Disclaimer: I don't own anyone or anything but the plot.

Thanks to my super awesome beta!

"I can't deal with another heart to heart. How many have we had in the last week? Should I cry on your shoulder again while you tell me you love me, and we kiss and make up? Then will you win the war because I'll agree to doing things your way, and not my own?" House asked sharply, his blue eyes piercing into Wilson's own. Wilson swallowed back his heart that had jumped into his throat. Could this be the last time I really get to look at him?

"Yes," Wilson answered, hoping his simple reply would make House pause and take him seriously.

"What more do you have to say to me that you haven't said in the last week? What else is there to drag up and beat again?"

Wilson kept his eyes locked with House's, and silently prayed he would listen. Now isn't the time to be stubborn. The thought was true in almost every situation that involved House, especially lately, but it didn't change the fact that in this moment, House needed to not wall himself up.

"Do you trust me?" Wilson asked, hoping that he had the right approach. He'd decided on the walk back from House's office that another talk was needed now, and with only minutes to decide what to say he was not sure he knew where he was going or what he was going to say.

House blinked, slightly thrown off by the question, and Wilson relaxed slightly. Confusion was good; it was better than him being angry. He never looks confused around me, though. Wilson studied him, and noticed the slightly dazed look in his eyes.

"I...guess I trust you," House said slowly, and Wilson could see the gears turning in his head, trying to figure out what the conversation was about, or where it was going. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Am I your friend?"

House narrowed his eyes at that, and snorted softly. Wilson eyed him suspiciously when he saw him wince in pain. The Vicodin should be working now. House interrupted his scrutinizing with, "are you going to guilt me?"

"I'm not trying to. I'm just trying to sort out what's going on, that's all," Wilson answered, lacing his fingers together in his lap. His heart was thudding in his chest, but he was trying hard to stay in control. "Just answer the question, or I'll believe I royally wasted my time this last week with you."

House sighed loudly and nodded. "Yes, you are my friend. You are the only friend I have. You are the wind beneath my wings, the sun in my day, the -"

"I guarantee consolidation therapy will put you into remission," Wilson said quickly, cutting House's words off. When House opened his mouth to protest, he lifted his hand to silence him. "Listen to me. I'm telling you, there's probably a five percent chance that you won't go into remission. With odds like that, you'd be stupid not to do it. And you are far from stupid, House. Yes, you are my best friend, and yes, I love you, and that's why I'm here. You are a selfish bastard, and so full of disdain that any stranger walking into this room would be momentarily blinded by your essence, but that's you. How many people have you saved in the last year?"

House stared, obviously stunned by the words, then muttered, "I don't know, maybe twenty?"

"How about in the last ten years?" Wilson raised his eyebrows, forcing himself to stay still and not lean forward in anticipation. The wheels were spinning in House's head, now, and he knew he could talk him into anything soon.

"I don't know, why?" When Wilson gave him a hard look, House sighed and raised his eyes up in thought. "I couldn't put a number on it."

"Fine. I'll help you. Say you save two patients a week, on average. That's, what, around a hundred patients a year? Have you really successfully treated nearly one thousand people?" Wilson unlaced his fingers and put his palms on his knees, stopping himself from bouncing his legs.

"I highly doubt it's been that many. And how many patients have died because I couldn't figure it out in enough time? And what the hell does that have to do with my impending death?" House asked roughly, struggling to sit upright now. He reached over to his table for a cup of water, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grimace. His hand moved, not to his thigh, but to his back to massage his right side. Sweat was beading on his forehead now, and Wilson raised his hand to check his temperature with his wrist, but stopped when House shot him a look.

Instead, Wilson put his hand on House's knee and smiled, keeping his eyes on his face. House eyed him suspiciously from around the cup while he drank. "It really has nothing to do with your cancer. I was just trying to pump up your ego a bit. House, you're an amazing doctor, and the only reason you don't have someone to go home to every night is because somewhere in the back of your mind, you talk yourself down."

"I really don't know what you're getting at. This isn't changing my mind, like, at all," House said sarcastically, and put the cup down, shaking his head. His hand stopped moving on his back, and he turned his eyes to Wilson. "I need to go to the bathroom. Can this wait a minute?"

