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  Three Months 
 by Flywoman  

 Author's Note: Spoilery allusions through the beginning of Season 6. We
never see Foreteen, Chase doesn't kill any patients on purpose, and no one
performs in a talent show in the loony bin. On the other hand, House dies
at the end of Season 3. You win some, you lose some.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Fox and to David Shore and his
talented colleagues. I am borrowing them for personal pleasure, not
financial gain. Please don't sue.

Thanks: To my valiant beta readers Susanne and menolly_au, whose
constructive criticism over multiple drafts improved the first half of
this piece immensely. 

Dedication: To Chris Norris and Marie Franco, and to Jerrie, the best cat
ever.

Chapter 1: March Goes Out Like a Lamb

The day had begun like any other. Cameron was sitting at the desk
answering House's mail, Foreman was tilted back in his chair, leaning
against the wall with half-lidded eyes, and Chase was doing the crossword
at the conference table with occasional assistance from his more literate
colleagues. "Five letters, Golden Bowl author. Anyone?" 

"James," the other two supplied in unison. "That's my favorite novel,"
Cameron added.

"There's even a movie with Nicole Kidman," Foreman pointed out.

Chase sighed. It was a bitter, blustery sort of day, and he'd have been
just as happy to stay curled under the covers for another hour instead of
dragging himself in to be greeted by House's typical tardiness and
Foreman's customary contempt. Even happier if Cameron had been willing to
stay over at his apartment the previous night instead of claiming that she
had a phone date with her brother. "Sorry, I guess I'm a little
distracted."

That earned him an eye-roll. "Yeah, I've heard that sleeping with your
co-workers can have that effect."

"I'm not Chase's co-worker, I'm his boss," House corrected Foreman,
limping into the conference room even later than usual. "Oh, sorry, was
that our little secret?" No one so much as smirked, but he couldn't really
blame them for remaining resentful - even he still felt uncomfortable
whenever he thought about his disastrous attempt to be enrolled in that
clinical trial. And that experience really wasn't going to improve their
reception to the announcement that he was about to make.

"Never mind. It's good that you're all here, because I have something to
tell you. I've been diagnosed with terminal cancer." House loped over to
the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee in the ensuing silence.

It was finally broken by Foreman, who said sourly, "That joke just isn't
as funny the second time around."

"It's no joke," House said, as gently as he could.

Chase reddened. "You can't seriously expect us to believe you after what
you pulled last month." He glanced at Cameron for support. She had folded
her arms defiantly but was starting to look uncertain.

"Anyone besides me reminded of the story of the boy who cried wolf?"
Foreman said to the ceiling.

"The boy who cried wolf," House pointed out, "was eventually eaten."
Something must have crept into his voice, because Foreman finally rocked
forward and looked, really looked, at his face.

"Oh god," Cameron said, covering her mouth. "You're serious."

"How-" Chase started to say, and swallowed hard. "How far along?"

House took a deliberate sip of coffee. "I have a nine centimeter
pancreatic adenocarcinoma with hepatic involvement. So I'm guessing...
maybe a few months."

Chase and Cameron were now looking almost as stunned and bereft as they
had two weeks ago, but there was still a glint of suspicion lurking in
Foreman's eyes. House jerked his chin at him. "You wanna see my CT scan?
Or, wait, how about if I take off my shirt and you can palpate the mass
for yourself?" 

"Jesus," Foreman said, his face torn between pity and disgust.

"Uncle Thomas," House riposted nastily. "Here, give me your hand."

"Stop it!" Cameron snapped. "We believe you." Her eyes began welling with
tears.

"Finally," House said. "No case today. Cover your clinic hours. Do
whatever it is you do when we're not working together. Try having sex at
home for a change." He finished the rest of his coffee and turned to rinse
the mug in the sink. When he swung around again, Cameron and Foreman were
walking down the hallway together, already beginning to bicker. 

* 

One week earlier

"You didn't flush," Wilson pointed out.

"I didn't pee!"

*

The next morning, House was in Wilson's office, no closer to relief. "I
haven't peed in three days. I need you to write me a prescription for
alfuzosin."

"If you hadn't peed in three days, you'd be dead."

"Intermittent dribbling doesn't count. Besides, at this point, being dead
might be preferable."

Wilson peered closely at his face. "Jesus, House, how much Vicodin have
you been taking? You're jaundiced!"

"Probably just the pee filling up my eyeballs," he groused.

"Right, because that's how these things work. This is serious! We need to
lower your dosage right away."

"I can't lower it, I'm in pain! Mainly due to my distended bladder because
I can't fucking pee!"

"You know that the Vicodin is probably causing your ureters to spasm. Drop
the dosage and you'll stop being such piss-poor company in no time."

House rolled his eyes at the atrocious pun. "Come on, my bladder is
killing me. Write me a scrip or I'll write it myself." The second he said
it, he knew he'd gone too far. The scars from their trials with Tritter
were still far too fresh.

"That's not funny," Wilson snapped, and House saw plainly that if they
hadn't already been in his office, Wilson would have walked out. Actually,
even odds said it would still happen.

But then his friend blinked and frowned. "Wait, your bladder hurts? Not
your leg?"

"My leg has finally been upstaged." 

For the first time, Wilson looked worried. "Uh... I'd like to schedule you
for an ultrasound."

"What the hell for?"

"It could be something other than the Vicodin." He clearly had phrased it
that way in the hopes that House would jump at an alternative explanation
and come along quietly instead of pitching a bitch at the prospect of
being manhandled and subjected to his scrutiny. Just as clearly, he had no
desire to divulge the possibility that had just occurred to him.

House had no reason to think that it was anything else, but he figured
that once Wilson got a good look at him, he'd feel guilty enough to write
that prescription. "Fine," he said. "But make it snappy; I have to get
back to check on Sgt. Jim."

"John," Wilson corrected him automatically.

"Whatever."

*

"House, you've lost weight."

"Oh, stop. You obviously don't need flattery to get my pants off," House
said, gesturing eloquently at his hospital gown.

"No, really. Have you been eating less?"

House shrugged. "Maybe. I haven't had much appetite lately."

Wilson snapped on a pair of gloves, smoothed some gel onto House's
abdomen, and positioned the transducer, keeping his eyes on the monitor.
"Well, you weren't lying about the distended bladder."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm going to move upwards and see if I can find anything else." House
sighed and willed his body to relax, hating the feeling of helplessness.
He couldn't see the monitor from this angle, which was probably deliberate
on Wilson's part.

Suddenly Wilson went white. He looked from the monitor down to House's
body and back. Then he wiped off the transducer and replaced it. "What's
wrong?" House demanded.

"Hold on a second," Wilson whispered. He placed one hand on House's
ribcage and began groping around just underneath it with the other. After
a few seconds, he froze. "There," he said.

Wilson slid his hand out of the way as House brought his own up to replace
it. Palpating patients had never been his specialty, and his skills had
only gotten rustier over the past six years, but subtle this was not.

"We'll do a CT and biopsy to confirm," Wilson said, avoiding his eyes.

*

"Is it just me, or does House seem unusually pissy today?" Cameron asked
Foreman.

*

Wilson delivered the verdict in House's office, first drawing the blinds
so that it would seem slightly less like they were in a giant goldfish
bowl.

"The biopsy confirmed pancreatic ductal adenocarcinoma. The primary mass
is now nine centimeters long, and it's spread to the liver. Surgery really
isn't an option at this point. We might have caught it sooner if the
Vicodin hadn't masked the pain and slowed your bowel. But as you know,
pancreatic cancer is usually pretty far advanced by the time any symptoms
appear."

"So that's it? I'm dying?"

"Pretty much," Wilson said, looking him in the eye at last. 

"Wow. You won't be making your usual ten dollars off THAT delivery. I
always thought that you were a lot better at this," House sneered.

"Yeah, well, it's different when it's-" Wilson broke off. His mouth worked
silently for a few seconds. "You know what I mean," he finally murmured.

House did. "But you love everybody," he couldn't help pointing out.

"Not like this," Wilson said simply. After a pause, he blinked hard and
placed his hand on House's shoulder. They stayed that way for a while, not
looking at the clock or at each other's faces.

At last House roused himself, almost imperceptibly shrugging off Wilson's
hand. "Have you told Cuddy?"

Wilson shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. "It's your call," he
finally managed to mumble.

"Like that ever stopped the two of you before," House scoffed. He
experienced a bitter sense of satisfaction as Wilson visibly flinched.

"That's different," Wilson said. "We were trying to keep you from killing
yourself."

"No point in that anymore, huh?"

"It's your call," his friend repeated more vehemently, a universe of
meaning implied in his dark eyes.

* 

The twin triumphs of diagnosing his mendacious Marine with hereditary
telangiectasia and unburdening his bladder brought House only temporary
relief. For one thing, interacting with Wilson had become more tedious and
awkward than he could ever have imagined. The diagnosis was now the
elephant in the room. Wilson was obviously determined not to bring it up
before he did, yet just as clearly incapable of thinking about anything
else while in his company. 

During lunch later in the week, House found himself making outrageous
speculations on wombats and leather ties just to see whether Wilson was
paying attention, and when faced with failure for the umpteenth time, he
finally lost his temper.

"God, Wilson! When did you become this boring?"

Wilson blinked. House could see surprise, hurt, and annoyance vying for
supremacy on his friend's face.

"I'm sorry if my concern bores you," he said sarcastically.

"Your problem," House said, snagging one of his fries, "is that unhappy
people always make you feel guilty."

"And yours has always been," Wilson shot back, "that happy people make you
miserable."

"There, see? It's like old times."

"This isn't a game, House," Wilson began, but then bit his lip.

"No shit. Solitaire with a fistful of papercuts would be more fun than
this." House grabbed his cane and limped out of the cafeteria, leaving
Wilson to bus his tray.

*

The following afternoon, Cuddy came to his office, shut the blinds behind
her and stalked over to his desk. Her skin was paler than usual, enhancing
the shadows revealed by her low-cut burgundy blouse.

"Did we have an appointment?" House asked. "Because I already have a
hooker scheduled for tonight, and I'm not as young as I used to be."

