Previously:

"Is it worse?" Wilson wasn't facing him, and the other doctor didn't move to look at him, but House saw him nod, just barely, and then flinch.

House gritted his teeth as he helped Wilson up, the role reversal somewhat confusing to both of them. Whatever was doing this to Wilson had better be scared, because House was coming after it with a vengeance now. He was going to find it, and he was going to kill it dead.

He quickly (and with worse handwriting than usual) wrote 'slight urinary burning' on the board and added 'severe' in front of 'back pain.'

At around eleven o'clock, there was a shuffle at the door and a sweaty, grayish-pale, limping Wilson appeared in the doorway of the conference room. The other four doctors in the room turned, and gaped at him. He listlessly gestured to the white board.
"Fev'r induced h'lucinations," he mumbled.

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The next several hours were spent testing, eating, and (after the blood tests were done) administering – or taking, in Wilson and House's cases – pain meds. A few hours more, and Thirteen, Taub, and Foreman traipsed into Wilson's spiffy new hospital room bearing result papers and charts.

"He's pyelonephritis, cystitis, and prostatitis positive, but everything else came back negative," Thirteen informed the two impatiently waiting doctors.

"Pyelonephritis and…" House repeated.

"Yes, and."

"And there were a few pretty inconsequential shadows inside the kidneys on the MRI," said Foreman. "Probably just clusters of bacteria from the pyelonephritis showing up." House nodded and went back to ignoring them, but looked up again when a heavy silence fell.

"And… There were traces of Vicodin… in his blood…" Taub muttered uncomfortably. House raised his eyebrow and one side of his mouth in a smirk. Wilson, miserable and drugged up though he was, glared in righteous anger.

"Just because you gave me some doesn't mean I took it."

"Your blood tells a different story," House argued smugly. With an indignant pout, Wilson (grunting slightly in pain) reached over to his hospital-bedside table, grabbed his pants, and dug into his pocket, pulling out a handful of white pills.

"Count them," he said. "I'm sure you know exactly how many you gave me." House counted, proving… Wilson right. The oncologist hadn't taken any of House's Vicodin. Stumped, House turned back to Taub.

"What were the levels?"

"At least two pills worth." House chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the fact that he felt guilty and resisting the urge to ashamedly rub the back of his neck. He couldn't help scuffling his foot a little, though.

"I think – whatever you've got – I think I gave it to you," he told Wilson quietly. Wilson gave him one of those 'House-are-you-high-again-you're-talking-nonsense' looks, the one that wrinkled up his nose and raised one eyebrow while smooshing the other down on top of his eye.

"Why?" he demanded, but then his face smoothed out again. Epiphany. "Wait. House, are you having symptoms?" House shifted… well, shiftily.

"It's just back pain," he mumbled. "It's probably a coincidence."

"You don't believe in coincidences," Wilson pointed out. House was about to protest, when he was distracted by a cool, gentle hand on his forehead.

"You have a fever," Thirteen proclaimed softly. "That means one of two things – you were a carrier but then your body couldn't take any more, or you got it from Wilson. Either way it's contagious, and until we figure out how you managed to spread a drug like it was a pathogen…" She trailed off.

"We're going to have to quarantine you two," Foreman finished. Aw, finishing each other's sentences. How cute.

"Do all the tests you did on him on me before you do that, just in case it is a coincidence." House really hoped it was. He was pretty sure he'd given this thing to Wilson, not the other way around.

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AN: pyelonephritis – bacterial kidney infection, cystitis – bacterial bladder infection, prostatitis – bacterial prostate infection

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House tested positive for prostatitis, but not cystitis or pyelonephritis, which told them the disease was a progressive and a travelling one. And his Vicodin levels were higher than they should've been, even taking into account his overuse and long-term addiction.

So now, House was in one big glass room with nothing but a teeny little off-shoot bathroom (toilet and sink only, and a door that just barely closed) and a hospital-bed for when his pain got as bad as Wilson's. Wilson was in an identical glass room right next to Houses, already in his bed, with three extra pillows so that he could sit up.

Meanwhile, Foreman and Cuddy took turns watching their little glass rooms. Taub and Thirteen had gone tattling to Chase and Cameron (who couldn't really be called Cameron anymore, but everyone did it anyway), and now those two were working on House and Wilson's case too. So, Foreman and Cuddy took hour long shifts annoying the two quarantined doctors, Taub and Thirteen paced around the conference room in front of the white board and bouncing markers off their chins, Chase bit his lip and pulled his hair, and Cameron took a closer look at House and Wilson's blood.

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"Robert!" Chase looked up from his worrying at the sound of his wife's distressed voice calling him. Cameron came rushing over to where he was sitting, her lab coat flying helter-skelter behind her and her blonde hair escaping mutinously from her bun. She skidded to a halt, crouching and scattering papers over his knees.

"Look at what I just found!" Chase nervously picked up the charts and microscope prints Cameron had strewn across his lap, looked them over, looked again, and narrowed his eyes. Chase's mouth fell open, when he realized he really was seeing what he thought he was.

"Oh my God," he hissed.

"Do you think we can fix it?" Cameron asked him, her huge brown, watery eyes begging him to say yes. Chase shook his head.

"I don't know."

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