After his shower, House found the test results on the floor where he'd thrown them. He stood in his towel, water pooling at his feet, as he stared at the offending paperwork. His mind was blank, and everytime he dragged up a new thought, it was whisked away after only a brief second. Cancer, treatment, work. Those three thoughts popped up and floated into the abyss. He wanted Wilson back so he could wrap his hands around his neck and scream at him more. If he had the energy, he'd march to Wilson's office in his towel. At this hour nobody would be in the hallway. But chances were good that Wilson already left.

Pain in his leg finally snapped him out of his daze and he bent down to grab the papers. He limped to his bed and sat down and pushed the button on his bed to call the nurse. Without another look at the results, he tore the papers up and dropped them in the garbage can beside the bed.

"Yes?" The nurse asked hesitantly from the doorway. What is her name? he wondered idly. He knew her, and worked with her daily, and he couldn't drag up a name. For some reason, not knowing her name made him feel a twinge of guilt. If he died tomorrow, he wouldn't know the names of the people he worked with.

"I need my IV fixed," he said blankly. I should say please. The word wouldn't form, and he was too tired to try harder.

The nurse was quick. She hooked up the IV like a pro (She is a pro his mind said) and before he knew it, he was holding a clean hospital gown and she was asking, "is there anything else I could get you?"

House shook his head and when she left, he pulled the gown over his head and carefully threaded the IV through the sleeve before tying it up. He felt a little better, with the medication, but he knew he wouldn't get better if his disease wasn't treated.

Cancer. He thought, and anger sparked inside his mind. Just like that, the blank void in his head shattered, and he felt cold. How dare Wilson run those tests without asking?

"They're wrong," he told himself, but knew it was a lie. Wilson wouldn't mess it up. Unless he's trying to get me to clean up and take better care of myself. The thought made him chuckle bitterly. All those times he acted really sick for drugs, when he'd made people believe he had cancer when he didn't just to relieve the pain in his leg. I deserve this.

He was too tired to hold himself upright any longer, and he fell onto his side and stared at the wall until he passed out.

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"Are you feeling better? Ready to get out of here? I've put you on clinic duty all day Friday to make up for the time you took off," Cuddy said with a smile as she walked into House's room the next morning. He was sitting upright in bed, staring bitterly at the crap food the cafeteria brought up for breakfast.

"This isn't oatmeal." He lifted his spoon and watched the oatmeal drip into the bowl. "It's more like diarrhea from a cat in liver failure."

He watched Cuddy from the corner of his eye. She wasn't acting differently, and she certainly would've brought up the cancer if she'd known. So far, his plan was working. He just wanted to get out of the hospital today and go home.

"Your fever has gone down, and you're eating. I'm going to have the nurse give you another dose of antibiotics and then you're free to go."

"I need clothes." He looked up at her and tried to look guilty. "I forgot to bring some yesterday."

"I'm sure either Wilson can stop at your place on his way here, or we can find some pants that fit." Cuddy raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to argue. When he said nothing, she said, "House, don't let yourself get this sick again before you get treated."

"Did I worry you?" He asked mockingly.

She smiled. "How are you getting home?"

"Walk?" He suggested, and at her exasperated sigh he said, "taxi? Bus? Hitchhike? Just find me some pants. I'll figure it out." He watched her nod and walk toward the door to leave. "Cuddy? Don't call Wilson. He thinks I should stay longer and I'm not up for a pissing contest right now." Cuddy's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she nodded and left. He let out a long sigh and waited for her to get back with his prescriptions and pants.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

After what felt like days, but was only an hour and a half, House was released and sitting on the couch in his apartment. He stared at the TV, which was on but muted, and held his new bottle of Vicodin that Cuddy gave to him. For the umpteenth time he wondered if he would die if he took the entire bottle.

He leaned forward and dumped the pills out onto the table top. He counted all 30, and glanced at the bottle of whiskey that he'd opened when he sat down. It was taunting him, and his hands clenched into fists while his mind raced. Just take the damn pills with the liquor. Lay down in bed. Get it over with.