Her failure to react was his first clue. "Wilson was just in my office."

"Oh, are we playing musical chairs? Should I go to Wilson's office now?" 

"You'll start treatment immediately?" It was not really a question.

"So much for doctor-patient confidentiality," House growled, grabbing his
cane and levering himself to his feet.

"Yeah, you can sue us later. When's your first chemo session? You can have
all the time you need; I just want to know your schedule so I can handle
your cases accordingly."

House hesitated, a little puzzled. "Cuddy, it's stage four. You know the
stats as well as I do. Chemo could kill me as quickly as the cancer."

Cuddy shook her head, looking away with suddenly bright eyes. "Or it could
prolong your life by... months, maybe years. You don't know."

"De Nile ain't just a river in Egypt," House remarked as if to the
ceiling.

"Goddammit, you don't know. Wilson doesn't know, and even you don't know.
You owe it to us to at least try." 

"Really?" House said sarcastically. "I owe my friends months of misery,
nausea, and pain, and probably the privileges of holding my hair and
wiping my ass, just so that they can feel like I fought the good fight?"

Cuddy reached out and grabbed his arm, then laid her other hand gently
against his cheek. "Like we fought the good fight," she said. "Yes."

House stared down at her for a moment, then pulled himself out of her
grasp and limped towards the door, saying, "I think I will go to Wilson's
office, after all."

Cuddy watched him go, looking crestfallen. "Oh, shit," she sighed.

*

"You told him?"

"You were the one who was so worried about him! It's been three days - I
thought that he needed a kick in the ass!"

Wilson had already been wan and haggard from a series of sleepless nights;
now he was wild- eyed as well as he paced in front of Cuddy's desk. "I've
been going out of my mind trying to back off and give him the time and
space that he needs to figure this out. I only talked to you today to keep
myself from getting in his face about it. And then the first thing you do
is go give him a lecture on how to behave responsibly in this situation?
You know what the man's like! Telling him what to do is just a surefire
way to make him dig his heels in!"

"I know he hates taking your advice, but I thought that if I-"

Wilson laughed rudely. "You thought that words from an authority figure
would be more welcome? How long have you known him?"

Cuddy covered her face with one hand. "You're right. It was stupid."
Predictably, Wilson immediately looked contrite and came over to touch her
shoulder consolingly. She waved him away. "I'm okay. I'm not the one you
need to be concerned about right now."

"At least you'll let me be in the same room with you," Wilson said darkly.

*

Cuddy stared at House incredulously. "You want to do what? You never go
anywhere!"

"Yeah, well, I've accumulated a lot of vacation days, and this might be a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to take them, if you get my drift."

"So you're going to the Galapagos? Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Well, it will have to wait. As of now, you have a patient."

"I have no patience," House corrected her without missing a beat.

"You said it, I didn't," Cuddy said sweetly, handing him Emma Sloane's
file. "She's an award- winning photographer for Rolling Stone. Should be
right up your alley."

House flipped through it briefly. "She's pregnant. Sounds more like she's
right up your alley."

Cuddy fixed him with a glare. "Get in there. And be nice."

* 

If he hadn't known better, House would have inferred that the universe
disapproved of his scheme and was deliberately thwarting him at every
turn. Every plan he had made so far to get away to parts unknown turned
out to have a fatal flaw. He had just managed to book a kayaking trip to
Johnson's Strait when his fellows invaded his office to inform him that
Emma was jaundiced. There was no time left to lose.

House left the Cottages standing around glumly and headed to Emma's
bedside in the ICU to deliver the news. "The swollen bladder is not the
only problem. We can't leave it inside you; we have to terminate."

"Can't you deliver him? Put him on a respiratory machine until, till you
figure out what's wrong?"

"We can. It won't matter. The fetus is still at least two weeks away from
being viable."

Her face relaxed in relief instead of despair. His heart sank. "Well, I'll
suffer through this for two more weeks then."

House spoke patiently. "You're on dialysis for your kidneys. Kidneys can
wait. They don't make dialysis for your liver." He paused. "You're not
going to make it two more days."

She fought tears, looked away, shook her head in denial. "I'm not going to
let you kill my baby."

"It's killing you."

"I'm not having an abortion."

"It's not a baby, it's... a tumor." Even as Emma held up her hand to stop
his words, he was struck by the thought that someone seemed to be
projecting around here. Great, now he was channeling Wilson, making a
mockery of House's best attempts to avoid him.

House tried one last time. "I understand dying for a cause, sacrificing
your life so that your child might live, but that's not the choice here!
Either it dies, or you both die."

"Or you fix him, and we both live!"

"I can't fix it." So true, of so many things. He struggled to his feet.
"I'm scheduling a D."

"I won't consent," Emma said, lifting her chin defiantly. "So I guess you
have two days to figure it out."

He swallowed and left.

*

He'd suspected that Cuddy would identify with the patient too much to
persuade her to undergo the one procedure guaranteed to save her. He had
not been prepared for the alacrity with which she usurped his case,
convincing his team to undertake a transjugular hepatic biopsy on the off
chance that the liver problems were just a huge coincidence, then swamping
the fetus with steroids to speed its lung development over their protests.
House tried to convince himself that the tightness in his chest when Cuddy
dismissed him from Emma's case and sent him off on his vacation was just
another symptom of metastasis.

He was packed and waiting for his cab to the airport when she turned up,
triumphant, at his door.

*

Chase predictably rose to the challenge, proposing exploratory surgery to
differentiate between the possible causes of the abnormal lung buds on the
most recent MRI. And then, in the OR, House had experienced what could
only be described as an epiphany. 

"Uterus is fully exposed."

"Start draining the amniotic fluid."

"Haven't you ever sucked beer out of the bottom of a keg? Where did you go
to college? Give me that."

In the middle of the aspiration, a faint but unexpected pressure prompted
House to pause. He looked down and saw that he'd been caught and held by
the fragile fingers of the incomplete creature that he'd described as a
parasite. In that moment, however illogically, it was transformed for him
from a fetus into a baby, and thus, a patient in its own right. 

He was acutely aware of Cuddy's hopeful blue eyes fixed on his face, and
suddenly he felt certain that together, they were going to resolve this
case. Cuddy had provided the irrational passion to pursue the end, and he
had contributed the intellectual audacity to discover the means. Thanks to
them, Emma wouldn't be required to sacrifice her most precious possession
in order to save herself.

The fact that the patient went into v-fib a few minutes later and Cuddy
nearly electrocuted him restarting Emma's heart only served to hammer the
point home.

*

Cuddy stopped him on his way out to crow over her victory as well as to
present him with a little surprise, a first class round trip ticket to
Vancouver Island so that he could travel in comfort to his kayaking trip. 

House thought that he detected a faint whiff of Wilson and couldn't help
wondering whether this was yet another awkward attempt at reverse
psychology, but he took the envelope without any protests to that effect.
Instead, he said, "You didn't need to apologize."

"I'm not, I told you why I-"

He shook his head. "You screwed up."

"I saved a life. I saved two lives."

"You let your maternal instinct get the best of you and nearly killed two
people," he said, stepping forward to get in her face.

As the conversation continued, he revised his conclusions. There was no
conspiracy. Cuddy was just happy to have her fairytale ending, and she
seemed sincerely to want him to be, too. 

"Be happy," he repeated sarcastically to himself as he turned away from
her glowing face and limped towards the exit. 

But on his way home, House reconsidered the events of the day, including
Cuddy's well- meaning gesture and his own obstinate attempts to escape his
circumstances. He'd been fooling himself that what he really wanted was to
take this last chance to see the world before leaving it forever. The only
way to make the most of the time he had left was to do what he did best:
diagnosing and saving the patients whom no one else could help. He tore
the ticket in half and tossed it in the trashcan, then curled up on the
couch and relived the memory of that tiny hand in his.

*

Now

Chase lingered after the others had left and stood staring at a point just
beyond House's right ear. Hackles raised, House halted, clutching his cane
and feeling as though he might bolt right through Chase's body at any
moment. "What?"

Chase took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. "I forgive you."

House regarded him with the same expression he might use if Chase had
suddenly dropped trou and urinated on the carpet. "For what, exactly?"

"For one thing, letting us think that you had cancer last month and
watching us all make idiots of ourselves."

"Ironic, isn't it? Consider it a case of premature ejaculation."

"Also, almost four years of mockery and verbal abuse." He said it lightly,
but the earnestness in his eyes alarmed House. "And there was a certain
punch in the face."

House sneered at him. "I was going through withdrawal. You were being a
pain in the ass. How many times do I have to apologize for that?"

"Once would be nice," Chase said.

"Yeah, well, you ratted me out to Vogler," House retorted. "So I say we're
even. At least."

Chase shrugged, and the corners of his mouth crooked up. "So do you
forgive me?"

House swallowed with some difficulty, staring into the startlingly sweet
smile, the ancient hope in that impossibly young face. "Yeah."

"Good. Then we're even." Chase stepped forward.

House eyed him. "You're not going to hug me again, are you?"

"I'd like to," Chase admitted. "But I won't if you don't want me to."

"I get a choice this time?"

"I'll take that as a yes," Chase said and gracefully closed the space
between them to enfold House in his arms. He buried his face between the
other man's neck and shoulder, then tightened his embrace with a
suspicious snuffling sound. This time House didn't ask whether he was
crying because his own throat was too tight. Instead, after a few seconds,
he extended his own arm to pat Chase awkwardly on the shoulder.

At last Chase pulled away, swiping his sleeve across his cheek. House,
almost unbalanced by the sudden loss of support, was forced to quickly
reposition his cane. "I'm not your father," he told Chase cruelly, to
compensate for his momentary weakness.

"I'm not yours either," Chase said, but he smiled as he spoke, as if to
take the sting away. "I'll see you around."

*

Foreman found him in the clinic as he was exchanging patient files at the
nurse's station. He followed House into an empty exam room and stood in
the doorway, arms folded, staring at him somberly.

"You know I'm not much for hand-holding," Foreman said. "But if you need
anything, all you have to do is ask."

