Real. It felt real, but it couldn't be explained. He didn't know how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember what he'd been doing. There was only now. There was only this.

The chilly wind bit through his red jacket as he reassessed his ropes. Finding his next foothold, he continued to climb the sheer, jagged mountain. The air was so still that all he could hear were his own breaths and the sporadic clink of the ice pick as he dug it into the icy rock. Finally, with a groan and one last burst of effort, House heaved himself onto the top of the mountain. He pushed the ice pick away from him and rolled onto his back, breathing hard and staring up at the unbelievably blue sky.

"Well, at least you made it," Wilson sighed. "Of course, I guess being alive probably slows you down."

House grunted as he sat up, staring down at the endless expanse of a faraway world. "So I'm alive, and you're not. Which means I'm either dreaming, or hallucinating." He looked at Wilson, sitting to his left. "Which one is it?"

"If you don't know, how should I?"

"Right. I forgot how..." And House stopped talking, frowning as their words rang a stupid little bell. He looked quickly back over at Wilson. "Have we had this conversation before?"

Wilson turned his head and just looked at him. He looked so real, so alive. His hair ruffled in the breeze. His coat was green and like House, he wore gloves. He brought up his knees, clasping his hands. They were quiet. It was quiet. They could hear the wind. They could hear the falling flakes plopping into the snow.

"Just breathe in that air," House muttered. "Does it make you feel alive?"

"I've never felt anything else."

House looked down and slowly pulled off a glove, sinking his hand into the powder. He could feel it. He could feel every frozen shard in his palm.

"Don't do that, you'll get frostbite!"

"And then I'll wake up. Maybe in a kitchen, maybe in bed. I'll be warm, and you'll...you'll be gone again. I don't want you to be gone, Wilson." House looked at him and quickly looked away again.

Wilson nodded, looking out at the distant world below. Finally he spoke. "It's okay. I feel good. Really good."

"You're dead, Wilson."

He looked at House. "Someday you will be, too."

The men sat on top of the mountain and House started breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Instead, he was taken off-guard by a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. He shifted his position and started breathing shallowly, but it wasn't helping.

"House?" Wilson asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. It's...it's my lung," House gasped. "Oh my God. It hurts." He groaned, laying down on his back and panting for breath. "Help...help me."

"I can't, House. I'm dead."

House reached out to grab Wilson by the arm.

"What do you need?"

Cuddy's voice made him come awake. He opened his eyes and looked at her—and in the moonlight streaming in through the hotel curtains, saw his hand clutching her arm.