Notes and disclaimer in Part One.

Further A/N: Thank you so much for all the reviews! There's only one short chapter after this one, folks.The whole thing hit 15,000 words. Not too shabby and way more than I thought it would ever be.

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If you take this drug over a long period of time, you can become mentally and physically dependent on it, and you may find the drug no longer works for you at the prescribed dosage.
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He watched Wilson through the glass and half pulled blinds. The mother was teary and the patient was staring down at her blanket.

Wilson was giving bad news. Again. House figured the oncologist probably gave his "You have cancer" and "I'm sorry, the treatment's not working" speeches at least five times a week. Oncology was a depressing field, there was no doubt, but Wilson seemed to like it. Greg supposed that the specialty did have its strengths, like telling a patient they were in remission; that could make some people's entire week.

Wilson was comforting the mother now. He couldn't be sure, but he could put money on it, he'd swear she was thanking him.

Imagine that. Thanking a doctor for telling you that your daughter's dying. Being good at giving bad news.

He blinked, and for a moment, had a brief flashback to the infarction. To James carefully diagraming the muscle removed. House had thanked him, then. Thanked him for giving him bad news.

He tapped his cane on the floor. Interesting.

Wilson came out, heading to the nurse's station to give orders, sign the chart, and pass it off.

"They say thank you?"

Wilson looked up, surprised to see him. "You were watching?" he asked as he handed the chart to the nurse.

"Glass walls. Free country."

Wilson shook his head. "You have a reason for this visit?"

He shrugged. "Do I need one?" He paused. "Do all your patients say thank you?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"It's legitimate. You're an oncologist. When you walk into most patient's hospital rooms, it's a good chance they're about to hear the big "C" word. Not exactly high on everyone's to do list. Not with the high association with dying and all."

"You know as well as I do that cancer's not a death sentence." Wilson started walking down the hall. House followed.

"True, but the words radiation and chemotherapy don't exactly conjure up images of puppies and rainbows. You didn't answer my question."

"Oh, you mean about the thanking."

"Yes. I sure as hell don't get thanked when I give bad news, so I'm wondering why exactly you do."

"Do you think that it could have anything to do with the fact that I use such things as tact, sincerity, and kindness when I talk to patients?"

"I'm always sincere," House countered. "And you do get thanked a lot, then."

They reached Wilson's office and Wilson stopped. "Maybe I do. Why does it matter?"

Greg reached into his pocket. It was almost noon and his brain turned on its need meds switch. His leg was protesting as well, but not too badly. Still, he might as well does it before it started screaming, as it most definitely would. Maybe he should take two. "It doesn't."

"Yes, it does. To you, anyway." Wilson opened his door and walked in.

House popped the Vicodin before following him inside. "You can't get thanked every single time."

Wilson flipped on his computer. "Why not?"

House shook his head. "No way."

"I told you that actually being caring and supportive goes a long way."

"Every time…" He trailed off in disbelief. He knew Wilson was good, but didn't think anyone was this good. James gave bad news in a good way. Irony snaked its way around him again just as it did after the infarction. It made him think more than he wanted to. "Some of your patients have to be angry. Throw things even."

"I didn't say they don't. Why does this fascinate you?"

"You know why."

Wilson sat down. "I don't think I do."

House leaned against the desk. "I'll give you ten bucks every time someone says 'thank you' when you tell them they're dying. Not that they have cancer, that they have cancer and there's not a damn thing that everyone can do about it except try, and probably fail, to control the immense pain and suffering they will undoubtably go through."

"Nicely worded. I'll make sure I say just like that. Then, I'll duck when they do throw something." Wilson seemed to think it over. "You're on."

--
Hydrocodone suppresses the cough reflex; therefore, be careful using Vicodin after an operation or if you have a lung disease.
--

August was always an interesting month. The real start of the college year was approaching, and for a teaching hospital situated in a ritzy college area, the effect was definitely felt.

House appeased Cuddy and took on one case mid-August. An easy one, but it gave Chase and Cameron something to do and a chance to flex their lab skills out. He was well aware that he didn't need his staff to be running tests that a tech could do and normally did, but then they didn't learn anything new and spent the day in the conference room waiting three hours for a test they could have run in ten minutes. He preferred hands-on.

Towards the end of the month, he found himself once again flipping through resumes. For some reason he didn't really understand, he had a surplus of money. His reputation was obviously worth something, still, not that he doubted himself. Cuddy was surprised, however, and suggested he use it before whoever awarded it to him came to their senses and yanked it away.

And so another job was available, new applicants filtered in, and once again he went back to sorting them into three piles. One man caught his eye and he laid his resume on top of the interesting pile before launching his no way in hell pile into the garbage.

The search was exhausting, and to make matters worse, he'd been fighting a cold for the last week. Except for the ever-persistent leg problems, Greg considered himself fairly healthy. He never got the flu, even when surrounded by those who had it.

Which of course, made it even more frustrating as he coughed into his hand as he started reviewing the average pile again. Or tried to cough, really. It came out half-heartedly and never cleared whatever evil had decided to nest itself in his lungs. He made a mental note to pick up some Nyquil on the way home.