House, stubborn son of a bitch that he was, wouldn't ask Foreman for a
damned thing, and they both knew it. "All I really need right now is a
shoulder to cry on," House replied, pulling a sad clown face. "But if that
changes, I'll be sure to let you know."

Foreman nodded fractionally, reached out as if to squeeze House's arm,
then changed his mind and abruptly turned away.

*

Cameron did not come to see him. He'd expected something, a lecture, a
declaration of devotion, a pitiful bouquet of flowers with a "Get well
soon" balloon. Once his clinic duty was done, he began stumping irritably
around the hospital in search. 

He finally found her in the lab, recalibrating the centrifuge. "You are so
predictable," he teased.

She sniffled, fished a damp tissue out of her lab coat pocket, and blew
her nose. "Is that what you came here to tell me?"

"No," House said, and hesitated. "Actually, I wanted your advice."

"Do you need to fire one of us again?" she asked, her voice wavering
between distress and defiance.

His little girl was all grown up. "Nope. I need to decide whether to let
Wilson put me through chemotherapy. Well, technically Cuddy," he said,
lowering his voice confidingly. "But I bet that Wilson put her up to it.
He's been playing his cards very close to the chest lately."

Cameron tilted her head, considering. "What are the odds?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not really," she replied frankly. "If you do the chemo and die anyway,
you'll be a tragic hero and we'll all say how brave and unlucky you were.
If you don't, you'll be the selfish bastard who wouldn't even try to help
his friends keep him alive."

"I think I love you," House said. Cameron flushed, although whether with
pleasure or shame, he wasn't really sure. "So you're saying that I should
go ahead with treatment?"

Cameron shrugged. "Even if it doesn't work, Cuddy and Wilson will
appreciate the effort, and at the end, you'll have access to all the
morphine you want."

"The real way to a man's heart is through his veins."

"Also, the chemo will suppress your immune system, so you'll have to stop
seeing patients almost immediately."

House smirked. "Sounds like a win-win. Thanks for the advice." He turned
to leave, then stopped to wag a finger at her. "Now, don't you go getting
your hopes up about any marriage proposals, there, missy."

Cameron planted her hands on her hips. "You can be a real shit sometimes,"
she told him.

*

House peeked around the corner to make sure that Cuddy was alone before
continuing the last few yards to her office. She was elbow-deep in
paperwork but set everything down immediately when she spotted him.
"House," she said, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. "You're
still here."

"I'll do the chemo, but I want Dr. Chernin to be in charge of my case."

Cuddy cocked her head. "Why? Wilson's the best oncologist we've got, and
he happens to be your personal physician."

"Yeah yeah yeah," House said, raising a hand as if to fend her off, "when
I need a prescription refilled, he's my go-to guy. But I don't want him
involved in this."

"Really."

"It isn't a good idea. Wilson's not... objective."

"Because he actually cares about you as a person?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe none of your friends or colleagues should be involved in your
care."

"Colleagues, fine. Friends, no. Fortunately for you, I don't have very
many to exclude."

"Last time I checked, I could count them on the fingers of one thumb,"
Cuddy replied with some asperity. "House. Be reasonable. If Wilson were...
were sick, and no one knew what was wrong, you would take his case. Tell
me that you wouldn't pursue it to the ends of the earth."

"I'm not Wilson."

"Right, you don't care about patients at all. You never risked your
license by telling a bald-faced lie to get a bulimic woman a transplant,
for example." House sighed but was otherwise silent. "What, you don't have
an answer to that one? I do. Let Wilson be in charge of your case. If
things are as hopeless as you seem to think, what can you possibly have to
lose?"

Only everything I've got left, House didn't say aloud before nodding
brusquely in defeat and setting off to find Wilson.

* 

House poked his head into Wilson's office. "I've decided to do the chemo,"
he announced.

Wilson tried not to look triumphant and almost succeeded. "Really? Are you
sure?"

"Yes. BUT," he added, leveling a finger at his friend, "we both know that
this isn't a cure. At some point, the misery of living is going to
outweigh the misery of dying. When that happens, I'll let you know. And
then you'll put me out of my misery. No discussion. That's the deal."

"All right," Wilson said solemnly, extending his hand. They shook on it.

Wilson explained the course of treatment with great care and concision.
Intravenous gemcitabine weekly, along with an anti-emetic and pancrelipase
at meals. Small, frequent servings; bland foods; no alcohol. House sat, to
all appearances listening attentively, and made notes in his planner.
Wilson managed to squeeze him into an initial appointment for the
following morning. 

*

"Stacy?"

"Greg?" She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and signaled to her
assistant to take a quick coffee break. "This is a surprise." They both
knew that it was more than that. She felt suddenly dizzy and nauseated,
and her heart was hammering in her chest.

"I know." He paused. "I want you to help me draw up my will."

"Mark and I are doing great, thanks for asking. What the fuck, Greg? We
haven't spoken since you seduced me and then dumped my ass, and now you're
calling me out of the blue to ask if I would help you draw up your will?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I thought it would be easier for both of us
if we weren't in touch. Listen, I wouldn't ask if it weren't important."

"Important," she repeated, hoping that this would all start to make sense
soon.

"Yeah."

"Greg," she groaned in exasperation. "Are you just jerking my chain here,
or what? Your will, really. What brought this on, a sudden glimpse of your
own mortality?"

"You could say that."

"Yeah, well, you know, Greg, I'm a just little weirded out here, and I'm
not sure that this would really be appropriate. I can recommend someone, a
friend from another firm-"

"You represented me a year ago," House pointed out.

"Sure, when we were actually on speaking terms. Also, I was employed by
your organization. This time you'd be my private client. It would be
personal."

"What, you're afraid that there would be a conflict of interest? Don't
worry, I'm not planning to leave you anything."

Stacy snorted. "Don't think I've forgotten that you still have some of my
underwear."

"Actually, no. I put it on Wilson in a moment of weakness, and he swears
I'm not getting it back."

"And thanks very much for that mental image." She sighed, massaging her
temples. "Fine, whatever. Just give me a minute to check my calendar." She
skimmed through quickly. "We're pretty swamped right now. How about the
last Friday of next month? I'll drive into town after work and we can have
dinner." 

There was a pause. "Would it be possible to make it sooner?"

Stacy felt a flash of annoyance, followed quickly by one of fear. "Greg?
Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Of course. I just, you know, don't want to lose momentum, let it
slip off my radar."

"Are you sure?

"Would I lie to you?"

"Hell, yes."

"I mean about anything important," in an aggrieved tone.

"You once told me you'd been a back-up guitarist for the Stones."

"That was only so you would go out with me."

Stacy decided that they were moving into dangerous territory, counted to
five, and thought of Mark. "Fine, how about the last Friday of this
month?"

Another pause. "I could probably hang on until then," House agreed.

"I'll see you at Spiletto at eight." Stacy hung up, feeling the familiar
heady mixture of exhilaration and exhaustion that had always accompanied
her interactions with Greg. She might need an alibi. She would certainly
have to be very, very careful.

*

Having made up his mind to prolong his life and powers of problem solving
for as long as possible, House threw himself into the part, faithfully
following the regime that Wilson had outlined. To settle his stomach, he
avoided coffee and most of his favorite foods Indian, Thai, anything fried
or too greasy. He cleaned out his office and gathered up the contents of
his liquor cabinet at home, storing all of his alcohol in a safe place
where he wouldn't be tempted to reach for it on an especially bad day.
Once a week, he walked down to the outpatient clinic for his fix, watching
the straw-colored poison drip from the IV bag on its way into his vein.

*

Stacy was shocked when she saw him. He looked as if he had aged twenty
years instead of one, his hair dull and thinned, clothes hanging loosely
on his always-lanky frame. "Greg!"

"You look great," he said, lowering himself into the chair opposite with
more care than usual.

"You look like shit. What the hell is going on with you?"

House brushed self-consciously at his balding scalp. "Tried this new
product. The ads promised a full and luxuriant head of hair in two weeks,
but I guess you just can't trust anybody nowadays."

"You've lost weight."

"I'm on a diet. Wilson's been on me to watch my cholesterol."

"Greg, do you have... cancer?" she whispered, leaning closer.

"Yes!" he said loudly enough that she jumped a little and heads turned all
over the restaurant. "Congratulations, you dragged it out of me with your
mad detective skillz." 

"Oh my god. Is it your prostate?"

"Does Mark approve of your prurient interest in my prostate?" He sighed.
"It's pancreatic. Not one of the warm, fuzzy ones."

"How are you doing? Wilson has you on chemo, doesn't he? Is it working?"

"Stacy... it's just palliative. It might slow the progression of the
disease, but it won't cure it."

Stacy swallowed. "How long?"

"That's what she said," he leered.

"Please don't do that. If you make me laugh, I'm going to start crying."

"Funny," House said. "I say these things because otherwise I might start
crying." He held her gaze for a moment, then flipped through the menu.
"Have you tried the sweetbreads?"

*

The next morning, Stacy convened an emergency meeting of Housaholics
Anonymous in the lobby of her hotel. As soon as Wilson walked in, she
leveled an accusatory finger at him. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

He sat, staring uneasily like a puppy eying a rolled-up paper. "House told
me that he'd asked you to prepare his will. I thought you knew!"

"How long have you known?"

"Three weeks. Seriously, Stacy, I thought he'd already told you." Wilson
sighed. "In retrospect, I probably should have wondered why you hadn't
called me."

"Ya think?" 

Cuddy entered as they glared at each other. "Stacy," she said, embracing
her. "I'm glad you're here." 

"About damned time. Wilson, how's he doing? He looked like a hol-" Stacy
realized that "holocaust survivor" might not be the most apt comparison in
present company and finished somewhat lamely "-low shell of his former
self."

Wilson frowned but didn't pursue it. "In terms of his prognosis, it's too
early to tell. In other ways, much better than could be expected."

"How's that?"

"You remember how he was after his leg-"

"We remember," Stacy and Cuddy chorused.