"You're a fool," he whispered to himself and shook his head. "It's easily treatable."

He continued to stare at the contents on the table though, unable to look away. He'd seen so many cancer patients over the years, and what some of them were reduced to. It was such an unappealing thought.

Pounding on his door startled him upright, and he cursed himself for being so jumpy.

"I know you're in there!" Wilson called through the door, and pounded even harder.

"You have a key!" House called back and shakily stood up, gripping his cane. Wilson was pissed, and House was tired, and neither of them was ready for this conversation. He limped to the kitchen as keys rattled in the door, and he had the fridge open when Wilson opened the door.

Wilson stopped in the doorway and looked from House to the coffee table, and he slammed the door shut.

"How many did you take?" He demanded, pointing at the pills on the table as he stepped into the living room. He kept his eyes glued to House, who rolled his eyes up, thinking.

"You came in before I could take the second bottle."

"The second bottle." Wilson's voice was flat. His shoulders slumped as he let out a breath. "Cuddy only wrote you one script. House, what in the hell is going on in your head? Why are you here?"

House closed the fridge with his cane, holding a beer in his left hand. He looked around the room, dumbfounded. "I live here, Wilson."

"You need to get back to Princeton, and start chemo." Wilson raised his hands and locked his fingers behind his head, breathing deeply.

"Nope," House said with a grin, and limped back into the living room. He sat down on the couch and picked up two white pills and studied them briefly before swallowing them. He picked up the remote and unmuted the TV, and sat back to watch the show. Well, to pretend to watch it, anyway.

Wilson came around the couch and shut off the TV. He spun around and crossed his arms expectantly. "Nope? You can't just not get treated for this, House. You need to take care of this, and the sooner the better."

"Well, see, I can just not get treated. That's the beauty of being an adult. I'm going to take care of the flu, and go back to work." House leaned around Wilson and turned the TV back on.

"You'll just get worse. And you'll get sick more often. If you let it go much longer, you could die with the next cold you get. I don't know what you're trying to prove with all of this, House, but it's childish. You can't mess around with cancer. This isn't a bad Christmas gift that you toss into the closet and not look at again!"

"You're blocking the TV." House glanced up at Wilson and watched as he pulled the plug from the wall. He sighed and dropped the remote onto the table. "I'm not getting treatment, Wilson. I appreciate your concern, but this is my choice."

"Why? Why won't you try? If I were the one with cancer and I sat there denying treatment, what would you say?"

"I'd say that it was your choice and I would accept it," House said with a shrug. Truthfully, if Wilson were dying of cancer, he'd be a wreck and would do everything in his power to force treatment on him.

Wilson sighed and sat down on the couch beside House and put his head in his hands. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before sitting back against the couch. He looked over at House, who was staring back at him, his hands pressed tightly on the top of his knees.

He reached in his pocket and fished out a business card. "This is an oncologist at the Cancer Institute that I refer patients to. He's a good guy, and you'll probably get along with him much better than you get along with me or anyone else. Just call him up and tell him I referred you."

"I'm not doing this," House reiterated. "I'm going to sit here and enjoy my day off, and then I'm going to go to work tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. The test results are wrong."

"The test results aren't wrong. I ran the tests twice. We can test your bone marrow if you don't believe it. And whether you believe the results or not, you still have cancer. And you'll still need treatment. Are you going to go to work day after day and wait until you're so sick that you down a bottle of Vicodin and end it?" Wilson shook his head and put the card on the coffee table. "I can't do that, House. I can't sit around and watch another person I love die."

"This isn't about you. You may leave me now. I'm glad you got to see me today."

Wilson stared at him in disbelief before standing up. "Oh, yeah, thank you so much for gracing me with your presence."

"You barged in on me, Wilson. Don't get snippy with me." House closed his mouth and kept silent as Wilson rubbed his eyes again, then stood up.

"I hate you. You're selfish and childish."

"And stupid!" House added sarcastically, and winced as Wilson slammed the door shut behind him.