"You getting sick?" He looked to see Wilson standing in front of his desk.

He sighed. "I have a cold. And don't you have work or something else more important to do?"

"Of course, but someone told me you were under the weather, therefore dampening your already oh-so cheery mood."

"Yeah, well, Cameron's a tattletale. And wrong."

Wilson sat down in his familiar chair. "Wasn't Cameron."

"Chase? I have a hard time believing that one."

"You have a hard time believing that someone might actually care about another human being's welfare? Or just yours?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

"Ah, avoiding the question, then." House half-coughed again and rubbed his chest absently. "Seriously, you okay?"

House cleared his throat. "Seriously, I'm fine and perfectly capable of taking care of myself without inference from the boy wonder oncologist."

"This from the man who needed a post-it note reminder to see Boulder." House just glared. "Okay, okay. Just checking. It's part of this whole friendship thing." Wilson leaned over to look at a stack of resumes. "You're hiring again?"

"Would that be such a surprise? But, no, right now I'm just looking. Someone out there likes me, because I've got a surplus of money hanging around."

"What were they thinking?"

"Obviously that I'm wonderful, of course. World renown." He picked up the CV he'd previously laid down on his interesting pile. "Eric Foreman. John Hopkins. 4.0 GPA. African American. If that doesn't say affirmative action hire, I'm not sure what does."

"I'm pretty sure that's racist."

He shrugged. "Maybe. Or it could be PC. I didn't really pay much attention to that seminar."

"And by much attention, you mean you played Gameboy through it."

"I beat my high score that afternoon. You're just jealous because you haven't been able to beat it since."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, some of us doctors actually see patients instead of holing up in our offices to play games and watch soaps."

"Really? Then it must have been some other Dr. Wilson that watched General Hospital with me last week."

"I had to watch. You're one that made the bet."

"Which I won. And you should have known better," House said, throwing Foreman's CV back on the pile. His chest hurt and his leg was starting to remind him that his next Vicodin was due. He felt a cough coming on and couldn't stop it, but it came out weak and left his chest more congested than before. Even he could hear the slight wheeze in his breathing when he was done. Perfect. It was definitely time to go home. He needed Nyquil and Vicodin, and not necessarily in that order. Perhaps even some antibiotics, although he doubted he'd be unable to get those without admitting to Wilson he felt like crap.

He leaned back into his chair, suddenly exhausted. "I'm fine," he repeated. But Wilson was frowning. Great.

Wilson's frown deepened and he reached into his lab coat pocket for his stethoscope. "You're not fine. Sit up."

"What are you doing?" he protested, but slumped back in the chair. Truthfully, he felt worse than he had in a long time. But he still didn't want to admit it.

"Seeing if you're lying," Wilson told him, sliding the stethoscope across House's back. He shivered.

"Damn thing's cold."

"Shut up and breathe." He let out another sigh of protest, but it turned into another shallow cough. Wilson frowned. "Cough again."

He did and the frown deepened. "Your cough reflex isn't kicking in."

"Huh." He mulled that over.

Wilson finished and looped his stethoscope around his neck. "I think you have pneumonia."

"You're lying. It's a chest cold. Okay, maybe bronchitis, but definitely not pneumonia."

"Well, you're wrong. There is a first time for everything."

He shook his head. "I'm never wrong. I don't have a fever, no worsening cough, no sputum."

Wilson laid a hand across House's forehead. "You feel warm to me. Besides, acetaminophen can hide a fever. And hydrocodone suppresses the cough reflex, you know."

"Of course I know. I went to medical school, too. Write me a prescription for antibiotics. I'm going home."

"Not without a chest x-ray."

He thought a moment. "Fine. But you better-" He pushed himself out of his chair mid-sentence and found himself incredibly light-headed. He slumped forward and would have hit the ground if Wilson hadn't latched unto him.

"That's it. I'm admitting you."

"You're overreacting," he muttered. The spin stopped spinning and he pushed Wilson away and lowered himself back down into his chair. "I just need to sit."

"Right. I'm getting a wheelchair."

"Like hell you are."

"You need a chest x-ray."

"Fine. But just because I can't cough doesn't mean I can't walk."

"You can walk all the way down to the clinic?"

"No. I can walk all the way down to x-ray. Then, I'm going home." He was being an extremely stubborn bastard, but frankly, he didn't care. Wilson looked like he was about to argue, but just sighed instead.

"Fine." James handed him his cane. "Walk to x-ray. Pass out in the hallway on the way. What do I know?"

He glared at his friend and took his cane.

House actually managed to get there, leaning heavily and wheezing. But he was so exhausted that when that was done, he didn't balk when Wilson stood next to him, the dreaded wheelchair in hand. Instead he sat, let his friend guide him to an empty exam room in the clinic and stared at the chest x-rays.

"I was wrong," he admitted and suddenly he felt defeated, a feeling he'd always secretly harbored, but never let overwhelm him.

He hadn't been this ready to give up since the infarction -- the misdiagnosis, really -- had happened. This had turned out to be a crappy day.

He didn't go home. Wilson admitted him.

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End Part Seven. One more to go! Don't forget to review :).