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"Greg!" she calls, almost a screech, down the hallway, still tugging on the closet door. "Greg! This door is stuck!"
There's a derisive snort from the couch. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Stacy sighs heavily and props her hands on her hips. "Is there a trick to getting it open, or is every pair of shoes you own lost forever?"
"Chainsaw'd probably do it," he offers, not helpful at all.
"Greg I think the landlord would take issue with tearing the door down with a chainsaw.
"So don't tell him," House snarls. "I don't give a damn about my shoes or the fucking closet."
Stacy huffs and gives the closet door another hefty yank. The door opens, but a mountain of the Gregory House closet inventory falls out onto her feet.
"Dammit," she swears, staring down at the junk on her feet.
House doesn't move. He hardly reacts at all to her outburst. She knows that he's in pain. She knows he feels stuck in a rut. But she also knows that she can't keep going like this. If he won't let her in, there's nothing she can do to help. She's as stuck as he is.