Disclaimer-I don't own anything

House fingered the cap to the stolen Vicodin bottle. How many pills had he taken over the years? Two hundred? A thousand? How many people had he hurt? Did it matter? He thought back and didn't feel guilty. In fact, he didn't fell anything at all. Maybe that was the drugs kicking in. He lay his head against the back of the chair and breathed out slowly through his nose as he felt the relief in his leg. Wilson and Foreman wanted him to quit the drugs. And come clean. But he couldn't. He wasn't going to cave. His pride was much to strong. He wasn't going to admit that a simple pain medication had add into the recipe of his demise. No. He wouldn't cave into their demands and pleading. Nothing was wrong. Sarcasm and anguish? Cuddy blamed it on the drugs, Foreman said it was just Houses personality. Who was right? House couldn't remember a time without Vicodin. Memories before the accident were blurry, out of focus. Either one could be right.

House heard a soft knock at the door. He knew who it was without looking.

"Come in Wilson."

The door closed softly and Wilson collapses into a chair with a sigh. House still faced the giant bay window, sitting in his chair, tennis ball in one hand and the Vicodin bottle in the other.

"House…"

"The cancer is worse…isn't it?"

Wilson said nothing, but House knew his best friend was silently nodding his head. Yes, of course the cancer was worse. House felt anger at the cancer that was ravaging his friend's body. Anger at the parasite, the virus, the pox, that was taking Wilson away from him.

"How long…?"

House turned around and faced Wilson, perhaps for the last time.

Wilson had his head in his hands, his body was silently shaking. He didn't answer.

Greg rose from his chair and shut the blinds on his window and door, then wordlessly came and sat in the chair beside Wilson.

"How long do we have Wilson?" The question hung in the air.

Wilson looked at House. His face was red and blotchy. A shudder ripped through his body.

"Five months. "He whispered.

House said nothing. Five months. Five months, or less, to spend with his best friend. His brother.

"We better get started then. "House rose and brought out a map from beneath his desk.

Wilson looked up, "What's this?"

"A map Wilson. You have cancer not Alzheimer's." He spread the map along the area of his desk, knocking down cups and random things onto the floor. He silently took off the cap of a black sharpie and handed it to Wilson.

"What do I do with this?"

House stared at Wilson. "You write with it. Honestly Wilson you don't have brain damage. Keep up."

Wilson sighed, "What do this map and sharpie have to do with anything?"

House turned the map around so that it was facing Wilson. Then, he took his hand and circled Branson, Missouri.

"Mark up the map with the sharpie. Circle any place you want to go."

"Why…?"

House had a twinkle in his eye. "Were going on a road trip."

Wilsons face fell. He mutely put the cap on the sharpie and laid it on the desk. "No House."

"Why not?"

Wilson sighed. "You're just doing this to fulfill some childhood fantasy or something. I can't go with you on some spur of the moment road trip across the country. It's irresponsible and dumb."

"Ahh, but that's were your wrong. I've been thinking about this for quite some time, you see, it can't be spur of the moment if I've had hotel reservations for two weeks. I've even packed snacks." House kicked a cooler out from under his desk. He took off the lid and faced numerous packages of junk food. "I have road trip music," He poured out the contents of a Wal-Mart sack onto the desk. CDs of jazz music, rock, pop, and oldies greeted House and Wilson, "I even have Foreman's gas card. Were set for life."

Wilson managed a small smile. "I'm sorry House. I can't go."

House starred at the floor, "Can't…or wont?"

Wilson looked back at House from the door, "I'll be in my office."