he."