A/N: Sincere apologies for the long hiatus. I hit some roadblocks with the story, and then life got busy. But I've gotten a bit more inspiration and I want to see this story through. No promises on the timeliness of updates or how good it'll be, but here it goes!

"So, care to tell me why we've been streaking it for Indianapolis the last few days?" House asked snidely.

"We haven't been heading anywhere, you know that," Wilson said defensively.

"You looked up directions."

"What, you're checking my phone?!"

House just stared at him.

"Uh…I've heard they have a great art museum there," Wilson mumbled.

"You hate art museums."

"No I don't."

"The directions led to a hospital."

"I have a colleague there I was going to see…"

"Wilson, what are you doing?"

"There's a patient…"

"You mean you?"

"No, I don't… someone else…"

House fixed Wilson with a piercing stare, and waited. He knew this was all he had to do to get the whole story.

"It was the day of your funeral. A mother called me from Indianapolis because she'd read about the studies I'd done on late effects of chest radiation. Her daughter had seen a serious drop in lung function and she wanted to get a consult… I couldn't do it, not then, and I was planning to leave right after your service. I referred her to a colleague, but…"

"You can't stop, can you?" House exclaimed in exasperation. "Is it physically impossible for you to control your urges toward selflessness? You referred her to a colleague, they'll help her out; it's fine. Why are we wasting our time?"

"House she, this girl, she's…."

"Just another of your saintly, brave cancer kids who never complain—even when they can't breathe. Let her be someone else's charity case."

"House, she has terminal thyroid cancer," Wilson voice came out as a growl.

A long silence sat heavily between them.

"So you feel obligated to go help her, because you both have the same type of mutated cells?"

"House, I've got maybe another month. We're going to have to stop travelling soon. You know it and I know it. She might have longer if I can help her, but there's only so much longer I'll be in a position to help her." Neither of them had acknowledged how much weaker Wilson had gotten in the last two weeks. They were riding shorter distances and taking more breaks every day.

"Are you the last oncologist on earth?"

"I did a study last year; we got a lot of good data on lung damage. There's not a lot out there because most patients don't live long enough to see the residual damage, but I had a few new treatment protocols I was going to—"

"This is the old woman on the side of the road all over again! I'm not going to let our trip be side-tracked by you trying to vicariously cure yourself. If she's terminal, she's terminal—"

House paused. Ordinarily he would have said something about the inevitability of death and how it wasn't Wilson's responsibility to help, but he stopped because he had never ranted to Wilson about the hopelessness of terminal cases when he was a terminal case.

"She might be terminal," Wilson countered forcefully, leveling House with his gaze. "But I can make sure she doesn't have to live in a constant state of desperate breathlessness for the rest of her days. She's only sixteen, House, and she's been living with this for four years." Wilson's mouth was set in a firm, hard line. House recognized that he was not in a position to argue.

"Oh, four years? Can't imagine what four years of pain would be like," House scoffed, but he swung his leg over his bike and said "Lead on then, boy wonder oncologist. Let's see your las—next heroic feat."

Wilson didn't seem to notice House's verbal slip, but for the next 50 miles as they cruised the backroads of Kentucky, it was all House could think about.