Wilson watched silently as House sat himself up completely and slowly moved his feet to the floor. He started to move to help him when he put all of his weight on his feet and his knees sagged slightly, but he recovered quickly and gripped the IV pole.

"I need oxygen when I get back." House glanced over his shoulder halfway to the bathroom, visibly exhausted from the short walk. Wilson tried to think of why he didn't have a catheter in; he knew he had one before he'd had his CT earlier.

Once the door was partially closed, Wilson stood up and started pulling open drawers for a clean oxygen mask - House had dropped his other one on the floor - and was hooking the tubes up when House spoke up from the bathroom.

"Wilson." The one word was stressed, and Wilson dropped the mask to the floor and walked toward the bathroom. He pushed the door open slowly, and found House clutching his IV pole, trying to stay standing. Just as Wilson started to ask what was going on, House said, "there's blood."

Wilson cursed, looking where House had nodded; the urine in the toilet was reddish brown.

"Okay," Wilson breathed, and covered the few steps between himself and House quickly. "I'm going to put you back in bed and we're going to run some tests." He lifted House's right arm and put it around his shoulders and pushed the pole out of the room, supporting as much of House's weight as he could. Sweat seeped through his shirt where House's skin was touching him, and his mind started to race.

What in the hell is going on with him?

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

"Let's start from the beginning. The very first day he came in here, before the cancer, when we treated him for the flu," Wilson said, holding a marker in his hand and pacing in front of the white board in House's office. Thirteen stifled a yawn behind her hand - it was almost 10 PM now - while Taub and Kutner flipped through medical books. Cuddy was in House's room with him, and Cameron should be running blood tests with Foreman.

He'd better not say that nobody cares after this. He has seven doctors working right now to help him. Eight if we have to use Chase tonight.

"He probably didn't have the flu," Thirteen said, and Wilson almost snapped at her that of course he probably didn't have the flu. Thanks for playing doctor for the day.

"He had a high fever." Wilson turned his back on the doctors and started writing on the board. "He was severely dehydrated, and couldn't keep anything down." He wrote 'dehydration' and 'vomiting' below 'fever'.

"He was exhausted, and anemic," Kutner said, going through the pages of House's ER chart.

"Make a second list for the symptoms of the AML." Thirteen's voice was sharp, nearly demanding, and Wilson was glad for it. The last thing he wanted to deal with was someone like Cuddy - or, more importantly, someone like himself, who was nearly falling apart emotionally.

Wilson divided the board with his marker and poised the tip of the marker above it, waiting. "Come on, guys."

Papers rustled and Taub said, "bruising when he came in the first time. Excessive bleeding from scrapes when he fell off his bike."

"Weakness. That should go on both sides," Kutner added, looking up briefly to make sure Wilson heard him.

"The dehydration and lack of food could have caused the weakness," Thirteen argued, but Wilson didn't erase it. It was better to have it on there in case they missed something again.

"What about the side effects of the chemo? He had more than typical chemo patients get. Maybe they weren't all caused by those meds, but by whatever else is making him sick," Kutner suggested, turning a page back and forth in the file to read the front and back over.

Wilson made a third column and wrote 'seizures' at the top.

"He passed out a few times." Taub folded a piece of paper over the back of the folder and ran his finger down it while he read. "Confusion, lethargy, Pulmonary Toxicity, high bilirubin."

"His heart attacks," Thirteen added. "We had to have missed something in his heart."

Wilson shook his head and turned to face them. "We all saw the CTs, and we did a couple of ultrasounds. It's not his heart."

"Kidney damage is a complication of chemo. Maybe he really did have the flu, and his drug use really has just weakened his organs to the point that the chemo made his liver and kidneys start shutting down." Kutner didn't look up as he said it, but Wilson knew that the blame was starting to get thrown at him again.

"So what can we erase from the first list and chalk up to cancer?"

"Fever stays. Fever indicates infection. He's had a fever for over a week now, and it's not breaking now. Take off anemia. His iron levels have gotten better since treatment." Taub reached for his cup of coffee and drank from it slowly for a moment before putting it back down. "How sure are you that his kidney's are shutting down? Daunomycin can cause red urine."

