Foreman finds House in Wilson's room. Of course. He isn't eating his lunch, or watching one of his soaps. Instead he is sitting in a chair next to the bed, staring at Wilson.

"What the hell were you thinking, House? Doing chemo, in your apartment ? "

Wilson had been brought in by ambulance, in the middle of the night, barely breathing. They'd saved his life but he remained in a coma, unresponsive to all stimuli. He lay on the bed, quiet and still, surrounded by medical equipment. How did this happen?

"Wilson doesn't like your hospital. Something about the lighting." House hasn't looked at him, hasn't taken his eyes away from Wilson's still body.

"House -"

"What do you want from me, Foreman?" House stands up and turns to face him, clutching his cane in one hand. His knuckles are white and the cane trembles slightly in his grasp. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry? That I was wrong? That the whole idea was insane? That I should have seen that something like this would happen?"

"Yes! You stole hospital supplies, you violated a whole load of medical ethics, you risked his life, and you'll be lucky if you don't go back to jail!"

"It was what he wanted ." House collapses in on himself and slumps back into the chair, the cane falling to the floor. "He was going to do it with or without me. At least he had a chance with me there."

Foreman's anger gives way to compassion. In all the years he'd known House he'd rarely seen him give a damn about another person, even Wilson. The decision to do chemo, and extreme chemo at that, in House's apartment still seems crazy and reckless to him but as he looks at House he can't imagine what it must have been like for him to watch Wilson go through that. Foreman had seen the regime they were using - it must have been hell.

He starts to say something but House has turned his attention back to the man in the bed. There isn't much more Foreman can say anyway. Wilson will either wake up, or he won't. Either way, it's apparent that House will be in this room.

He turns and leaves, letting House continue his silent vigil.

Win or lose. Win or lose. That was the deal.

The pain is gone. The terrible sickness that had gripped him has disappeared. There are no more muscular aches, or spasms to tear screams from his throat. He can't even feel his body. He's come out the other side.

He gets up from the bed and looks over at House who is slumped in a chair by his bed, sleeping. House looks like crap; worn down and defeated. Wilson feels a pang of guilt. He had wanted his cancer to be about him, about what he wanted for once, and miracle of miracles, House had gone along with him. The cost had been high.

He reaches out a hand to shake House awake, and tries to call his name. No sound emerges and his hand makes contact with thin air.

This isn't real. Is House dead, or is he ?

Okay, your heart rate's up, BP's tanking. White blood count's at 500. We have to go to the hospital now. You can't win this.

He remembers pleading with House to let him see it through to the end. He remembers the tears falling down his face. The oxygen mask. The beeping of the heart monitor as his heart rate soared.

Please. Promise me that you won't do that to me. Promise me.

He remembers the ambulance coming and House talking to him. Was House crying? He can't remember.

I'm sorry, Wilson. I can't lose you. You're all I have. I can't do this. I need you to live.

Is he dead?

He doesn't want to be dead.

House watches the monitors. He knows he's supposed to talk to Wilson, to remind him of everything he has to come back for. He thinks that's a load of crap. He didn't hear anything from the outside world when he was in either of his brief comas. He has vague memories of dreams, but he's never tried to examine them closely. All he really remembers is waking up from both comas with his life changed.

Wilson's life won't be changed when - if - he wakes up. The chemo has been discontinued but he had nearly completed the course anyway. Now they need to wait a week or so for the swelling to go down, and then rescan. House considers the potential irony of the chemo having been successful and Wilson never waking from his coma.

Wilson will forgive him for going against his wishes and calling an ambulance. Wilson always forgives him. Even this new, strangely aggressive, risk taking Wilson, will forgive him. House hasn't yet found the breaking point for their friendship and he's beginning to think he never will - unless it's death.

He runs a hand over his face. He's tired; it's been days since he's had anything other than a snatched hour or two of sleep. He's not cut out for this anymore. Foreman came through with a Vicodin prescription but his pain is still bad. If he were awake Wilson would roll his eyes and lecture about emotional pain. He takes out his vial of Vicodin and swallows one, right there by Wilson's bed. It's a measure of how tired he is that he looks hopefully towards Wilson, thinking that maybe this is what he needs to wake him from his coma. Wilson never gives up a lecturing opportunity if he could help it.

There's no response.

He can see the corridor outside this room but he can't go there, he can't leave. He thought being dead would be different to this - if he is dead.

House is still sitting by the bed. He's seen House do this before - stay intently focused on one thing. Normally he does something with his hands while he waits. He bounces a ball, or twirls his cane, or something . Now he's just still. Too still, it scares Wilson. House looks lost.

He wonders if the chemo worked. It had been a gamble and it had been worse, so much worse, than he could ever have imagined. He thought he knew pain before, that he understood it. He'd seen so many patients suffer. He thought he'd been prepared. But he hadn't been. Now he'll never know if it was worth it.

He's back on the bed, looking at House. He reaches out a hand, but he can't touch him. He's not really here. Maybe House isn't here either. Maybe none of this is real.

He lies down on his side, looking at House.

They both wait.

He must have fallen asleep because he starts at the sound. It's not much, a soft exhalation of breath but it's there. His eyes focus on the bed.

Wilson's eyes are open.

"Wilson?"

Wilson looks at him, with eyes that struggle to focus. His eyes close and House is at his side, shaking his shoulder. He's not letting Wilson slip away again.

"Wilson!"

With a struggle Wilson's eyes open again. His lips part but no sound comes out. Instead his hand moves, towards House.

Wilson's grasp is weak on House's arm, but it's there, and the smile that touches Wilson's lips is real.

When Wilson's eyes fall shut again House lets him sleep.

Ten days later Wilson puts on a hospital gown in preparation for an MRI. House is there of course, he's barely left Wilson's side since Wilson came out of the coma.

"House... if the tumour hasn't shrunk -"

"You're really pushing this gloom and doom scenario aren't you? Toomie will be tiny by now. Quick snip, snip, and he'll be out of there and you'll be free to keep nagging me for the next thirty years."

"But if it isn't... "

"Then my couch, and some nice chemo drugs, have your name on them." House meets his gaze, his eyes steady. "We'll beat this, Wilson. We'll win. Together."

"Okay," Wilson draws a shaky breath. "Together. Win or lose."

He lies down on the table and House goes into the booth.

The scan starts.

~ The End