"Yeah, well, I thought it would be like that. I figured he'd be a holy
terror. The man's always bragging about much he gets away with because of
his cane; you'd think that cancer would be carte blanche for bad behavior.
But he's been keeping all of his appointments, following the dietary
guidelines, everything. It worries me."

"What doesn't?" Stacy teased.

Wilson lowered his voice self-consciously. "He's just been so... obedient.
Meek, even. It's weird. I worry that we... that we've broken him."

Cuddy was staring at him with a complicated mixture of compassion and
exasperation, as if she couldn't quite figure out how her favorite
department head had made it through med school. "Just because House might
be trying to be a better person doesn't mean that he's broken. Maybe he's
finally grown up enough to appreciate what we're trying to do for him."

"Yeah, that must be it," Wilson said sarcastically.

"Better late than never," Stacy shrugged.

* *

Chapter 2: April Is the Cruelest Month

The day came when he had to admit defeat, not so much because of the
nausea, weakness, and increasing pain as because the chemo drugs were
befuddling his brain, making it impossible to remember the details of his
cases or to judge whether he had just come up with something insanely
brilliant or simply insane. He stuck with it stubbornly for as long as he
could, but the day after a particularly challenging case, Foreman came to
see him in his office.

"We have to talk." 

House glanced up from the lounge chair where he'd been nodding off under
the soothing warmth of a heating pad. "What were the results of the
mammogram?"

Foreman closed the door behind him and drew the blinds, then turned to
face him. "Someone has to say something. There is no excuse for what
happened yesterday with the McDonough kid. I don't know whether it's the
pain or the chemo, but your judgment is impaired, and it's compromising
the safety of our patients. You just can't hack it anymore. I'm sorry."

House regarded him for a moment with unreadable eyes, then levered himself
to his feet. "You're right."

*

Cuddy didn't glance up as he entered her office. "Was the mammogram
clean?" she asked.

"Yeah. But that's not what I came to tell you," House said, placing an
envelope on her desk. "This is my letter of resignation."

Cuddy looked up sharply. "You're right in the middle of a case."

"Wilson and my team can handle it without me. I would be on a flight from
Singapore right now if I'd felt up to speaking at the WHO conference."

"But-"

"Cuddy. Please." She stopped short, stunned by this sign of the
seriousness of the situation. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

Cuddy hesitated, nodded, then quickly rounded her desk to place her hand
on his arm. "I'll consider it a temporary leave of absence. Until you're
feeling better."

"Don't kid yourself," House rasped. He twisted away from her and limped
slowly out of her office.

*

He found his team in the conference room, their conversation stilling
immediately at his approach. "I have an announcement," he said. "I'm
resigning. Effective immediately."

"I think that's a good decision," Foreman said. The other two turned to
stare at him in reproach, but he only shrugged and folded his arms. "We
almost killed that kid yesterday." He and House exchanged glances. I am
generous enough to allow you to save face in public. Go to hell. And thank
you.

"I know," House said. "It's time." He took a deep breath, wondering
whether he was up to a speech about how proud he was of their progress and
how selfishly sorry he would be to see them move on to bigger and better
things. In the end, though, all he said was, "I've put your reference
letters on file. I'm sure that Cuddy will help you all find new positions
as soon as possible."

Chase lingered after the others had left, Cameron crying openly, Foreman's
face as still as stone. After a few minutes' hesitation, he followed House
into the office and stood next to his desk. House continued to peck at the
keyboard for a few seconds without looking up, although Chase could tell
from the tightening in his shoulders that his presence had been duly
noted. At last House heaved a long-suffering sigh. "What now?"

"I'd like to drop by and see you at home. Maybe a couple of times a week.
In case you want to, you know. Talk about anything."

House twisted his head around to look at him over his reading glasses. "I
thought you left the seminary." 

Chase almost smiled. "No proselytizing, I promise." 

*

On his way out, he spotted Wilson talking to Robin and beckoned him over.

"I've resigned."

"Oh." Wilson paused, biting his lip. "Did Foreman speak with you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." They stood quietly for a few seconds, not looking at each other.

"I need a favor."

"Anything."

"Could you clean out my office and bring my stuff by later this week?" 

"Of course."

"Thanks. And take care of Fran. You can trust my team." House allowed his
gaze to flick towards the young woman who was still waiting for Wilson to
return. "Have you told Robin that Fran doesn't have breast cancer?"

"I was about to." Wilson lowered his voice. "Does something seem a
little... off to you? She seems kind of awkward whenever I ask about their
relationship."

"Working girls can't afford to get too attached to their clients."

Wilson's eyebrows drew together. "Robin is a hooker?"

"Wil-son. I believe the PC term is 'ejaculative assistant.'"

*

The Department of Diagnostic Medicine was dissolved. Cuddy pulled a few
strings and got Cameron into the ER and Chase a fellowship with one of her
top surgeons. Foreman was more difficult to place. It seemed that he had
earned something of a reputation as House's protg and could no longer be
trusted to practice conventional medicine. In the end, he decided to join
his former mentor's practice out in Los Angeles.

He personally delivered the news to House at home.

"I see." House was quiet for a few seconds. "And is the love doctor
leaving any broken hearts behind?"

"I'm not dating any women right now, if that's what you mean."

"Hmm. Wait you're not doing Chase too, are you?"

Foreman raised his eyebrows. "To think I'm giving up all this." But there
was a deeper sentiment lurking beneath his half-lidded eyes.

House regarded him steadily for a few seconds, making up his mind to take
the plunge. "You're sure that you want to move so far away? Your mom is
getting worse."

Foreman gave him a startled, angry glance. "What do you know about how my
mom is doing?"

"If Alzheimer's patients got better, it would be called a
neuroregenerative disease," House quipped, but his voice was colored by a
rare tinge of sympathy.

"She probably doesn't even remember you from day to day. Must be tough,
after turning your life around so drastically to make her proud." Foreman
compressed his lips and said nothing. But judging by the grateful flicker
in his dark eyes, House's former fellow recognized that this was as close
as he was going to get to an acknowledgement of his accomplishments.

"You should visit them before you go. Your dad will appreciate it even if
your mom can't."

"I can hardly stand to be around her anymore," Foreman admitted. "I
honestly don't know how my dad does it."

"He loves her," House said simply. "If you love someone, you do stupid
things." He unexpectedly extended a hand. "Best of luck in California, Dr.
Foreman."

Foreman hesitated, then reached out and shook it firmly. "Thank you. I've
learned a lot from-"

"Yeah, yeah. Save it for the Academy." House withdrew his hand and limped
back to the sofa. Foreman stood there a moment, then nodded and left.

*

Stacy stopped by soon afterwards, taking in the unkempt states of House
and home with one sweeping, derisory glance.

"You're going to need a full time nurse soon."

"Sweet of you to offer, but I've already decided to hire someone."

Stacy allowed herself a bark of laughter. "I wasn't offering, believe me.
Been there, done that, brought home the lousy t-shirt. But Wilson will
want to do it."

"No way," House said emphatically.

"Oh Christ, Greg, why not? He's already seen you at your worst."

"No way," he repeated.

"That is not an argument," Stacy said. "What are you so afraid of? That
he'll see you helpless? That having him feed you and change your diapers
will be too humiliating?"

"In a word, yes," House said.

"You're a proud man, Greg. God, nobody knows that better than I do. But
haven't you always said that no one dies with dignity? At least you'll
live your last few weeks with love."

"Since when did you start writing for Hallmark?" House gibed. 

"All I'm saying is that it would mean a lot to him to have your company
for the time you have left. And if you let him, he'll make you a little
happier, too." She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. "Plus, I
seem to recall that the man can cook."

"I'll think about it," was all he would allow.

*

Wilson dropped by the next day with a carload of boxes from the office.
House let him in, nodded briefly, then limped back to the kitchen where he
was making peppermint tea. Wilson followed him and watched quietly as he
reached into the cupboard, wincing.

"I'd like to move back in," Wilson said.

"What for?" House responded without looking up. "Hotel getting too
expensive with all those alimony payments?"

"Yeah, that's it. Also," Wilson added, "it'll be a lot easier to hold your
hair and wipe your ass if we're living in the same place."

House looked up sharply at the choice of words, but his friend's
expression was determinedly bland. His pride smarted for a minute. Then he
thought, what the hell. Stacy was probably right. Having Wilson around
more might be the only silver lining in this whole fucked-up situation.
"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" Wilson repeated, taking a little half-step forward like a man who
had been prepared to push with all his weight against an invisible barrier
that had suddenly given way.

"Yeah. You get the couch, though."

"There goes my master plan to worm my way into your bed," Wilson shrugged,
straight-faced.

"Sorry, I just wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you, and I need my
beauty sleep-"

"Now more than ever," Wilson finished with him. They smirked at each
other, and that was that.

*

Chase didn't come to visit that first week. When he finally did appear at
House's door one evening, his face looked puffy and fragile, and there
were faint lavender shadows under his eyes. He sank onto the couch next to
House, shifting himself uncomfortably against the leather.

"How are you doing?" he asked at last, noticeably summoning the semblance
of strength and good cheer.

House shrugged. "As you see me. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Chase said automatically, his eyes sliding away.

"Right," House said. He leaned back, looking up at the ceiling. "If it
were about a patient, you wouldn't be concealing it. So it's personal. You
don't have any parents left to lose. Am I to infer that you are no longer
in the good graces of the decorative Doctor Cameron?"

"None of your damn business," Chase said, but his expression told all.

"Maybe not. I really don't give a shit one way or the other whom she's
fucking. But, and correct me if I'm wrong no, just kidding you seemed
really into her. Metaphorically speaking."

"I was," Chase said in spite of himself. "She-" He fell silent.

"I see," House said. "Well, glad we cleared that up." Beat. "Want to talk
about my cancer now?"

*

House fidgeted on the exam table, his back aching dully and his thigh
beginning to throb in protest. At last Wilson returned, House's blue file
folder in his hand. 

"Your CT showed that the primary tumor has stopped shrinking, and it looks
like the cancer has spread to lung as well as the bile duct and liver. The
gemcitabine isn't working anymore."

