A/N: Never mind that this isn't apple season (where I live, anyway). I bought some last night and they gave me inspiration. Plus…I don't know, I'm on a writing hype tonight. I'm pretty sure most of it's from reading Mine by travlncarrie. So good! If you haven't already, I suggest you check it out.

One more thing: This might seem a little unfinished, but I didn't intend on this to end like it did, so…that's why. I might, emphasis on might, update this again, but I sort-of like the unfinished aspect. Leaves the mind to wonderrrr…

Disclaimer: Okay! Today, I will be totally original, unique, and out-of-the-ordinary in my disclaimer. Here we go! "I do not own the rights to House, M.D. or any of the related characters."

Anne's ears perked at a muffled sound coming from upstairs. A warning sign flashed in her head—he's seizing! Call 911! She hurriedly ran up the steps, desperately searching for her son. He was sitting (innocently-enough) in his bed-room. Not having a seizure. But he was shaking—Anne quickened her pace, rushing into the room and gathering the five-year-old in her arms. "Davy, what's wrong?"

The child looked up at her with his cerulean eyes and a face wet with tears. "Mommy, I've tried, I've really tried." Anne stayed quiet. David pulled a small plastic bag filled with several apples out from behind his pillow. "But no matter how many apples I eat, Dr. Wilson won't go away."

Wilson smiled half-heartedly as five-year-old David Harper and his mother, Anne, left his office. He couldn't bring himself to be happy. It wasn't fair. How could he possibly take comfort in doing his job and having friends when the child who he had just met with was looking at six to seven months, maximum? It just wasn't right. He looked around his office in disdain. It seemed cold now, uninviting and grey. Never mind the sunlight streaming in through the windows. None of it mattered when a child had been told he had only a fraction of a year to live in that room. The fact made Wilson want to throw up.

Really, though, he should be used to it. Regardless of how hard it was to tell a patient they were dying, he had done it so many times. It was his job. It was what he did. It was what he lived—knowing patients inside and out, both medically and personally. To be a friend, always standing by. Not like House—House didn't have to get to know his patients, just identify the problem and send them on their merry ways. He didn't even treat them.

At that very moment, House burst into the room. He frowned, what was wrong with him? Wilson looked as if he had died and stayed on earth. "So, what'd CB do this time?"

Wilson closed his eyes as tightly as he possibly could and set his head on his desk, atop folded arms. What have I done to deserve this? "Go. Away."

House promptly sat down. "But you're always telling me how I need to be a better friend to you. Come on—spill." He batted his eyelashes. "Is it about that cute nurse in Pediatrics? I know; when she winked at you, Brenda told the whole hospital." Wilson didn't move. House took it upon himself to find the answers. Soon, a cane-shaped object made contact with Wilson's shoulder. "Hey. Get up."

Wilson raised his head a millimeter-and-a-half. "What?" he spat, a little harsher than he'd intended.

"Just tell me."

"No."

House rolled his eyes. "What are you, five? I know something's up, Wilson, and I will find out. Would you rather I invade your privacy later or are you going to tell me now?"

Wilson shifted his gaze, past House's face and out the window behind him. "It's a patient." House motioned irritatingly that he should continue. "It's a terminal patient. A kid."

At that point, House stopped listening. He knew what Wilson would say in the half hour or so that followed, and so he didn't bother to pay attention. He would say things like, 'It's all my fault,' or 'I should've been more supportive,' both of which were utterly ridiculous statements for anyone, let alone the kid's oncologist. House sat down on Wilson's chair, popped two vicodin and assumed the facial position, which didn't look at all attentive (actually, sort of far off and dreamy), because it was just what Wilson would expect. He paid attention to his younger friend's face, the only real tell-tale sign of his mood; and allowed Wilson's words to flow in and out of his ears like a music he had heard once before and didn't need to hear again because he'd already memorized it.

Finally, Wilson's lips stopped moving. House pounced. "So, how long's he got?"

"Seven months. If he's lucky."

"Well," House quipped. "He'll never have to do homework."

Wilson's brow furrowed. "No! He won't! He won't ever be able to do homework! He'll never go into real school, never go to college! Never have a girlfriend, never start his career! He'll never get to live life, House! And it's my fault!"

House tapped his cane on the ground angrily. "It's not your fault, Wilson. It's God's fault, it's Satan's fault, whatever! But it's not your fault."

Wilson bolted out of his seat and started pacing the floors. "No! You don't understand, House! You've never had to lose a patient you cared about! You can't understand this. It's my problem he's going to die early! I didn't catch the cancer in time!"

House was silent for a long while. His eyes stared straight, but not at anything. You couldn't see where they were going, and you couldn't follow their path. "You think it's easy? You think it's fun to watch people suffer, while I can't do a damn thing about it because I don't know what the hell is killing them?" He stood up abruptly. "You thought wrong."