A/N: Soooo… I only just recently watched the series' final episodes. So sad! So amazing! The feelings left behind inspired me to type my first ever 'House' fanfic. (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: CHARACTER DEATH, sadness, a bit of language… Hmm… You know, I think that that's it. Surprisingly short! (gawks with stun)

DISCLAIMER: Oh, if only…! (sighs dreamily) But nope, I own nothing. (pouts)

Awkay… It's time to get going before I change my mind. I REALLY hope that you guys will enjoy the ride!

Goodnight, Jimmy

In the end fate granted Gregory House and James Wilson five months, three weeks and four days.

For the first three months they kept traveling around, only stopping for a day or two when 'their third companion' chose to give them a nasty reminder of its much too permanent existance. During that time of bliss House spent quite a bit of time watching Wilson sleeping with something a lot like terror swelling inside him, willing the other man to wake up again.

It appeared that their 'companion' wasn't planning of letting that time of peace last. The pains and nausea intensified while the cancer spread through Wilson, claiming new territories. In the end they had no other choice but to stay in a cheap, rather isolated motel. Eventually Wilson didn't manage to eat at all or sleep properly. The man became nothing but a shell. Each and every hour was unspeakable torture.

House was unable to do little more than watch while his best friend tossed and turned in the bed, emitting muffled cries of agony no amount of medication would soothe. And as much as even the thought of losing Wilson terrified him he couldn't wish for the torment to continue much longer.

Then one ridiculously sunny, hatefully beautiful afternoon found Wilson waking up in the middle of a nap with a small gasp. For once it wasn't a sound of pain. It was a breath of surprise. For a moment the reason of the other's stun was lost on House. That was until he noticed that the tremendous weight on agony was gone from those warm, brown eyes. All he saw was immense fatigue. And somehow that scared the supposedly heartless diagnostician more than anything he'd ever faced in his entire life.

Wilson was leaving.

House frowned, shifting in the armchair he'd been occupying but not managing to chase away any of the tension in his muscles. His leg was screaming. That, however, was nothing compared to the ache swelling and blossoming entirely elsewhere. "'You alright in there?" he asked, barely recognizing his own voice. Hoping, against all hope, that perhaps he'd been wrong, after all.

Wilson blinked slowly, once, twice. For a couple of chilling moments House truly feared that those eyes wouldn't open again. Not yet… Not yet… NOT YET!

Then, just as slowly and barely noticeably, Wilson nodded. "Yeah." It was barely more than a breath. "I'm… fine." There wasn't a trace of fear, not anymore. Only sadness, the remorse over a interrupted life. Of course the oncologist understood what was going on.

Dropping the extremely boring book he'd been flipping through in a dramatic manner House hauled himself up and began to hobble his way towards the bed that'd become Wilson's new home. He flopped there heavily, not liking the way Wilson's much too thin body nearly jumped. As much as he hated seeing it he couldn't escape the fact that his most important person's body was barely more than skin and bones.

They stayed in a silence for the longest time, neither quite knowing what to say in those heavy, precious moments. In the end it was Wilson who spoke first, his voice a touch stronger than it'd ever been in the past few weeks. "Thank you. For everything."

A sharp twinge of pain, unlike anything he'd ever felt before, shot through House. He shot a half-hearted glare at his friend, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering. "Don't make me smack you." He didn't want to hear this. Not this. Not Wilson's last words.

Wilson gave him a sad little smile. Understanding with the clarity of a dying man. And blatantly ignored his empty threat. "And… I'm sorry. For throwing up on your shoes. For calling you an ass at your funeral." Those breaths were growing shallower, fewer and farther in between. It was almost over. "I'm sorry for making you do this."

"Well I'm not." It came without even the slightest bit of hesitation. And House realized that he'd never said anything truer. It took a lot more courage than he'd ever thought he'd have but eventually he managed to look at Wilson. The light in those eyes was dimming. "Besides, I think we've already established that I am an ass."

Wilson chuckled, as much as he still had energy for. That sound hadn't been heard in a long time and it struck House that that time was probably the last. He tried to smirk but only managed halfway with the terrifying question burning him once more.

What the hell am I going to do without you?