"Heart rhythm is affected by Daunomycin, too," Kutner added, meeting Wilson's eyes steadily. "Maybe we should give it another few days, and just wait for the test results."

Wilson shook his head. "Daunomycin would've made his urine red by now if he were to get that side effect. He hasn't, and he's having pain in his right kidney. The medication could have caused the cardiomyapathy, and it probably did since his heart has been better since his treatment ended." Wilson erased 'cardiomyapathy' and 'heart attack' from the board.

"If it's side effects of medication we're talking about, the bilirubin could've been caused by it, too, " Thirteen said, closing her folder. "Wilson, I know you're worried, but it's all pointing to side effects or complications of the treatment or cancer."

"She's right, Wilson. Cytarabine could account for the confusion and heart, also. Really, from what I can see on the board, the only thing that's of concern is the seizures, and probably the fever." Taub closed his folder too. Wilson wanted to scream, but he was too tired. I just want all of this to end. The thought was similar to things House had said over the last week, and he sympathized with him now. Especially if he had to talk to these doctors all day.

"What causes seizures, kidney failure and fever?" Wilson asked, erasing the board and rewriting the three symptoms on top.

Kutner was the only one to speak up. Wilson didn't miss the quiet sighs from the other two doctors. "Acute kidney failure causes convulsions, fever, bloody urine, nausea, vomiting, and bruising."

"Right. Which he could've gotten from his drug abuse," Thirteen said, her voice full of disdain. Wilson gripped the marker hard enough to cramp his hand, and he bit his lip from lashing out at her. If he did this to himself...then fine. But who is she to criticize drug abuse? To put him down?

"Could have been from his accident the other day. Maybe he didn't damage his kidney bad enough to see immediately after on the MRI or CT, but it's been a few days and he's had other problems since then that could have made it worse." Kutner added, and Wilson was relieved that Kutner was at least making an effort. He wrote 'bike accident' under 'drug use'.

"Dehydration could've caused kidney failure, too. Because he probably had the flu," Taub pointed out, resting his elbows on the top of the table. He dropped his chin into his hands and watched the board.

"Look," Wilson finally snapped, turning to the three doctors angrily. "I don't care if you agree with me or not. But he's getting new symptoms from something, when he should be getting better. I need ideas; I can't do this alone. If the test results come back negative for everything, and his piss is clear in the morning, then I'm sorry for wasting your night. If the test results come back positive for even one thing, and he dies tomorrow from something as unlikely as shock, you won't work for any hospital in this country again. I can guarantee that."

The three doctors exchanged brief looks and cracked open books again and started throwing out ideas within seconds. Wilson bit his tongue when Thirteen suggested some of the most unlikely diseases in her book.

"Really, Hadley?" Wilson said at one point, narrowing his eyes at her. "Do you really think he has Eclampsia? Is he suddenly sporting a new uterus that nobody was aware of? Get out of here if you aren't going to take this seriously. Go, before I fire you."

Thirteen stood up without another word and left the office, and Wilson turned back to the board without a second thought about her. The three doctors sat in the room for an hour after Thirteen left, tossing ideas off of each other before Wilson had a list of possibilities on the board. He capped the marker, his eyes watering from exhaustion, and Taub started speaking.

"What if Thirteen is right? I mean, it's highly unlikely that he has cancer and a disease that's causing kidney failure. It's got to be the medication just making his urine red, or his drug abuse causing kidney failure."

Wilson's pager went off, startling his heart into his throat. He'd forgotten he even owned one; nobody had paged him all day. He looked down at the screen, then dropped the marker on the board and glanced at Taub.

"It's a second disease," he said, then rushed from the room with Kutner and Taub on his heels.

When Wilson skidded to a halt inside House's room, his heart fell from his throat to his stomach. Cameron was yelling at a nurse, who was suctioning House's mouth while he vomited. Cameron, Cuddy and a second nurse were holding his thrashing body against the bed.

"You're right," Kutner said softly beside Wilson. "Seizures and vomiting would've stopped by now if it were the chemo drugs."

"Shit," Taub muttered, let out a long sigh, and left the room without another word. Wilson silently agreed.