A/N: This is the penultimate chapter, guys. It's been crazy fun, but...hey, they gotta get to Chicago sometime, right? So if there's any questions anyone wants to ask about anything at all to do with the fic, this is the time. Probably no-one, but at least I offered :D

Renewed thanks to the wonderful maineac, my beta.

Wilson didn't know that they were entering Illinois until House informed him of the fact. He told him that they were only twenty minutes away from the Ohio River, and that they would be crossing it with a platoon of soldiers. Half an hour later, they crested a hill which had seemed no more than a slight slope as they ascended. Yet when they finally reached the top, he gaped at the sight before him. The Ohio River spread, at least fifty feet below them, as far as the eye could see. The sun, free in a cloudless sky, shone in wide swathes of brilliance on the calm greenish water. A paddle steamer was chugging along directly below them, its blue-painted hull carving strong divides through the water. There were a few tiny cabins on the near bank next to a small wooden dock, to which was tied a long, iron-andcanvas-covered barge. Lying or sitting on the grass around the cabins and on the dark, water-splashed wood of the dock were a collection of Union soldiers, perhaps fifty in all. Two men sat a little apart from the others, under an oak tree with their horses tethered to the branches. One wore the gleaming insignia of an officer, although at this distance, Wilson could not make out the rank. A fire burned, surrounded by men with homemade skewers cooking pieces of meat. Wilson felt his stomach splutter and gurgle with hunger at the rich smell that floated up to them.

House shoved fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. All soldiers who were not sleeping, and several who were, started and stared up. A couple grabbed briefly for their rifles, until their eyes adjusted to the sunlight around the hill's crest and they recognized the intruders as allies.

"Hey there!" one officer shouted. "Come on down! You the men we're taking across? Captain House and his charge?"

"Yeah," House called back, jerking on the reins of his mule and setting it down the steep hill at a carelessly brisk pace, his strong arms straining to keep upright. Wilson followed cautiously. He kept his eyes on the soft ground below his mount, only looking up when a sudden cry of recognition rang out.

"Say, that ain't Gregory House, is it?" the officer beneath the tree got to his feet and rushed towards them. He was tall, a little less than House, perhaps; with hair as black and slick as oil and a thin white scar across his neck that became visible as he came closer. He thrust out a hand, and to Wilson's surprise, House leant down from his mule and shook it, if a little grudgingly. Wilson could see that the man was a Lieutenant. He looked at Wilson and smiled in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and consulted it.

"Is this James Wilson?' he asked. "Looks more like your baby brother, House."

"This isn't my brother, he's my backward country cousin," House replied through teeth firmly gritted as he slowly descended to the ground. Wilson dropped down onto the ground and stretched out his stiff arms. The Lieutenant was still smiling.

"Now you're here, we'll be going soon. The train leaves in an hour and a half."

Wilson cleared his throat softly. "Will it be taking us all the way to Chicago?"

"Yes," the Lieutenant answered. "But we've got to take a little detour to pick up another platoon, so we won't be in Chicago for four days. Captain House will be with myself and Sergeant Harmsworth in a passenger car which has been reserved for us. You'll be riding in a cattle car with the rest of the enlisted men. There will be three stops a day for you to get out and make yourselves something to eat. The officers will dine with the regular passengers in the dining car."

"Thank you," Wilson muttered once this information had been revealed. As the three men walked towards the troops, they got hastily to their feet and saluted stiffly. It seemed strange to Wilson, seeing House as he was in normal life – an officer, treated with due reverence by all. House didn't seem to acknowledge them.

"Got any men who can give me a haircut and still leave me two ears?"

"Sure do. Private Booth, give the Captain a haircut!"

A wiry young man with weather-beaten tanned skin and dark gleaming eyes stepped forward. "Yes, sir," he said, reaching inside his jacket and extracting a small pair of scissors. A soldier behind him pushed forward the empty barrel he had been sitting on and House settled himself onto it.

"You can do him when you're done," House ordered, pointing at Wilson.

"Right you are, sir."

The Private had barely finished trimming Wilson's hair when the order came to board the craft. The crossing of the Ohio took twenty minutes. Wilson stood out near the bow, feeling the air brush his freshly cut hair and thinking about what fate awaited him. House was stumping bad-naturedly around the deck, between rows of seated or slouching men, hissing insults and jabbing his cane at any who blocked his erratic course. Wilson watched him absently for a few minutes until he sensed a presence at his side and turned to see the Lieutenant standing there.

"How are you, young man?"

"I'm very well, sir," Wilson replied in a slightly glum tone, leaning his bare forearms against the warm metal of the bow and staring at the placid river water, hearing it slap gently against the sides of the boat. House, with that peculiar knack for breaking up conversation, was already propelling himself towards them.

"George," he muttered, jerking his chin up to attract the officer's attention. "Wanted to have a word with you."