"What do you recommend?" House asked, although they both knew the answer.

"Hospice," Wilson answered honestly.

"No thanks," House said. "I'd rather die at home."

"We do that now," Wilson said with the ghost of a smile. "It's the 21st
century version of house calls."

"How would that work?"

"I can handle a lot of it myself, but I'm going to have to hire a nurse to
help out during the day," Wilson remarked as neutrally as he could.

"No one from PPTH," House said shortly.

"Are you kidding? I couldn't pay one of them enough. I may even have to go
outside of the tri- state area."

"I have been told that I have something of a national reputation," House
mused.

"There is another possibility," Wilson said slowly. "I could take some
time off."

"Don't be ridiculous. Those little bald kids need you."

"It wouldn't be for long," Wilson said, refusing to meet his friend's
eyes.

"That sounds ominous," House observed. "How long are we talking?"

"I'm thinking... a few weeks. Maybe a month at the most."

"I see." House was quiet for a minute. "So I can quit the chemo?"

"Yeah."

"Good, because Mrs. Merkowitz keeps hitting on me after my appointments,
and one of these days her husband is really going to kick my tookus."

*

"Have you told your folks?"

"No," House said, without looking up. They were eating dinner in front of
the television set, something soft and inoffensive that Wilson had managed
to whip up without leaving the apartment. "I don't want them I don't want
him here."

"House, I know that your relationship has been... strained... but you
should make your peace with him. Believe me, you don't want to leave this
until it's too late."

"Why, afraid I'll live to regret it?" House parried with a ghoulish grin.

Wilson sighed. "He's your father."

"Actually-" House paused, as if discarding whatever he'd been about to say
and setting off on a different tack. "Doesn't matter. I'm taking my secret
to the grave." 

He held up a hand as Wilson half-rose from his seat in protest. "NO. I'm
serious. And that goes for you, too. You go behind my back on this, and
I'll kick you to the curb. You'll be back to room service every night and
strangers laundering your towels."

"Gosh, that sounds terrible," Wilson said, straight-faced. House glared,
and he raised his hands in self-mocking surrender. "Okay, okay. I won't
say anything, I swear. But... you should. Even if it's just a note. Even
if it's just to your mom."

"She always did like you best," House grumbled. They finished the rest of
their meal in silence.

*

"Have you thought about therapy?" Wilson asked.

"You know I think all shrinks are charlatans."

"Mine has been helpful." House looked at him sharply but decided to let it
go.

"Would there be cool new drugs delivered directly to my brain? If so,
count me in."

"Seriously. Depression is one of the main symptoms of pancreatic cancer,
even without the terminal diagnosis. A good therapist could make it easier
for you to deal with your grief."

"I already know all about the stages of grief," House snapped. "Stacy was
a good teacher."

"All of them except for acceptance," Wilson said.

"Acceptance and resignation are just two words for the same thing," House
answered.

*

"I've got the final version for you to read over," Stacy greeted him.

"In person? Stop spoiling me or Mark will be jealous."

"Right, because your position is such an enviable one." She followed him
to the sofa and sat down. "I hear that Wilson is living with you now."

"Yes, but the rumors that I've bought his body are completely baseless.
Actually it's the other way around. Wilson's a closet necrophiliac."

Stacy rolled her eyes. "That does explain his choice of specialty. Well,
as long as you're still speaking to each other, I'll just assume that the
arrangement is working out."

"There's no need to gloat."

Stacy looked amused. "Hey, if I'd wanted to say 'I told you so,' I would
have just said, 'I told you so.'"

She waited while he skimmed over the papers and finally signed them with a
flourish. "You're good to go. By the way, who's your medical proxy?"

"Fool me once, shame on you-"

Stacy spread her hands. "Again, not volunteering," she said.

"Aw, are you sure? Because that went so well the first time."

"God, Greg, can you really not let it go? How many times can I say that
I'm sorry?"

"I'm not sure that you've ever actually meant it," House replied.

"What?" 

He leaned forward, staring at his stiff hands. "Tell me this. If you had
it to do over again, knowing what you do now-"

"I'd still do the same thing," Stacy said fiercely. "I'd rather have you
alive and hating me than the alternative."

"You see? You're not sorry." House paused. "I don't hate you."

"Really? Why make me such an exception?"

He had no answer to that. Stacy cleared her throat. "So is Wilson your
medical proxy?"

House recovered enough to retort, "Well, I was thinking Cuddy, but I'm
afraid that she might secretly harvest my sperm without my consent."

"I've already strongly advised her against that," Stacy smirked. "So it's
Wilson, then. This isn't going to be easy for him, you know."

"Making medical decisions on behalf of his patient? Gosh, maybe becoming a
doctor was a poor career choice on his part."

Stacy shook her head. "You know what I mean. I still don't really
understand it, but you're the closest thing to family he has around here.
Giving up on you is going to be really difficult for him."

"I know," House said roughly. "But he's the only one I trust."

Stacy cocked her head. "Seriously? You do remember that Wilson's the one
who suggested that I let them put you under so I could make the call on
your surgery?"

"Wait... what? Wilson wasn't even there."

"Yes, well, there's this amazing invention by Alexander Graham Bell that's
all the rage now," she said dryly. "You wouldn't let him see you. That
doesn't mean he didn't follow every detail of your case once we got you
admitted." House had gone pale but said nothing. "Greg, I wasn't the one
with the medical degree. Wilson was your best friend; I asked for his
recommendation."

"I'd always assumed that my surgeon persuaded you to remove the muscle."

"Your surgeon wanted to amputate the whole damned leg, as you should
recall. It was all Cuddy and I could do to persuade him to take the half
measure that would at least allow-"

"Half measure! I'm a cripple! I told you what I wanted-"

"To just leave you in a coma? We discussed it. Wilson thought that it was
too risky and-"

"Wilson thinks that leaving the house without two umbrellas is too risky!"


"-and so did I," she finished. "Greg. I wasn't willing to run the risk of
losing you."

"Yeah, well, you lost me anyway," House said heavily. 

They stared at each other for a few seconds. Finally Stacy picked up her
purse. "For the last time, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I disregarded your
wishes to save your life. I'm even sorrier about this whole shitty
situation. Greg? Please don't blame Wilson. It was my decision."

"Don't worry, there's more than enough blame to go around," House said.

"There always is," Stacy replied pointedly, and walked out of his
apartment.

*

"Look, it's Philippe Petain. Who the hell said that you could come in?"

"I live here now, remember?" Wilson said. He switched the light on and
stepped forward. "House, are you okay?" As his eyes adjusted, he took in
the bottle of Scotch and half-filled glass on the coffee table. "Are
you... drunk?" 

"Stacy stopped by."

"And this prompted you to down half a bottle of Dewar's because..."

"She told me that you were the one who advised her to remove a big chunk
of my thigh while I was conveniently unconscious."

Wilson's boyish face had BUSTED written all over it.

"I blamed her, you know." House's voice was deceptively casual. "It
wrecked us. She was the one who left, but I drove her away. I could never
forgive her for disregarding my decision."

"If she hadn't, you'd probably be dead."

"Yeah, and so what? At least it would have been clean! I wouldn't have had
months of PT, years of unrelenting pain and drug dependence." House
paused, then shook his head, laughing bitterly. "I should have known. All
that Stacy knew was what I'd said I wanted. And then she got a
recommendation that wasn't even close to being objective-"

"Stacy's job as your medical proxy wasn't to be objective."

"That's right!" House shouted, banging his fist on his thigh with
frustration and hissing at the jolt of pain. "We let family members make
decisions for their loved ones because we figure that they have the best
chance of knowing what the patient would want. You both knew what I
wanted!"

"We were acting in your best interests." 

"Yeah, well, you can quit doing that right now. Get your things and get
the hell out."

*

House woke up on the couch with one of the worst hangovers of his life,
apparently having failed to make it to the bedroom at all. He spent most
of the morning on the bathroom floor worshipping at the porcelain altar,
the combination of alcohol, cancer, and chemo aftereffects wrenching his
guts with nausea. Only well after noon was he able to hold some fluids
down. He rested uneasily, his mood as foul as his mouth, and wondered,
with Wilson gone, how long he'd be able to last like this.

When he heard the knock, he was disgusted by the ridiculous surge of hope
that propelled him to the door.

But it wasn't Wilson, of course. It was Cameron, her face falling at the
sight of him. House raised an eyebrow, stepped aside for her, and shut the
door. She waited just inside the apartment as he lurched back over to the
couch and slumped into it. He did not offer her a seat.

Cameron continued to stand there, twisting her hands together and
valiantly attempting to summon a smile. House intuitively understood that
the answer to her planned opening gambit, "How are you feeling?" was so
obviously "Like unmitigated shit" that she was, at least temporarily, at a
loss for words. Between his splitting headache and his dashed hopes,
however, he was in no hurry to help her. The awkward silence stretched.

"So how's the ER?" House asked at last.

"Great, actually," Cameron said slowly. "I think that it was a really good
move for me." She looked at him sidelong. "Kind of makes me wish I'd
resigned from your team a long time ago."

"You did," House pointed out. "I wooed you back with my masculine wiles.
So it's working out for you. Good. I figured it would. Emergency medicine
is all about grand life-saving gestures with no expectations of
follow-through. Or is that follow-up? I'm sure you know what I'm getting
at here."

"Let's change the subject," Cameron said, rolling her eyes.

"Sure. How's Chase?"

"I... I have no idea."

"No? No more snogging in supply closets now that I'm not around to catch
you?"

"It had nothing to do with that."

"I'm sure it didn't." 

Cameron was starting to look a little desperate, which cheered him up
immensely. "I broke up with him."

"I know you did."

"It wasn't fair to him. I was leading him on when I didn't see a future
for us."

"Bullshit," House fake-sneezed, then immediately regretted it as the dull
ache in his abdomen flared with the pressure. "You were scared."

"I was not-"

"You were terrified of letting it become real, of making any kind of
commitment." She stared, silent, as he warmed to the topic. "You have a
history. Falling for me was safe; you knew that I would never reciprocate.
Your husband had already been diagnosed when you decided to marry him. You
must have known that he had six months ahead of him, two years tops."

