Comments and suggestions are most welcome. Its been fun writing my version of TB or not TB. Time to move on to other episodes--hehe!

Wilson found House on the rooftop of PPTH as the sky was turning into a lovely purplish-blue, with a touch of grayish-brown from the NJ exhaust collective.

He had a bad feeling about this—ever since Stacy left him, House only came to this place when something incredibly personal was eating him. He had a hunch, but he wanted to be completely sure…

House turned around the moment Wilson opened the door. He nodded briefly at his friend before returning a brooding gaze to the darkening sky.

Wilson was used to this silent treatment, so he just stepped up beside House and just as pointedly ignored him.

"Ran out of bald-headed Munchkins to cure, Wilson?" came the acerbic inquiry.

Wilson managed not to roll his eyes at that. "They're doing fine, concentrating on growing back some T-cells and hair. What's bothering you?"

"Nothing's bothering me," House answered in the most contrived cheerful tone of voice Wilson has ever heard him use. "Why do you always assume that something's bothering me?"

"Well, aside from the fact that everything's bothering you," Wilson replied just as sarcastically cheerful, putting a hand to his chin and stroking it like he had imaginary stubble, "this place can only be accessed by using the fire escape. But, due to present circumstances—"Wilson paused to glance at House, who stared stonily back at him," —the stairs are a painful accessibility option for you, even if you took all the Vicodin in the world."

"Well, isn't it obvious?" House said caustically, "I was exercising! Got a little set of love handles going on here—don't let the deceptively loose fit of my clothes fool you—and I was getting my air back. The stubble's also slimming—you stand to gain growing some yourself, Wilson. It'll offset those wild eyebrows of yours, give your face more balance—the patients will love it!"

Wilson fought to keep a straight face. "Since when did you start caring about appearances?" He looked at House from top to bottom, knowing that his friend was the last person those fashion mags would ever ask for a consult on deceptive slimming techniques.

"I can't believe Dr. Charles is still getting to you, House," Wilson continued, leaning on the ledge of the rooftop to get a better view at House's reactions, "even after you've successfully brainwashed the man to make him take the medicine."

House made a face at Wilson.

"The great white hope of the Serengeti is no match for the Prince of Princeton—"

"Who?"

House gave Wilson an incredulous look, receiving a mocking grin in reply.

"—and he's certainly not getting on my nerves and he can screw whomever he wants! I get laid more often than he does…"

Wilson abruptly pushed himself away from his leaning position so fast at this point, House wondered how his friend didn't end up sprawled on the ground. Chocolate brown eyes narrowed as it zeroed in on cobalt blue eyes. House's left eyebrow arched in suspicion.

Wilson's eyes crinkled before his smile appeared.

House's eyes shifted to a steady blue glare as his mouth curved into an angry frown.

"What?" he barked. "Why are you looking at me like that? You gonna confess to me about something I don't want to hear?"

Wilson's smile just got wider as the humor he was discovering presently decided to set up the trap with a bit of juicy trivia. Everybody lies, after all.

"Just that I found it odd that you'd be up here the moment Cameron and Dr. Charles went out on their date," he said casually. He tried not to let out a whoop of triumph as he viewed House's physical reaction to his little bombshell.

"No way!" House's eyes were bulging dangerously out of their sockets—Wilson was suddenly reminded of the time he baited House in a similar fashion, suggesting that he himself was also hitting on Cameron. "Chase told me that—"

"Oh, ho, HO!"

House shut up the moment Wilson made the outburst and raised both his own eyebrows. He gave the oncologist his most dangerous, eye-bulging glare of doom as Wilson slowly backed away from the ledge. Wilson was wagging a finger knowingly at House as he made his way for the rooftop door.

House was getting a sense of déjà vu as the door closed behind Wilson.

The myriad of symptoms that sent Dr. Sebastian Charles into the clutches of PPTH's resident diagnostician was slowly getting narrowed down. One by one, Doctors Foreman, Chase, and Cameron checked up on the patient, took some samples, tested them, and returned to the glass confines of the conference room to mark out the TB symptom that was going away and the symptom that remained.

It was Cameron's turn to check on Dr. Charles. She noticed that he was looking a lot better than before, just even more morose. Cameron couldn't blame him; she got the lowdown on how House managed to "convince" Charles to take the TB medication from the patient himself.

