1Because sometimes there's only one person left to stand by you...

It hadn't been House's idea to attend the chaplain's seminar on Care of the Terminal Patient, especially on a Friday night, and Wilson had had to bribe him with the promise of a steak and lobster dinner to get him to attend.

"Well, thanks for another great date, Jimmy," House bitched as they made their way back to their seats after break. "An hour of weepy Oprah bullshit. Here's an update for everyone: we work at a hospital. Patients die."

Several teary-eyed attendees glared in his direction and Wilson ducked his head. "True, but some of us actually care." He knew this wasn't going to be House's cup of tea and knew he was going to make it difficult, but the truth was, he hadn't wanted to attend alone. He was counting on House's abrasive personality to dampen the draining effects these seminars had on him.

"Yeah, yeah, James Wilson: Patron Saint of the Oncology Ward," House waved dismissively. "The fact is, you can't do your job if you pull a Cameron, weeping and tearing your hair every time you lose one."

Wilson frowned. "Are you saying I don't do my job?"

House softened a bit. "You're damn good at what you do," he amended. "It's just that you tend to lose objectivity, that's all."

Wilson opened his mouth to reply when the chaplain came back in and took the podium. "Okay, I'm going to dim the lights for the last part of our seminar." She lowered the lights and went to each table, handing out index cards. "I'd like each of you to take three cards. Write the names of the three people who matter most to you."

House leaned over. "How do you spell Carmen Elektra?" he whispered.

Wilson shushed him. On his cards he wrote "mom and dad", "David", and "Greg". He glanced over to see what House was writing, but the man was turned at an awkward angle.

"You've just received the most devastating news." The chaplain's soft voice continued. "You have terminal cancer. It's invaded your lungs and liver and there's no treatment. You have six months to live." She paused. "Your life has just changed forever. Everyone on those index cards cares about you, but not everyone can handle a terminal diagnosis in a person he or she cares about. Fold up the name of the person who leaves you first."

"Oh, Carmen, why are you so fickle?" House muttered, folding one card mournfully.

Troubled, Wilson ignored him. His parents, his brother, Greg. None of them would desert him and to fold one card would mean giving up on that person. Greg would still be around, his parents would still be around, but Davey? As the most sensitive one in the family, he had never attended a funeral and had even refused to bury the family pets. He loved Jimmy dearly, but wouldn't be able to handle watching him die.

With a heavy heart, Wilson folded the card marked "David".

"It's been three months," the chaplain went on quietly. "You only have three months to live. The cancer continues to spread throughout your body and pain medicine doesn't always work You're exhausted, you're in pain, and you sometimes take it out on those around you."

Soft sniffles and stifled sobs came from around the room. Wilson felt his own breathing become labored. How many times had he followed this path with his terminal patients? He knew the helplessness and frustration of watching someone die, knowing he could do nothing more but lend support.

"You're growing weaker by the day," the chaplain said. "Some days you're unable to leave your bed or care for yourself. The people on your cards have to shoulder a heavy burden and it's not always physically or emotionally possible for one of them. Fold that one."

House sighed. "Angelina, Angelina, why hast thou forsaken me after I sat through Tomb Raider twice?" He crumpled a card and tossed it.

Hot tears welled up in Wilson's eyes and he fought to hold them back. Mom and Dad or House? All three loved him unconditionally, but Mom and Dad were in their 70's, unable to do any of the necessary care of their dying son. They were loving and much loved, but they wouldn't be able to deal emotionally or physically with him.

Throat aching from unshed tears, Wilson folded the card marked "Mom and Dad". It was almost physical pain, tantamount to saying that his parents would desert him. He knew that wouldn't be the case, that they loved him more than life itself, but-

"Time's gone on." The chaplain said gently. "You now have a few weeks, maybe a few days. You can't move, you can't care for yourself, you can barely speak. Someone has to bathe you, feed you on the rare occasions you can eat, change your bed."

Some of the class was sobbing openly now. Wilson could no longer hold back the tears that leaked from the corner of his eyes; he wiped them away with his sleeve.

"Your time is almost up now," the chaplain said. "You'll be gone soon, and there's one person left, one person who stayed by your side through everything. One person who never left you, no matter how hard it was to watch what was happening." She roamed from table to table, laying her hands on shoulders, giving comfort. "Look at your last card."

Greg.

Vision blurred, Wilson could barely read the card, but he didn't need to. He had always known who his rock was.

"This is your strength, your faith, your courage. If there's a name written on it, you know you always have someone to stand by you. Silently, sometimes, but there nonetheless. Go home tonight and thank God, fate, nature, or whatever you believe in that you have this person in your life because they are a true gift." She turned up the lights. "Thank you for attending. If any of you would like to talk, please feel free to see me."

House groaned dramatically. "Ah, Beyonce, I knew your heart was true." He stuffed the unfolded card into his pocket and stood up.

Wilson followed, stung. "So you didn't get anything out of this at all?"

House nodded. "Yeah, an expensive dinner, some drinks, and maybe a few hickeys if I treat you right. Blow your nose, dry those baby browns, and let's go."

Unbelievable. Wilson loved the man, but his inability to break through, to force House to take something seriously, to feel something, for God's sake, was sometimes too much.

"Pit stop," House announced, detouring into the men's room. Wanting to wash his face, Wilson started to follow him when something fell out of his pocket. House's final index card. Wilson scooped it up and headed for the trash when the printing caught his eye.

Jimmy.

The oncologist stopped, staring mutely at his name, written in House's well-known blocky scrawl. He ran his finger over the card, tracing the lettering, absorbing what it meant.

"Did you doubt it?"

Wilson came back to himself and looked up at the other man, his friend of twelve years, his lover of five.

"I...didn't think you were taking it seriously, that's all." Wilson swallowed to keep back fresh tears.

Greg regarded him with uncharacteristic gentleness in his blue eyes. "You've already been with me through a time when I wanted to die." He tapped his mangled thigh and put an arm around his mate's shoulders. " I figured you'll be there if I ever have no choice in the matter."

Unable to speak, Wilson put the card with his name on it in his pocket and handed House his own final card.

House glanced at it and tucked it into his pocket. "You know it," he said.