"I thought that we agreed to change the subject-"

"That was the kind of lifelong devotion that you felt you could handle."
House twisted around to take in her white, still face.

Cameron exhaled sharply. "You son of a bitch," she said, and showed
herself out.

*

The next day seemed interminable. Nothing held any interest for House, not
the bland food in the fridge or his video games or the latest additions to
his porn collection. Cameron stopped by again sometime after his solitary
lunch. He didn't hear her at the door, but when he opened it to hobble
downstairs for the mail, the card was waiting on the mat.

He slit the envelope open with his thumb and unfolded the card, which had
a design on the front of a great blue heron looking inquisitively into its
watery reflection, a spirit animal in the Pacific Northwest Native
American style. "Dear Greg, Neither of us believes that there is a God
watching over us, or that there will be anything at all after this life is
over. But I am sure that if there were a God, He would see that you are a
good man who, in your own imperfect way, always did what you knew was
right. All my love, Allison. P.S. Everything you said was true. I just
haven't decided what to do about it yet." 

House crumpled the card in his fist and bit his lip. Forgetting about the
mail, he shuffled back inside and sat thinking until darkness fell. Then
he picked up the phone. He almost hung up between rings three and four.
But just as he was pulling the receiver away from his ear, he heard a
distant click.

"Wilson?" he said, too quickly.

"What?" The voice on the other end managed to sound simultaneously
aggrieved and hopeful. He imagined he could hear Wilson running a hand
through his hair and loosening his tie.

"I'm an ungrateful shit."

"Is this supposed to be news?" But Wilson's voice had softened.

"Come back." They both waited to see whether he would follow up that
command with the word that would transmute it into a plea. He didn't.

Nonetheless, Wilson responded, "I'll be right over."

*

"You told Cameron," House greeted him at the door, pretending to offer to
take his luggage so that Wilson could wave him away.

"She talked to you?"

"She dropped off a draft of my eulogy," House said.

"Oh. Was it... fit for family viewing?"

House grinned. They were going to be all right. But what he said was,
"Doesn't matter. There isn't going to be any funeral. No funeral, no
eulogy."

"Funerals are not just for the benefit of the deceased, House. Besides, if
you're right about your lack of an immortal soul, it shouldn't make any
difference to you what we do since you won't even know about it."

"No," House agreed, pointing a finger at him, "but YOU will. I am telling
you that I do not want a funeral service under any circumstances. Now I
leave you to the tender mercies of your own conscience." His eyes bored
meaningfully into Wilson's for a moment before he turned away. "You can
mourn me privately any way you want."

"What about a wake?" Wilson called after him.

"Sure," House replied, stumping off, "as long as it involves you losing
your pants, and that stripper from your last bachelor party."

* *

Chapter 3: What Dreams May Come

The first time was an accident. He hadn't heard House calling weakly from
the bedroom. By the time he roused himself for a midnight check, the
bedding had to be changed and House, tight- lipped and clearly mortified,
scrubbed and dried down. Wilson shuffled downstairs in his slippers to
push the soiled sheets into the washer. When he returned to look in on
House, it was well past one in the morning, and his friend was snoring
lightly on his side.

Wilson swayed next to the bed for a few seconds, exhausted, wondering
whether he'd be able to hear House the next time. He lay down to close his
eyes for just a minute and consider the question. When he opened them
again, sunlight was streaming through the window, and House was staring
fixedly into his face.

Wilson yawned widely and rubbed his eyes. "Need to go to the bathroom?" he
asked. House nodded grimly, and the two men stumbled to the toilet
together. They got through the day without either of them mentioning
anything about the events of the night before. 

That evening, Wilson helped House arrange himself as comfortably as
possible against the cushions and then crawled into bed beside him. House
didn't wish him good night, but he didn't kick him out, either.

Now when he woke in the night, Wilson was comforted by the familiar scent
of House's body, the sounds of his steady breaths. Every once in a while
he opened his eyes to silence and knew that House was lying there awake,
rigid, clenching himself against some unvoiced need. On those occasions,
Wilson knew better than to speak. He just slid out of his side of the bed,
padded around to House, and slipped him some Vicodin, holding the glass of
water while he swallowed. Then he helped him hobble to the bathroom.

Once, on an especially bad night, he rubbed House's lower back with his
left hand, drawing smooth, firm circles with the flat of his palm, until
his friend finally snapped at him to knock it the hell off unless he
wanted House to prove all those rumors about the two of them right.

*

The next time Chase visited, there was a decided swing to his step. "You
seem chipper-er," House greeted him. "Has Dr. Cameron welcomed you back
into the fold-s?"

Chase winced. "If you're going to be disgusting-"

"All right, all right, settle down," House muttered, sounding sincerely
sheepish. "Wilson brought home a morphine pump yesterday, and I'm still
titrating the dosage. So has she come" - Chase looked daggers at him -
"around to your point of view?"

Chase relaxed visibly. "No, but something's different. She was really
freaked out before, but now it looks like she might be thinking it over."

House nodded. "Be patient," he advised. "And try shaving once in a while;
the Miami Vice look does nothing for you."

"Bloody hypocrite," Chase replied amiably. "And yeah, I'm referring to
both of those bits of advice."

*

"You haven't been playing your piano this week," Wilson observed the next
evening as they slouched on the couch together watching the Discovery
Channel. 

House grimaced. "Bench hurts my back." He would have sounded as if he were
confessing to a personal failing, had he been the kind of guy who ever
confessed to such things.

The next day, Wilson went out and bought two straight-backed chairs,
carefully measured to match the height of House's piano bench. House
watched him carry them in and arrange colorful cushions for added lumbar
support, then limped over and levered himself onto one.

"Are they all right?" Wilson asked, suddenly bashful. "I think this might
be the first furniture I ever picked out personally."

House smiled. "I like what this says about you, Wilson." He trailed his
fingers across the keys in a tentative trill, then broke into what Wilson
eventually recognized as the first few bars of "Lean On Me" before
segueing into "Feelin' Alright" with a slightly embarrassed expression.

He used the chairs for almost a week before the piano fell silent for
good.

* Wilson found the book one evening facedown across House's chest, rising
and falling with his soft snores. He slid it out of House's limp hands and
started leafing through the pages with a thoughtful expression on his
face. A few seconds later, House woke with a snort and fumbled with the
reading glasses that had slid down his nose.

"What are you doing? Give me that."

"Huh. Not your usual poison."

House reached for the book, forcing himself to sound casual. "It's
nothing. Gimmee."

Wilson backed away and broke into an incredulous grin. "Nothing? You're
actually reading a book called, let's see, Step by Step: Sermons for
Everyday Life, written by a Unitarian minister, and you claim that it's
nothing? I'd better call Hell and warn them that they're freezing over."

"He's my father," House said flatly. 

Wilson frowned and sank down on a corner of the bed. "What? But this guy's
name is-" he checked the spine. "-William Murry."

"Yeah, and being married to my mother is the only way that he could
possibly have played a role in my conception."

"Oh." Wilson blinked. "OH. Are you sure?" He bent closer and lowered his
voice, as if anyone else were around to hear them. "How do you know?"

"I've suspected since I was twelve." House waved him away wearily. "He's
an old friend of the family. I don't know for sure, strictly speaking.
But... it fits."

"You never said anything before," Wilson said, almost accusingly.

"Yeah, and I didn't know that you had another brother for... how many
years was that?"

"Touch," Wilson admitted. He finally handed House the book. "Well, how is
it?"

"Trite. Idealistic. Ridiculously na*ve."

"Well, one out of three isn't bad," Wilson shrugged. House looked at him.
"Oh, come on. You're not just reading some random book on self-redemption
because you're afraid of dying. You're trying to get to know this guy. To
figure out where you came from, what you might have in common. You know...
you could just call him."

"And say what." It was not a question. "Hi, this is Greg House. I think I
might be your long-lost bastard son from when my daddy was away in the
war. And, well, I'm dying of cancer, so I thought that this might be a
good time to start playing catch and going fishing together."

"That's one way," Wilson said, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

"I'm not calling him." House gave Wilson a keen glance. "And neither are
you."

"But-"

"To the Moon, Alice!"

*

"I'm scared," House admitted. He shifted restlessly against his pillow,
eyes darting everywhere except at Chase, who cautiously edged his chair
closer to the bed.

"What of?"

"Death," House said. "Duh."

"I thought you didn't believe that there was anything after death."

"I don't," House said, scowling. "It isn't rational."

Chase frowned. "Belief in life after death? Or your lack of belief?"

"Being afraid of nothing," House corrected him impatiently. He gave
himself a hit of morphine and slumped back, breathing more easily.

Chase thought for a few seconds, knowing that he had an opportunity here
and wanting very badly not to fuck it up. "It's human to want one's life
to have had some meaning," Chase said. "Once we're gone, we've lost the
chance to make our mark."

House regarded him steadily, the question that he would never ask lurking
in his bloodshot eyes.

Chase placed his hand firmly on House's, knowing that his mentor's first
reaction would be to jerk away. "You have made a difference," he said. "To
your patients. To all of us."

"I've been a miserable bastard," House said bluntly.

"Yeah," Chase said. "I'll admit to occasionally cursing the day you were
born. But you know what? This world is still a better place for having had
you in it."

House blinked, swallowed, looked away. "Thanks," he said roughly. "Do me a
favor and... don't tell Wilson we had this conversation."

Realizing that he'd been dismissed, Chase relinquished House's hand.
"Sure," he said, pushing his chair back away from the bed. "I'll see you
later." He walked down the hallway and found Wilson in the kitchen drying
the dinner dishes.

"How's he doing tonight?" Wilson inquired in a low voice.

"You might want to give him a few minutes before you go in there," Chase
confided, clapping the older man on the shoulder. "G'night."

*

One morning in late May he'd lost track House reached for his morphine
pump and discovered that he no longer had the strength to depress the
button. His attempt to recruit his abdominal muscles to the effort only
left him gasping in pain. This woke Wilson, who squinted up at him,
followed his eyes to the pump in his hand, and reached across his belly to
push down on his thumb. The pump hissed in release, and House hissed in
relief.