Cameron was flexing Charles' arm for a routine physical test at the moment. She was aware that he was looking at her, watching her do her thing. She tried not to blush.

Charles didn't say anything during the procedure, just gave Dr. Cameron a nod or a shake of the head when she asked him some questions. Does your arm hurt when I move it this way? How about now?

Had she asked, "Does it make you feel good when I hold your arm like this?" he'd have a ready reply for her. But she still hasn't given him a concrete decision about his offer of a date—or something more.

Cameron had finished testing Charles' physical and had put down his arm when he suddenly grasped her hands in his, shocking the hell out of her. She calmed down a bit; his large, callused hands were gentle and soothing her own smooth pair as he ran his thumb up and down on the back of her hands.

No words were spoken for a whole minute.

There is no doctor, no patient, no hospital—and for Cameron—no sardonic, brilliant blue eyes and whiplash honesty.

Just two people with a certain attraction for one another, looking into the other's eyes what possibilities lay outside the present.

"I'll have to decline your offer," Cameron said softly. "I'm—sorry. My place is here—I don't belong in Africa, never be able to handle it."

Sebastian looked down at those words, but he still held on to her hands.

"I can't leave my patients there for a life here—not even if House got kicked out of this country," he said. "Might not be able to complete what I started out to do, might not even live long enough to actually finish it."

His hold on her hands tightened a little—not enough to hurt her.

"There'll be others, Sebastian," Cameron murmured. Sebastian looked up at her at the mention of his first name—it sounded so right to him. "They'll come to help you—they'll open their eyes. And just because I won't come with you doesn't mean I'm not able to help you from here."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow at that. Cameron winked down at him.

"So, how much of that Levofloxacin do you need?" Cameron asked.

Sebastian knew he'd found the right girl. He pressed his lips to Cameron's hands, savoring the warmth and the sweet scent—even though it smelled of disinfectant soap—it was heaven to him. He's allowed a little indulgence, right?

House was looking at the whiteboard, which was almost hard to read with all the crossed out symptoms and the circle marks, when Cameron entered the conference room to add to the mess.

House didn't seem to acknowledge her presence, letting Cameron edit out another symptom from the whiteboard. He processed this new information while looking closely at the immunologist.

She moves quite gracefully, even though the most she did was cross out a TB-related symptom off the confusing list. He admired how the fluorescent bulbs show off the hidden highlights of her dark hair—red coming out from the brown.

He was reminded of Stacy, and then shook off that thought. Stacy was unique; Cameron was like a smitten swimfan for him. She deserved someone whole, someone with whom she can hold her own and can share her naïve views of the world. Sebastian Charles seems to be the man for the job; he can have her for all he cared.

So why, when he interrogated Chase in the elevator, taking a cue from the mobster lawyer and hitting the elevator's emergency button to get Chase to spill the beans—thankfully, nothing else—did he feel like shoving his cane down Charles' throat instead of the medicine? Its something he wasn't comfortable facing—true, he's attracted to Dr. Allison Cameron. He'd replace the comatose patient whose room he'd been using as his second hideout from Cuddy if he wasn't attracted to Cameron. He'd jump her in a minute if he didn't have a handicap and two other junior doctors to worry about—the latter because Cameron, Chase, and Foreman had formed a bond of sorts, even after that spat during the short term of Edward Vogler. Knowing Cameron and Chase, they were already swapping their moments in sexual relationships; who's to say Cameron won't share her adventure with him?

Cameron felt his eyes on her. That was why she felt it was prudent that she quietly leave the room instead of sharing the newest finding.

She wondered if he noticed the blooming heat on her cheeks. Ah, but what does he care? He made it perfectly clear that he didn't want her, could never love her.

But then why did he went berserk that afternoon in Dr. Charles' room, when she was holding his hands? It wasn't that House never did anything crazy to petrify patients to do what was right—he just didn't usually have to go using the angry route.

Is there a reason for her to look into that moment?

Dr. Lisa Cuddy placed the phone back on the hook without managing to break the device, taking in a few calming deep breaths to settle her temper.

She is so going to pluck out all that stubble from his face—how dare he impersonate her and slander Dr. Charles to Newsweek!

FIN