"What do you want, House?" Wilson asked skeptically. There was that pesky gleam in House's eyes again, the one he didn't trust and didn't normally want to conspire with. House thought for a moment, rubbing his stubble and pursing his lips.

"To get to you before Little Miss Conscience does." They were sitting in Wilson's office. House knew that Cameron would probably speak to Cuddy about the legalities of enrolling a brain dead patient in clinical trials before she would speak to Wilson about the trials themselves, and he figured his chances were better if he got to his friend first. Wilson didn't know this, of course, but glared at House anyway, his mind weary of trying to figure out this next trick that House was clearly orchestrating. The little voice in Wilson's head—his conscience—told him not to go along with this, but he was genuinely interested in at least seeing what his friend's brain had concocted this time.

"Why would she be calling me, House?"

"I don't know…maybe to get into your pants."

"There's nothing going on between Cameron and I, House. Get over it."

"No," House agreed, "But there is something going on between her and Chase, and I'm sure you're hoping for some table scraps."

"You're sick, you know that? I don't even know why I talk to you anymore." Wilson got up from his chair and walked over to his window.

"Because you feel guilty since becoming Judas."

"I do not. Get over yourself."

"You ratted on a cripple, Jimmy, a cripple that happened to be your friend." Slowly, Wilson was forgetting that House had ulterior motives in his visit, which had undoubtedly been House's intent all along.

"I ratted on a drug abuser who could have potentially put patient's lives at risk. There's no reason for me to feel guilty."

"There is a patient in the ICU who needs your help, Wilson. That's why I'm here." House studied his cane for a moment, then draped it over the arm of his chair, placing his feet on Wilson's desk.

"What kind of cancer does he have?" Wilson turned from the window and looked at House skeptically.

"Pancreatic. What kind of clinical trials are we running here?"

"He wants clinical trials? Is he aware what stage he's in?" Wilson sat down at this desk again and looked through his papers for a moment.

"Stage four, Wilson. He's terminal. There's literally nowhere else for this cancer to go."

"Well, why didn't you tell me earlier, House? I have the perfect clinical trial for him." Wilson's voice dropped a pitch, "its called death."

"Yeah, I recommended that to him, he's not such a big fan. Walk and talk, Wilson, I have something to pick up. Very important." House got up from his seat, and so did Wilson. They exited together and started walking toward the pharmacy.

"Got a new dealer?"

"Something like that." House limped faster, Wilson easily caught up.

"You know as well as I do that there is nothing that we can do. It sounds like it's gone to his bones and most vital organs."

"He's losing consciousness rapidly, Wilson, I'm not sure how much longer he's going to hold on, but I told his wife that we'd try whatever we could to prolong his life."

"Why would you say something like that? What's in it for you?" Wilson stopped, looking at his friend with an eyebrow cocked. House didn't do altruism.

"It's nearly Christmas, Wilson. I told her we'd keep him alive until after the holidays." He was completely lying through his teeth, and Wilson was somewhat aware of that. House was not at all sounding like himself. "Call it the Christmas spirit, Jimmy." Wilson continued walking until they reached the pharmacy counter. The timid new pharmacist handed House his vicodin and House limped away before downing a few pills. His pager began beeping.

"What took her so long?" Wilson muttered.

"Who, Cuddy? .She had to sacrifice some babies first. It's what keeps her so young looking."

"I'm not doing it, House."

"I was hoping you'd say that," House regarded, and limped quickly away.