Wilson realized around 9 that House had not come in for work. This was not in fact that unusual, but after the other day's discussions about House's health – and without any conclusions whatsoever – Wilson had been left with worry towards his friend. He had insisted on running some tests in order to at least prove the liver failure wrong. But of course House had turned him down every time, telling him that everything was fine and that he shouldn't worry so much.

After calling House several times – and each time reaching the answering machine – Wilson had had enough and got a clearance from Foreman to go and check up on him.

Parking his car by the sidewalk outside House's apartment, Wilson realized that no lights were on inside and that both House's car and motorcycle were outside. He couldn't help the pinch of concern in his gut, as he got out of the car and walked up the path to the front door. Once inside, he made the few last steps towards House's door with the B and knocked three times.

When the door was not opened, he called out House's name, knocking again. He turned the handle afterwards only to find the door locked. Reaching in his pocket he pulled out the spare key he had been offered many years ago and let himself into the apartment.

He went inside slowly, seeing that everything was as it used to be.

"House?" he called out softly while shutting the door.

The living room was empty, so was the kitchen. As he moved further into the apartment and got to the short hallway, he suddenly heard a quiet grunt coming from the bedroom. For a brief moment he stopped in his tracks and listened but then decided to head straight to the bedroom door which was being held ajar. He peeked inside and immediately saw the lump of a human form under the sheets on the bed.

Wilson went inside.

"House?" His voice was almost a whisper, as he approached the bed. The room was dark but he was able to see that his friend had his back towards him. "Hey, are you alright?"

As he placed a hand on House's shoulder, House stirred and moaned sleepily.

"Go away," he said muffled and pulled the sheets closer.

"Come on," Wilson sighed. "You have to go to work. Don't make me go back there to tell Foreman that you're bailing on him."

"You're not here to get me out of bed, Wilson," House said, "you're here to check up on me."

Damn, for once Wilson had hoped to not make it clear. He looked around, his hands on his hips, as he in the dim light noticed House's cellphone on the nightstand. He picked it up, but the display didn't react to any of his demands.

"You turned off your phone?" he asked a little surprised.

"Yeah," House moaned, "at 5 this morning. Didn't want to be disturbed." He tossed around a little.

Wilson realized something.

"You didn't sleep until then?"

"What do you think?"

Nodding his head slightly, Wilson sighed.

"Well, you nap in the clinic all the time after all. Come on, I'll give you a ride."

House had turned onto his back, as far as Wilson could see, and was rubbing his forehead.

"Gimme a few minutes," he yawned.

"I'll wait in the living room."

When Wilson had left the room, House rubbed his eyes and made a move to sit up on the edge of the bed. Not feeling able to open his eyes properly, he shuttered a little at the cooler air around him and appeared to feel a little dizzy. He figured that it had to be the lack of sleep taking its toll on him. Without much hesitation, he reached for the orange bottle of Vicodin on the nightstand and popped a few before shoving them into his mouth. He enjoyed the pain relief for a little while before getting up and without his cane, he limped to the bathroom.

As he moved, all of his limbs seemed to ache from exhaustion – probably from many hours spent on tossing and turning in the bed in hope for some sleep. He had felt unbelievably uncomfortable and restless, even though he had been tired as hell.

After entering the bathroom, he let the door fall almost shut before heading for the sink. He splashed some cold water into his face, and a soft chill ran through his body at the touch. Afterwards, he dried himself off and swallowed heavily, when he felt a small wave of nausea hitting him. He looked into the mirror.

And immediately, his tired eyes went wide with shock. He frowned, studying his face which was a little paler than usual and carried bags under his eyes.

But this was not the most shocking. The whites of his eyes had turned yellow. Crap. This was a symptom that he was way too familiar with, and he felt his heartrate quickening. Also his breathing came out a little more rapid, but this was mostly from the surprise.

Feeling awfully lightheaded, he turned away from the sink, and he saw the room spinning in front of him. He begged to stay on his feet but for every second, he faced reality bit by bit. He was going to fall, and it was not going to be pleasant.

Busying himself with a paper in the living room, Wilson suddenly heard a loud thud followed by a painful groan. His attention was drawn immediately to the hallway and as fast as he could, he jumped up from the couch and almost ran up to the bathroom door, as he called out House's name.

When he pushed the door open, he saw his friend lying restlessly on the floor on his back, clutching his left shoulder.

"House!" Wilson jumped forward and kneeled down beside the other doctor. "Are you okay?"

"Feeling dizzy," House groaned, his eyes closed, though several signs of pain written over his features.

"What's with your shoulder?" Wilson asked.

"Landed on it."

Wilson winced inwardly, picturing how it must have hurt.

"You didn't hit your head, did you?"

House shook his head while massaging his shoulder.

"Look at me," Wilson said, wanting to check his friend's pupils.

House hesitated. "Wilson..."

"Look at me," Wilson repeated, now being a little concerned.