Wilson seemed to understand, grief and tremendous regret swelling in those eyes. In the end the oncologist focused on the room's ceiling, sinking into the bedcovers as though melting into them. "This is much better than a hospital."

House scoffed. "I know that you're all doped up and the cancer's messing with your head. But we're in some old, wobbly motel that reeks of Chinese food."

Wilson smiled. A pure, honest smile. Free of grief and agony. "I know." The man swallowed with clearly visible difficulty. The breaths were growing more and more feeble. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

House stared for a second, two. Then focused on the ceiling as well. Light and shadows were casting patterns and he found himself unable to look away. It was much better to focus on that than on the infuriating searing sensation building up behind his eyes. "So the cancer's made you insane. Fascinating."

Considering how much both of them would've wanted to say it was quiet for far too long. In the end Wilson's voice was barely audible. "It's going to be okay, you know? I promise."

House gritted his teeth, venomous words of hurt wanting to spill out. The burning in his eyes was driving him crazy. "Shut up, Wilson", he snapped. Although it was the second last thing he wanted Wilson to do.

Wilson, however, knew him far too well to obey. "It'll be okay. Trust me." Something about those feebly spoken words actually reached him. Seeped through the sea of agony he was in.

For what they both knew to be the last time they looked at each other. Both trying to memorize, trying to capture the moment. House barely registered how his hand slipped closer to Wilson in a obvious yet involuntary plea.

I do trust you, you idiot. More than anyone.

House hoped that somehow, somewhere buried between the lines, those words that he'd never, ever manage to speak out found their way through.

I love you.

Perhaps they did. Maybe they didn't even need to be said. Because all of a sudden cool, weak fingers grabbed his in a loose yet determined hold. There, in what they knew to be his last moments, Wilson attempted to hold on for both of them. Holding on although even House could feel that each and every cell in his friend's body just wanted to stop fighting already.

House took a deep breath, unsurprised by how much it hurt. And spoke the most unselfish words he'd ever uttered. "Just go to sleep, Wilson." He pretended that he didn't notice that his voice cracked, just a little bit.

There was a sigh. Not quite the final breath but almost. "Goodnight, Greg." And House knew that he'd never, ever hear his best friend speak again.

House tensed up, his hold on Wilson's cold fingers tightening. Still refusing to give in under the burning of his eyes although searing ache was flaming absolutely everywhere in his body. "Goodnight, Jimmy."

Minutes ticked by. Little by little Wilson's breaths first paused, then stopped entirely. The hand in House's went completely slack. Wilson's war was over.

It took far longer than it should've for House to pick up the strength and will to make the phone call. After that it was like he'd been watching some movie, completely separated from his body. A flood of people came, taking Wilson away from him. A couple of police officers made what felt like a million idiotic questions. When they asked for his name he slipped in a easy lie, just far enough in a shock to manage that much. And then, so suddenly that the realization made him shiver, House noticed that he was all alone.

House had no idea how long he remained locked up into the motel room, seeing only the place's owner when the bald, middle-aged and rat looking man came to demand more money. Hours. Days. Weeks. To him it felt like several eternities.

Then, on one rainy night, he was just about drown himself into a nice bottle of liquid barely strong enough when he noticed something. There was a piece of paper sticking out from underneath the pillow that once upon a time belonged to Wilson. It wasn't a surprise that he hadn't noticed it before. He hadn't slept since…

In the end curiosity took over, just as often happened with him. Forgetting about his cane entirely House began to move closer, a frown on his face like he'd been approaching a particularly fascinating case. What he found was a couple of lines written in Wilson's familiar handwriting.

'Get up and walk through that door.

The world didn't end yet.'

For a few stilled moments House stared at the words. And then did what he'd been itching to do since listening to his friend's final breaths. He allowed the tears to fall.

The End.

A/N: Oh dear…! (gives a shuddering sigh) Those poor things! It's so unfair that House had to lose Wilson in the end.

Soooo… How was that? Any good, at all, or something that should deleted immediately? As I mentioned this is my first 'House' fic so it'd mean A LOT to hear from you. (gives the most irresistible puppy eyes –look)

In any case, thank you SO MUCH for reading! Who knows, maybe I'll be seeing ya again.

Take care!