When he trusted himself to speak, he said, "Wilson," in a carefully
neutral voice, "it's time."

Wilson's eyes widened, but after a few seconds, he nodded and cleared his
throat. "Okay."

"You can call Cuddy," House said. "You shouldn't be alone after-" Wilson
was staring at him in surprise and what looked suspiciously like
gratitude, so he amended quickly, "Besides, unless the Hindus are right,
this is probably my last chance for a lap dance." 

*

"Cuddy is stuck in meetings this morning, but she can get over here after
lunch," Wilson reported. He sat down on his side of the bed, looking lost
now that his errand had been accomplished.

"Good," House said. "I have time for a bath and a shave."

For the last week, House had been too weak to walk. Wilson carried him to
the bathroom in his arms as if he were a child, long limbs dangling. Once
House was done on the toilet, Wilson ran him a bath at just the right
temperature and settled him into it. House sighed as the warmth permeated
his skin, alleviating the dull ache in his abdomen that persisted despite
the morphine. He held as still as he could while Wilson wet and lathered
his face, ran the razor over its sunken planes.

He had Wilson dress him in the sky-blue shirt and a fresh pair of pajama
bottoms.

*

Wilson brought him a can of chocolate Ensure for lunch, but House
irritably waved it away. "It's almost worth dying not to have to drink
that shit anymore," he sniped.

"All right," Wilson said. He stood by the bed for a moment, hesitant.
"What about Stacy?"

House closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Wilson was still there.
"We haven't spoken in weeks."

"I know," Wilson said. 

"Of course you do," House sighed. "Probably been giving her the
play-by-play every evening, too."

Wilson did not deny it. "I think that you should tell her. Even if you
don't want her here."

"You think I should do a lot of things," House said mildly. Wilson waited.
"All right. Get the phone. You'll have to dial."

Wilson withdrew tactfully as soon as Stacy answered. "Wilson?"

"No, it's Greg," House corrected, wincing at the quaver in his voice.
"Wilson's phone, though. Easy mistake to make."

"Greg," she breathed. "Is today the big day?"

"You're not an idiot," House said. "It's always been one of your best
qualities."

"Do you want me there?"

"If I say no, will Wilson wait until I'm unconscious and then smuggle you
in here anyway?"

"Not this time," Stacy said.

He closed his eyes against traitorous tears. "Thank you."

"So we're all right?" Stacy asked.

"Yeah. We're all right."

"I love you," Stacy said.

"Good-bye, Stacy."

*

House was dozing when the front door slammed and Wilson's voice rose in
what sounded like protest. He tried to straighten up, wiping the drool
clumsily from his chin, before his visitors barged into the bedroom. It
was Cuddy, with Cameron and Chase right behind her. "Foreman is on a
flight from LA," she reported. "He should be here by dinnertime."

"I said that I wanted to rest in peace," House complained feebly. "You're
all fired."

"Too late," Chase responded, stepping around Cuddy and over to the bed so
that he could lean down and give House a gentle, deliberate hug.

House looked up and batted his eyelashes at Chase as he withdrew. "Wait!
This might be my last chance to kiss a boy before I die," he squeaked in a
passable imitation of a nine-year-old girl. Chase blushed to his hairline.

"Sorry, you'll have to settle for me instead," Cameron said, and bent down
to brush her lips against his freshly shaven cheek. 

Wilson finally appeared, his face livid, his knuckles white where he
grasped the doorframe. "House, I'm so sorry, I-"

House gave him a keen glance. "All right, go out and play now," he grumped
at his former fellows. "Mommy and Daddy and your other Daddy need to talk
in private for a minute."

As soon as the door had closed behind a still-pink-faced Chase and a
sullen-looking Cameron, Wilson turned on Cuddy. "What the hell were you
thinking, bringing them here? And Foreman? You think that House is just
going to wait around the whole day for a transcontinental flight?"

"I'm not dead yet," House informed him. "Nor have I lost my powers of
speech."

Cuddy, meanwhile, looked embarrassed yet put-upon. "It's not like I sent
anyone engraved invitations. Chase and Cameron have been watching me like
a hawk all week. They were already outside the building when I got here,
and Foreman called my cell to say he'd booked the flight."

"Unbelievable," Wilson said, throwing up his hands.

"Consider this House's fault for refusing to surround himself with
morons!"

"Still lying here," House said. He fixed his gaze on Cuddy. "Do me a
favor," he said. "Go check on those two lovebirds and make sure they're
not pecking each other's eyes out." She looked from him to Wilson, on the
verge of a Parthian shot, then closed her mouth and left the room without
a word.

"I'll send them away," Wilson said, running a hand up the back of his neck
and rumpling his hair. "I'll call Foreman and tell him to catch the next
flight home."

"Wilson, do I seem angry about this?" House's eyes narrowed. "That's it,
isn't it? You're pretending to be morally outraged on my behalf hell, you
probably even believe it. But really, you're just jealous because you
think that you've earned this and they haven't."

Wilson stared at him incredulously for a second, mouth working in silence.
Then his face crumpled, and he sat down hard on the corner of the bed.
"Wow," he said, unable to look at House. "You're right." He took a deep,
shaky breath and held his head in his hands. "I'm a terrible person."

House rolled his eyes, although the effect was lost since Wilson couldn't
see it. "Wilson. You're a terrible shot. A terrible poker player." He
paused thoughtfully. "A terrible husband."

"Thanks a lot, this is really helping," Wilson said in a muffled voice.

"What you are not," House said firmly, nudging him with his foot, "is a
terrible friend."

Wilson looked up at him at last. "You're welcome," he said, his lips
curving in a tremulous smile.

House held his gaze for a few seconds, then broke the mood by allowing his
hand to drop down and dangle against the side of the mattress and saying,
"Wilson. Reach under here." His friend raised his eyebrows, crouched down
beside the bed, and squeezed his hand between the mattress and box spring,
finally retrieving two envelopes. One was addressed to "J. Wilson" and the
other to "L. Cuddy."

"Give that one to Cuddy. Don't open them until... after," House instructed
him. Wilson slowly turned the envelopes over in his hands.

"House," he said, "is there a third envelope that I should know about?"

House said nothing. "Well?" Wilson prompted.

"My wrists are too weak to write," House whined.

Wilson looked at the ceiling. "You could always call."

"Call my mother, the human polygraph?" House said, sounding horrified.
"They'd get here before Foreman."

"Tell you what. You dictate, I'll write."

House made a face. "She'll never be able to read your writing."

"Might be the best thing for everybody, don't you think?" House had to
concede that it just might be. 

*

House dozed on and off for most of the afternoon while the others lounged
around the living room, talking in low voices, and taking turns to check
on him and deliver a dose of morphine. Just before 6 pm, Cuddy's cell
phone rang, and she excused herself and went into the kitchen to answer
it.

Chase and Cameron were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, with Wilson
between them. As the afternoon wore on, he had become more and more
anxious, the inactivity and anticipation keying his nerves to an almost
unbearable pitch. Now he fidgeted, jiggling one leg up and down until
Chase reached over and placed a hand on his knee. "You all right, mate?"

"Yeah," Wilson said, fishing out his handkerchief and mopping his
forehead. "It's kind of hot in here, isn't it?"

His two seatmates exchanged glances before Cameron said kindly, "It could
be cooler. I'll turn the thermostat down."

Cuddy returned, closing her cell phone. "That was Foreman. He was getting
off the plane and wanted to know if he could be picked up from Newark in
about half an hour."

"I'll go," Cameron volunteered.

Seeing his chance, Chase said quickly, "I'll come with."

"Robert," Cameron said, her voice sounding strained, "I've got this one."

"You drive like shit when you're upset," Chase pointed out. "Besides..."
he gave her a beseeching look. "It's Tuesday."

Cameron rolled her eyes at that but grabbed her bag and headed out without
another word of protest, Chase hard on her heels.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Wilson exhaled a heavy breath
he hadn't realized he'd been holding, leaned forward, and rubbed his eyes.
"Cuddy," he groaned, "This is crazy. I'm... I'm not sure that I can do
this."

She gave him an encouraging if sad half-smile and put an arm around his
shoulders. "Yes, you can. You won't be alone. And... I know that this
isn't the first time."

"This is different," Wilson sighed, shaking his head. "This is... God,
Lisa, this is House."

"I know," she said. "And I know that you love him and that you've been
doing everything that you possibly could for him. And James... you're
almost done."

That broke him. He shuddered soundlessly for a few seconds, covering his
face with his hands. Cuddy sat and stroked his arm consolingly until he
finally turned to clutch at her and hide his eyes against her shoulder.
She smoothed his hair, staring off into space, her own face wet. 

*

When Chase and Cameron finally returned with Foreman behind them, they had
flushed faces and were holding hands. Cuddy took in the sight of the two
of them with narrowed eyes and pursed her lips to shush them, jerking her
chin towards Wilson, who had fallen asleep with his head on her shoulder.
Cameron broke away from Chase with a stifled exclamation and hurried to
the bedroom to check on House, but when she found him resting more or less
quietly, her indignation evaporated.

"Foreman's here," she told him softly.

House licked cracked lips and tried to croak a response. Cameron quickly
raised the glass of water to moisten his mouth, then gave him a dose of
morphine, watching closely as the telltale tightness eased around his
eyes. "Tell him... thanks for coming."

"You can tell him yourself," Foreman said, appearing in the doorway. He
crouched down next to the bed, trying not to betray his shock at the sight
of its skeletal inhabitant. "How are you doing?"

"I'm dying," House growled. "Get up, you look ridiculous." He stared at
Foreman as the younger man straightened up. "So how's California? I see
you've gotten a tan."

Cameron and Foreman exchanged glances, and she swallowed a near-hysterical
giggle. "I've missed you, too," Foreman said. "By the way, Marty sends you
his best."

"Marty can go fuck himself," House rasped genially.

"I'll make sure to relay the message," Foreman replied, rolling his eyes.