House sighed, then opened his eyes and looked up at Wilson. Horror filled Wilson's expression, when he saw the sharp yellow tint of House's eyeballs.

"Oh no," he gasped.

"I know, right?" House seemed calm considered the circumstances.

"Your liver –"

"Yeah, I'm a doctor, too, remember?"

"You're an ass," Wilson scolded. "I told you to let me test you. This is serious!"

House's tired eyes darted around for a while. "I know."

"I'm calling an ambulance." Wilson searched for his cellphone, but before he could even get a proper hold of it, House's hand grabbed his sleeve tightly.

"Oh, no, you're not," he groaned from the floor. "Just take me there."

Wilson looked a little puzzled to begin with, but when he saw the look on House's face – the defeat and helplessness – he decided to obey and nodded his head with a soft "okay."

When Chase, Taub, Adams and Park had been informed that House's illness was in fact serious and that he had been admitted, they had reacted shocked, asking Wilson so many questions which he didn't know exactly how to answer. One thing was clear, though:

"He needs a transplant."

Shortly after Wilson had passed the matters of the situation to House and had left the room around noon, Chase and Taub visited their boss.

"How's the soldier?" House asked, adjusting himself a bit.

"Responding to treatment, probably leaving in a few days," Taub responded, then changed subject. "Should we worry?"

"The guy's better," House said, ignoring Taub's question. "Why worry about that?"

Taub and Chase exchanged looks.

"Any news on the transplant?" Chase turned to his boss, a little uncomfortable by looking into those yellow eyes.

"No," House said, "but people die all the time. Let's hope it happens within 48 hours."

The words rang in Chase's mind, as he realized that House might not make it. After so many years of stupidity resulting in accidents, bullet wounds, self-destruction and what not which his boss had actually survived, Gregory House might not make it out of this alive. And it scared the hell out of him. What frustrated him was House's still strong use of denial towards anything regarding his own health. This time, it was serious.

As Wilson came into Foreman's office that day, the dean looked up from his paper work. He watched the oncologist pacing nervously in front of him for a little while. He was sure he could make out the sound of cogwheels turning in Wilson's head.

"You okay?" he asked.

Wilson hesitated for a moment, before he turned to Foreman.

"I wanna donate a lobe of my liver to House," he then said with much consideration and conviction.

Foreman looked at him for a long time, then leaned back in his chair with a surprised gaze.

"That's insane," he said simply and then raised his voice a little, before Wilson could say more. "You have hundreds of patients."

"And until I run out of excess organs, why shouldn't I do anything I can to help them?"

"Because you're a doctor, not a donor."

Wilson turned away, and Foreman furrowed his eyebrows.

"Is this coming out of guilt?" Foreman asked, now resting his elbows on top of the desk.

"This is coming out of friendship," Wilson answered after facing Foreman again. "I have a friend, who's about to die, and a have the opportunity to save his life. And to be honest, if I had to donate anything for anyone, it would be for him."

Shifting in his chair, Foreman looked at the oncologist with pity. He knew that Wilson was terrified. He had seen the same look on his face at the time where Amber died years ago. This was a man being afraid of losing someone he truly cared for. House and Wilson had been friends for so many years at this point. Wilson had never given up on House, always returning to him, trying to fix him. For so many years, Wilson had kept that one best friend, and Foreman was amazed by this fact.

"Okay," he then said, and watched Wilson's almost surprised expression. The man probably didn't believe the fact that he actually gave him the green light for the procedure.

And then Wilson left, and Foreman focused once again on his paper work, though his thoughts further directed towards his former boss.

House's eyes fell upon Wilson, as he walked into the room late in the afternoon.

"How're you feeling?" he asked, approaching the bed.

"Peachy," House rasped out sarcastically. His eyes were barely open.

Wilson offered a comforting smile and then fell silent, his eyes a little unfocused.

"Spill the beans," House said all of a sudden, apparently aware of Wilson's thinking.

Being a little uncomfortable, Wilson pulled a chair towards the bedside and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I'm donating a part of my liver to you," Wilson then said straight out.

Seeming completely awake now, House turned his head, facing his friend with disbelief.

"You're joking, right?"

"No," Wilson shook his head. "I've thought it through."

"Wilson, don't –"

"I've made my decision." Getting up from his seat, Wilson turned all the way towards House, his body language showing frustration and also exhaustion. "Why can't you just be happy and accept it?"

"You don't wanna waste an organ on me," House said coldly.

"What- what do you mean?" Wilson stammered, completely dumbfounded.

"I'm a self-centered jerk, who wouldn't do the same for you."

"I'm not stupid, House. I know you would. And you don't owe me anything. I'm doing this as your friend."

House looked away, hesitating. "No..."

"House –"

"If you die, I'm alone," House said simply, now looking at his friend. Wilson could see the emotions in his blue eyes, before they blinked, and House looked away again.