"Sure, pleased to. Privately?" the Lieutenant replied, lowering his voice and glancing quickly at Wilson.

"No need. I just came to tell you that Wilson will be eating with us on the train. Bastard's been trying to shake me ever since Tennessee. Had to get this out," House patted the heavy revolver at his waist, "a couple of times just to keep him still. Have a pair of troops accompany him to the dining car for his meals."

Wilson wasn't stupid enough to question House's speech or even look surprised. He merely affixed a suitably rebellious expression to his face. The Lieutenant shrugged.

"Right you are, Cap'n," he said, saluting lazily, and drifted away. Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you had to come clean," he said. "After all, I could only make your life living hell for so long with my incorrigible attempts at escape."

House leaned his back against the bow and crossed his arms over his unbuttoned blue jacket. For a moment he was silent.

"You've lost a lot of weight since we started out," he said quietly. "Camp Douglas is a hellhole. I suggest you fill up."

He straightened up and headed back across deck. Wilson smiled as he watched him, but the smile soon faded. He had lost weight, and House had only served to remind him what was in store. For the first time, Wilson felt himself forcing back feelings of dread as visions of imprisonment flooded into his mind, visions he had tried so hard to avoid.

When they disembarked, House commandeered the Lieutenant's horse for himself, relegating his subordinate to the shaky mule beside Wilson. It was only a short distance across rolling fields before they hit town and came to a straggling halt at the station.

The train was already waiting in the sidings. The back of the cattle car was down, making a ramp that led into the empty metal car. The men slowly tramped up, their boots thumping metallically on the thin iron. Twenty-five men arranged themselves into each of the two cars. Wilson found himself a spot against a wall and slouched down. The sun was beginning to set now. He looked at House, who stood with the other two officers at the foot of the ramp. The Captain snorted.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Wilson," he grinned. "I'm off for a nice steak."

The first two days dragged by. The cattle car was sweltering and cramped, and juddered constantly from side to side, throwing the men against each other sharply. The platoon had been battling insidious guerrilla fighters in southern Kentucky for four months and were dispirited and too exhausted to even talk for the majority of the time. They asked Wilson few questions and seemed to bear him no resentment. They simply wanted to rest their weary bodies without disturbance. As a result, a bored Wilson spent most of the day with his face pressed to the thin, head-high gap in the car, watching the landscape glide past. When two of the troops marched him down to the officer's compartment at dinner time, House took one look at him and let out a peal of derisive laughter. Wilson was bemused until the Lieutenant held up a looking glass and Wilson saw a thick strip of sunburnt red skin that stretched from ear to ear across his face. The officer's car was spacious and well furnished. Each of the three officers had a small cabin to himself, and the rest of the car was a communal area with comfortable seats and a newspaper table, more like a living room than a train carriage. The air was filled with rich smoke from Sergeant Harmsworth's cigar, giving the compartment a warm, comforting feeling that made it extremely welcoming.

Back in the cattle car, he started to crave mealtimes, not simply because he was hungry, but because they were the only break from the monotony of the cattle car. The food in the dining car was excellent: hearty, wholesome meals that made him feel rejuvenated. After dinner, Wilson would stay for a few minutes and chat with House, then be marched back to the cattle car. House seemed to be keeping himself to himself; whenever Wilson arrived he was sitting in a corner of the officer's compartment with a book or newspaper. Once, he was smoking a cigar, something Wilson had never seen him do before. All in all, he seemed to be more at ease than Wilson had ever seen him.

When the soldiers found out that Wilson had been to medical school, after a chance comment just before lunchtime on the second day, they suddenly took a greater interest in him. Many of them were nursing small ailments and were happy to relate their tales of woe to a sympathetic Wilson. They were grateful for his advice and for his attempts when they halted at a large town to procure some remedies for them.

On the third day, he was thoroughly miserable. The burnt banner across his face was peeling, much to House's amusement; he was bored, tired and feeling a little chilly and nauseous. He lay flat on his back on the floor, feeling like a slave in a cargo hold as the shuddering car rolled him into the men on either side. Some were playing cards on a small patch of free space, others read their Bibles or just sat staring at the thin metal walls. At lunch, he didn't feel like eating much. House had interrogated him, but he had denied any illness, explaining his lack of appetite as travel sickness. By dinner, he felt hot and clammy, and when the two soldiers were marching him through the long grass by the railroad to the officer's car he slumped to his knees and was sick, feeling his throat burn and the sun hard on the back of his head. They patted his shoulder, wiped his mouth on their handkerchiefs and helped him up.

House was sitting in the corner of the car, his leg propped up on a stool. He had a newspaper spread over his lap and was wearing a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose.

"Wilson ain't been well," one of the soldiers supporting the prisoner up the metal steps and into the carriage explained. "He just emptied his guts outside."

House looked at the three men over the top of his glasses, and then drew them off of his face altogether. He sighed pointedly and jabbed the glasses at the chair opposite him.