"Good. And also tell him..." House inhaled sharply, trying to catch his
breath. "Tell him I hope that he realizes how lucky he is to have you."

Foreman's jaw dropped, but before he could say anything, House closed his
eyes, feigning sleep, and Cameron took her colleague by the arm and pulled
him away.

*

When Wilson woke up, Cuddy took a head count and ordered pizza. The five
of them sat around munching it, although it felt like dry cardboard in
their raw throats, while Wilson explained how the next few hours were
likely to work. He seemed to have recovered from his earlier panic and
instructed them with quiet confidence.

"I'll disable the safety on the morphine pump," he said. "One of us should
volunteer to keep track of the time. The rest will take turns delivering a
dose about every ten minutes. It will take a while for the drug to build
up in his system. Once it does, his respiration will become depressed.
Don't be alarmed if it looks like he's struggling to breathe. He won't be
in pain, and it shouldn't take more than a few hours."

The others nodded solemnly, Cameron's eyes looking particularly large in
her pasty face. They followed Wilson into the bedroom, where House was
waiting for them.

"Let's get this show on the road," he said, clearly intent on avoiding any
last-minute melodrama.

Wilson nodded, then rolled up his shirtsleeve. "I'll keep time," he said,
his voice almost steady. "One dose every ten minutes."

Cuddy reached for House's hand and held it. 

"Sorry... that your hundred million dollar investment... didn't pay off
for that long," he said to her.

"Me too," she said. She laid her fingers softly against his cheek for a
second. Then she released his hand and reached for the pump.

*

It didn't take only a few hours. House's dulled blue eyes closed quickly,
and his breathing soon became labored, with long pauses between sudden,
struggling sucks of air, but he lingered on, jerking his head weakly from
side to side. Occasionally he moaned, a sound so distressingly like that
of a dying animal in pain that Cameron covered her ears. They all became
increasingly exhausted and frazzled as the night wore on with no prospect
of reprieve.

*

He is sitting on a bus. A beautiful blond woman boards and takes the seat
across from him. She hands him his cane, then opens her purse to pull out
a vial of pills. Suddenly the bus's brakes squeal. Everything is
illuminated. House watches helplessly as the woman's smooth flesh melts
away, revealing a grinning skull beneath. 

*

Since he wasn't operating the pump, Wilson sat on the other side of the
bed, legs stretched out in front of him, eyes focused on his wrist as if
his timepiece were some kind of talisman. At one point, Cameron noticed
that he was holding House's hand, and quickly turned her face away, biting
her lip. A little while later, Cuddy squeezed into the remaining space on
the near side, carefully repositioning the pump, and curled up next to
House's shoulder. If she sobbed, she did it silently; the only sounds were
the faint ticking of Wilson's watch and the harsh rattle of House's
breaths.

*

A young man with Indian features, wearing a white coat over a striped polo
shirt and faded jeans, smiles at him. He produces a stethoscope from his
pocket, adjusts the earpieces, and presses the bell over House's heart.
Holding it there, he removes the instrument from his ears and passes it
over to House. Puzzled, House listens to his own chest but hears nothing
at all. Still smiling, the young man removes a revolver from his other
pocket, then puts the muzzle into his mouth and pulls the trigger with a
deafening roar.

*

Chase and Cameron sat on the floor, slumping against each other for
support. He was rubbing his fingers together unconsciously, as if telling
the beads of an invisible rosary. She had the pale, patient face and
humbly clasped hands of a medieval saint. Foreman paced with a restless
energy the others had rarely seen before, circling the room like a panther
cornering its prey.

*

He is at a party, up on a platform, his arm around Chase's shoulders as if
he were proudly presenting a long-lost son to the crowd of onlookers. He
leads a toast, raising his glass to his former fellow, and downs the fiery
contents with a grimace. Then he brings his other hand to Chase's throat
and squeezes. Chase scrabbles at his fingers, eyes bulging, tongue
protruding grotesquely, as House mercilessly forces him to his knees.

*

"No," House groaned indistinctly, his bony fingers contorting into claws.

"What's happening?" Cameron whimpered.

Wilson looked wearier than she'd ever seen him. "Morphine dreams," he
said, trying to sound reassuring. He took House's pulse, then nodded at
Cuddy to administer the next dose.

*

He cannot move or even feel his limbs. When he looks down, his wrists and
ankles are in restraints, anchoring him to the iron bed frame. He looks
around, uncomprehending. He is trapped in a darkened room with dingy
padded walls. Old vomit crusts the corners of his mouth. The air is thick
and dank, oozing into his lungs like mist rising off an evil-smelling sea.
He begins shouting obscenities, ineffectually flailing against the
moldering mattress.

The door to his cell creaks open. It's Cuddy, dressed scantily in the
skintight skirt of a succubus. She brandishes a huge syringe with a sly
smile, then plunges it into his thigh. He howls, writhing in agony, and
she quickly swings her leg over him and sits squarely on his chest. She
puts one finger secretively to her lips and then clamps down on his mouth
with her other hand. He struggles frantically, using all his strength in a
futile attempt to buck her off.

*

"He wants to die," Cameron said suddenly.

Foreman rolled his eyes. "Well, no shit, Sherlock. What have we been doing
here for the past twelve hours?"

She was unfazed. "No, what I mean is maybe he's trying to die, but he
can't, because his mind is too-" self-consciously "-too fucked up from all
the morphine. Maybe if he could concentrate more, he'd be able to go on
his own."

Wilson started on the other side of the bed. "He squeezed my hand!" They
all stared down at the slack-jawed face, sought a flicker of awareness
behind the fluttering eyelids. Wilson bent his tousled head closed to his
friend's ear. "House? Can you hear me? Is that what you want? Should we
stop the morphine?"

"I felt that," Cuddy whispered. She used her free hand to brush
impatiently at her eyes. "Who would ever have guessed that he'd be the one
asking us to take him off the opiates?" She reactivated the safety and
handed the pump to Foreman, who placed it on the floor.

*

The door opens abruptly. Wilson enters the room in shining silver armor,
with a blazing sword. The succubus shrieks in rage just before her head is
lopped from her shoulders. Wilson slices expertly through the restraints
and hauls House to his feet. They stumble out of the doorway together as
the walls collapse around them. 

When the dust clears, he is standing on a lush green field with a
tamped-down path before him. The sunlight is warm on his face, but a cool
breeze blows softly against his skin. He's wearing a t-shirt and shorts,
and his leg is whole. Not believing his good fortune at first, he begins
to run, rejoicing in the play of muscle and sinew and bone.

*

The tension in House's muscles eased, his hands going limp and trusting
like a child's. His jaw slackened; his eyes stared straight ahead,
unseeing. The space between his inhalations stretched out until Wilson
started to wheeze and realized that he had been holding his own breath in
empathy. 

*

As he finds his rhythm, figures appear on either side of the path. Some he
recognizes as their faces flash by: old classmates, professors and
mentors, former patients. There is his first fellow, freckled and
feckless. Stacy stares at him suggestively, twirling a golf club in her
hand. Cuddy raises a blissful face, an infant cradled at her breast. The
three Cottages cluster together, dressed in tall boots and plumed hats
like Dumas' Musketeers. And finally Wilson again, still in his armor, the
metal reflecting House's rapturous face as he flies by.

His breathing becomes ragged, but his legs are still going strong, left,
right, left, right, carrying him on, away from the crowd of onlookers,
into the open plain beyond. He flings open his arms, wanting to embrace
the world. His heart feels as though it might burst with joy.

*

"Time of death," Wilson whispered, "eight twenty-seven a.m." Cuddy gently
smoothed House's eyes shut and kissed his forehead. Cameron burst into
tears and hid her face against Chase's neck. Foreman knelt and embraced
both of them, lips moving silently as if in prayer.

*

House's former fellows left the apartment together, eyes bloodshot and
clothes disheveled, but exuding a sort of sad serenity and a quiet sense
of accomplishment. Cameron clung to Chase's hand, while Foreman, on his
other side, slung an arm across his shoulders. The plan was to stumble
back to Chase's apartment for coffee and showers before taking Foreman to
catch a flight home to see his parents before he returned to the West
Coast.

Wilson and Cuddy waited until the others had gone before pulling out their
envelopes in unspoken agreement. Cuddy found that hers was written in blue
ink in House's decisive hand, but the ends of words trailed off shakily,
particularly in the postscript.

"Lisa-

Stacy is going to tell you that I am leaving PPTH a sum of money for the
purpose of establishing an endowed Chair of Diagnostic Medicine. I know
that you will have your own ideas, but I urge you to consider Dr. Robert
Chase for the position. It's been a long time coming he's a lazy bastard
by nature, much like someone else we both know but he's definitely ready. 

Leave Cameron in the ER, though. It suits her. Plus you don't want to open
yourself up to any more sexual harassment lawsuits.

Yours, Greg House

P.S. By the way, I did mean to call the next day. Would have, if they
hadn't kicked me out of med school. Thanks for never holding it against
me. That was big of you. And yes, I am referring to the size of your ass."

Cuddy started laughing, then weeping, snatching a tissue out of the box on
the bedside table to scrub at her eyes. Wilson opened his own envelope,
blinking against the blur of tears.

"Wilson-

If you're reading this, you're probably feeling incredibly guilty. Do us
both a big favor and knock that shit off right now.

Stacy will tell you that I am leaving you some money in my will. If my
calculations are correct, it comes to the sum of all of the lunches,
loans, and sundry expenses you've incurred over the years that you've
known me, plus interest.

I am also leaving you my apartment. You can sell it if you want to, but
for pity's sake, please find yourself your own place and quit moving in
with your patients.

Your friend, House"

Cuddy blew her nose on the sodden tissue and turned to Wilson. "I'll sit
shiva with you," she offered.

Wilson chuckled painfully, feeling like there was ground glass in his
windpipe. "House would hate that," he said, wiping his eyes.

Cuddy reached across House for his hand and squeezed it. "We won't tell
him." 

  
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the
ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of
Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House
(and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property
of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I
am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive
no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the
show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.