Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or favorited this story. I really appreciate it. I have been trying to upload this chapter since Friday. Two days later, and fanfiction is apparently over its little fit. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and more coming soon!

Chapter 3: Images

Wilson concentrated on keeping his voice steady, even though he wanted to curse and scream at the unfairness of the world. "We have no way of knowing the extent of the cancer. I want to do an ultrasound." House had picked up his Gameboy and was studiously ignoring Wilson. It was time for a different tactic. "I stole Cuddy's key to the clinic. We can sneak down there right now and do the test and no one ever needs to know." House was starting to look a little interested. "After we do the ultrasound, we can toilet paper the nurses station."

"Well, if you have gone to all this trouble to get into my pants, how can I disappoint you?" The next few minutes were spent formulating the plan of attack. House would act as a lookout while Wilson unlocked the clinic door. The trickiest part was getting past Cuddy who was still working in her office. The atmosphere of fun lasted until they were in exam room one and Wilson was fiddling with the ultrasound. House angrily removed his jeans and boxers and lay down on the exam table.

He noticed that House was not looking at the ultrasound, but had turned his head so that he was staring at the wall. He passed the wand over House's parts, looking intently at the screen. He made sure that he captured several images to be reviewed by a radiologist. Not trusting what he was seeing, he kept staring at the image.

Finally House could not stand the wait any more. "Jesus, Wilson, aren't you done yet?"

"There's nothing here. Testicles are clean."

House was still staring at the wall. "Then it is somewhere else."

Wilson had to admit that House was right, but the beta-hCG marker was fairly specific for the testicles. As he tried to think, his eyes were drawn to where House's shirt had ridden up slightly. Was it his imagination, or was his abdomen slightly distended? It was fairly subtle, and normally wouldn't be noticeable, but with House's recent weight loss, there was a very slight curvature that didn't look natural.

"I'm going to look at your abdomen," he explained, applying more ultrasound gel. Almost immediately he could see that there was something abnormal. As his brain caught up with the images his eyes were seeing, his hand fumbled and he dropped the ultrasound probe.

He took a few deep breaths. "It's not cancer," he whispered.

"How can you be so sure?" There was a thread of hope in House's voice.

Wilson repositioned the probe; it was still there. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Because a tumor doesn't have a heartbeat."

They both looked at the screen, too stunned to say anything. House drew in a shaky breath. "Damn."

Wilson looked at the screen. "I know what it looks like, but it can't be."

"So what the hell is it?"

"I don't know," Wilson replied. "I've never seen anything like it."

House sat up and began wiping the gel off of his stomach. He slid off the table, and quickly was out the door. Wilson was still shutting down the ultrasound machine, and then he had to lock the door of the clinic. When he was done, he looked around and House was long gone. He hurried out to the parking structure; House's car was missing. He sighed. All he could do was go home and hope that House would show up soon.

The establishment was slightly on the seedy side, but the man behind the bar always remembered a face and would have your drink waiting on the bar by the time you crossed the room. He knew when to serve a drink silently, or when a customer wanted to talk. He also had the smarts to gauge when to call a cab for a customer too bombed to drive home.

When House walked into the bar, his plan was to get as drunk as possible, hoping that the anesthetic properties of ethanol would numb his brain so that he could forget that thing inside of him. Whatever the hell it was. The scotch on the rocks was already waiting for him, and he silently handed over his money and watched as the bartender moved away to serve another customer. It wasn't until the cold alcohol hit his stomach that he remembered he hadn't eaten anything but a handful of crackers all day.

He pushed himself off of the barstool, praying that he could make it to the bathroom in time. He almost didn't. He retched until he felt like his stomach lining was going to come unglued. He leaned against the wall, feeling dizzy and weak. Automatically his hand reached into his left pocket for some crackers, but came up empty. Damn, without the crackers he was afraid to move, or else the nausea would overpower him again. The aroma of the bathroom certainly wasn't helping. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. At least that way he didn't need to watch the room spin. He wondered how long it would be before someone found him.

"Hey, buddy, you OK?"

House opened one eye and saw the bartender leaning over him. "I'll give you a hundred bucks if you will run across the street to the 7-Eleven and buy me a box of crackers.

"A hundred bucks for a box of crackers?" He watched as House nodded. "OK, it's your money. Will you be OK if I leave you alone here for a few minutes?"

House nodded and closed his eyes. Eventually the bartender returned with the crackers and House was able to get off of the bathroom floor. He went back to his seat at the bar, idly munching on crackers, hoping that soon he would feel well enough to drive.

The bartender placed a glass in front of House. "Ginger ale," the bartended explained, waiving off House's attempt to pay for the drink.

The liquid did settle his stomach, and the lightheaded feeling was disappearing. Finally he felt well enough to drive, so he walked out to the parking lot. He debated whether to go home, but he didn't really want to talk with anyone, especially James. He still needed to process what had happened that evening. To figure out what was wrong with him. Finally he decided to go to Wilson's apartment, which hadn't been lived in for over two months. It still contained most of Wilson's possessions as well as an answering machine to give the appearance that someone still lived there. He fell onto the bed fully clothed, and his last thought was that it was ironic that he was here in Wilson's bed, while Wilson occupied his bed. All night long, he kept waking up, always reaching for the man that wasn't there.

Across town, Wilson was also not getting much sleep.

TBC