He stood there for a while, not quite believing what he had just heard. Confused, he turned slowly, not knowing exactly whether to say anything or not. He chose the second and walked off.

The next morning, House started showing more acute symptoms. He was constantly nauseous, dry heaving from the emptiness in his stomach. He was in visual pain and was clutching his midsection every now and then. Also, he seemed disorientated. The few words he spoke were not making sense at all times, and Wilson would have him repeating almost everything he said because his voice was so worn-out and muffled.

Wilson had been camping out on the couch in his office the previous night, not feeling like going home and leaving House to his fate. Cursing in his head, he had been left restlessly awake for almost the entire night in utter fear of losing his friend. He had been so angry – though also miserable – by the fact that House had practically refused to take his offer.

And as he saw House in his current state, he was aware that something had to be done. He had to make his friend change his mind – and very soon, before all hope would be lost.

"Why are you doing this?" Wilson asked House with a sigh after noting his friend's vital signs.

"Thought I answered that already," House mumbled from the pillow, his eyes blinking slowly.

"So... You're suicidal," Wilson stated.

"Didn't say that."

"Oh, stop it. If one of your patients was in the same position, what would you say?"

"I would tell him it was his choice," House answered after hesitating briefly.

"Wha- No way!" Wilson almost snapped. "You would keep pushing him to do the exact thing you knew was right!"

Calming himself, Wilson noticed how uncomfortable House looked. He could almost see the tension in his muscles. Wilson had been taking a step back, but now, he stepped towards House again, for a moment actually considering sitting down on the edge of the bed – though he didn't.

"House," he said, his voice gentle, "please, let me help you. You're my friend, and I-" He rubbed his forehead. "I can't just let you die, okay? Please."

"Stop begging," House rasped out, furrowing his eyebrows.

Frustrated, Wilson turned and paced around a little before returning to his friend, realizing that he couldn't just let this be.

"Look," he sighed, "the thing you said before... It'll be the same way for me, you know. If you die, I'll be alone." His voice grew miserable. He just stared at House with wide eyes, his feelings putting such pressure on his chest that he felt a lump in his throat.

The blue orbs appeared from cracked eyelids. House just looked at him with parted lips.

"If you go through with this," Wilson said and then paused, "it'll be the most selfish thing you've ever done."

For a moment, he watched House's eyes still just looking at him. Without words, he prayed that somehow House would make proper sense of what he had just told him. Even though Wilson knew their friendship was a bit screwed-up and leaned heavily on patience, tolerance and acceptance, it was one of the things that meant the most to him.

He gave up and turned to leave, when House's weak voice was heard from the bed.

"Wilson..."

Of course, Wilson stopped in his tracks and turned around, facing his friend with an awaiting expression and tiny tears in his eyes. And that was when House gave him a small, confirming nod that Wilson knew very well the meaning of. He left the room quickly and headed to the OR to get the surgery scheduled.

After a succeeded and non-life-threatening surgery without any complications whatsoever, Wilson woke up from the narcotics to an empty room. Still feeling a little drowsy, he let himself rest, and after a short amount of time, he heard a familiar female voice.

"Dr. Wilson?" It was Adams' voice.

Almost immediately afterwards, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he started to regain some strength. He opened his eyes and looked up at her.

"Welcome back," she said then, smiling softly at him.

Wilson felt a sudden anxiety creep upon him and heard the beeping from the heart monitor pacing up a little.

"House," he gasped and clutched at the covers. Apparently, Adams was aware of what was happening.

"He's just fine," she said soothingly. "The surgery went very well. Try to calm down, Dr. Wilson."

Her hand was on his shoulder again, and Wilson started to relax. He had been given the only three words he needed. He is fine. Overwhelming relief hit him, and he almost wanted to cry with happiness – thinking that the anesthesia might have left him a bit too emotional. He would have to make it wear off, before he saw House.

"You're looking good," Wilson said, smiling softly, as he wheeled his way into House's room.

"Don't sound like it's such a big surprise," House scoffed from the bed. "I'll be honest with you, though; you look like crap."

Wilson couldn't help grinning. Even such a statement coming from House at this very moment made the entire process worth it. They were both alive and now both healthy as well. That meant the world to Wilson.

"Game's on!"

"Be right there!" House tucked a bag of chips under his left arm and grabbed the six pack of beer from the table before limping off to the living room.

There was something unbelievably satisfying about seeing Wilson leaned back on his couch, already shoving a large bit of a pizza slice into his mouth. A smile crept upon House's lips.

After a couple of slices each and some usual fighting about which players on the team were great and which were not, House suddenly grew a little silent.

"You're still an idiot for giving me some of your liver," he said then.

A little startled, Wilson turned to him. He felt a little irritated by the fact that they were having that discussion once again.

But when House looked at him with a soft gaze and a reassuring nod of his head, Wilson was not aware of anything else.

"Thank you," House said.

And that was all Wilson needed to hear.

The End