"Dump him there. Bring our food down from the dining car," he ordered brusquely. The two soldiers lowered Wilson into the chair and departed. Wilson rubbed a hand across his burning forehead and swallowed hard, trying to clear the bitter taste of vomit from his mouth. He met House's gaze.

"I'm fine. It's probably just this food. Too rich for me after living on cornbread and beans all this time."

House raised a doubtful eyebrow. "I'm fine," he said, gesturing to himself. "I've been eating the same as you."

"Yeah, I understand," Wilson said through a groan. "You've got a rock-hard constitution. Nothing can harm you. You're an ox in human form, you really are. Could you just save that particular boast for a while? My head feels like the inside of a bell."

"Loosen your shirt collar a little. How long have you felt like this?"

"Since this morning, but only this bad since just after lunch."

Wilson fumbled at his shirt collar wearily and unbuttoned it. House stared at him oddly, and Wilson saw that his piercing eyes were fixed upon his chest. He slowly looked down at himself. A red rash, bright and unmistakeable, spread from his lower neck over his collarbone. He slowly looked up again, wordless horror clear on his flushed face. House nodded grimly.

"Scarlet fever. We're getting off this train. Harmsworth!" he bellowed. Sergeant Harmsworth poked his head out of his cabin.

"Sir?"

"Get Lieutenant Ackley and then have some men unload our mounts and kit. Wilson's got scarlet fever and we've got to leave right now, before it spreads through the entire platoon." Harmsworth frowned, opened his mouth to ask a question. "Now!" House barked, sending the Sergeant scampering through the door.

"Have you anything to drink?" Wilson muttered. "I'm mighty thirsty. I'm also starting to have some respiratory problems," he informed House in as calm a tone as he could manage.

House tossed him his canteen and for once Wilson found that it contained nothing stronger than water. He sucked thirstily at the neck until the canteen was dry. "Thank you," he gasped. "House," he whispered after a pause. "Is this going to be bad? Scarlatina Simplex and Anginosa present with the same symptoms. Could you take a closer look?"

"I've had it, by the way," House said as he got to his feet and stepped across to Wilson. He placed a hand on his shoulder to steady himself and placed the other hand on Wilson's jaw. "Open your mouth."

"When'd you have it?" Wilson asked, obeying.

"When I was six."

As House peered into his throat, Wilson started to feel the tightening in his chest. A wave of panic suddenly overwhelmed him and his shoulders heaved. He suppressed a retch, his eyes bugging out. House started talking again, in a steady monotone.

"I didn't really have it badly, but my Ma made my father take me to the doctor's surgery in town. And that was a big deal, because we lived in this log cabin, this tiny place on the river bank, and he had to get the rowing boat out and row us about two hours down the river."

Wilson felt his chest begin to relax and his shoulders slump as House talked, his voice almost hypnotising.

"It was at a place called Fisk Landing, on a little river running off the Ohio. We passed it when we crossed over. Your throat is screaming red – scarlet fever all right. Can't tell anything else," he concluded, leaning back and standing straight. The Lieutenant's voice drifted in from the open air.

"I'm out here. I never had scarlatina, so I'm staying outside. Your mules and saddlebags are waiting for you out here. Listen, Greg – I'm right sorry that we gotta throw you boys off like this, but we can't risk the soldiers' health. I know you understand."

"Sure," House said. "Sacrifice a few for the good of the many. It makes perfect sense. I'd do the same."

He threw Wilson's arm around his shoulder and helped him to the door and down the steps onto the grass by the tracks. The Lieutenant was about twenty yards off, his handkerchief over his mouth. Faces were pressed to the open strip of the cattle car, watching as House and Wilson made their erratic way towards where their mounts waited, at the rear of the train.

"Think you can get up and hold onto the reins?" House asked quietly. Wilson nodded heavily and struggled, with House's help, onto the mule.

"This is a fairly big town," House said as he mounted his own mount with the usually difficulty. "I'm going to trade your mule and pool that money with what I've got left and buy a trap. You won't be able to ride for much longer."

Wilson barely registered that they were moving. House guided both mules and Wilson gazed dully ahead. When they reached town, House helped him dismount and left him sitting on a grass verge on the outskirts. House mounted Wilson's mule and gently slapped the reins.

Wilson fell asleep without really noticing, and awoke to find House rigging his mule to a small pony trap with reins and straps. House had already unpacked the blankets from the saddlebags and spread them over the floor of the trap.

"Come on, you infernal menace," he muttered, putting his arms under Wilson's shoulders and heaving him to his feet. "I'm the cripple here, you know."

Wilson crawled into the trap and immediately curled up on the blankets. He didn't know how far they were from Chicago, but it didn't matter anymore. When you didn't even know if you would be alive in a week, distance became a negligible factor. His last conscious memory was of House sitting down on the bench in front of him and the gentle sound of leather on hide as he sparked the mule into motion.