"Oh my God!" Lisa said when she walked into the living room. She rushed to kneel at Wilson's side, feeling the pulse at his neck. Then she looked up at Pete. "Can his liver be failing that fast?"

"Relax, he's not in a coma."

"Then?" Lisa looked at him suspiciously.

He grimaced, focusing on a spot on the carpet. "I drugged him so we can take him to hospital."

Considering that Lisa had been dead against the whole home treatment thing, he'd thought/hoped/deluded himself into believing that she'd jump at the chance of getting Wilson admitted to hospital. But no! Faced with an unconscious Wilson sprawled across the couch, Lisa reversed her priorities, showing a decidedly inconvenient regard for patient wishes.

"Weren't you all for respecting his wishes and going along with what he wanted?" she hissed. Her muted whisper was mildly amusing considering that not even an AC/DC concert could have roused Wilson at this point.

"I changed my mind."

"You mean you lied."

"Tomato, tomah-to," he said, shrugging her words aside.

"Well, I'm sorry, but I'm not doing this. I may not be happy about his decision, but I'm not going to go behind his back. That would be completely unethical."

He leaned into her personal space. "You wouldn't help him to get treated the way he wanted it, and you won't help me to get him the treatment he needs. You're denying him any sort of treatment at all. In what way is that ethical?"

She laughed incredulously. "Oh, no, you don't get to do this! I offered him my support in getting treatment according to medical guidelines. He chose not to take my offer."

"He'll die if we don't get him into a hospital!" Pete yelled.

Lisa closed her eyes, and for a moment he thought he'd brow-beaten her into acceptance. But then she straightened to her full five-foot-something. "Then he dies," she said. "He's unconscious at the moment, not incapacitated. When he comes round he'll be perfectly capable of making his own decisions."

He could manage somehow without her support; if necessary he'd get Wilson to hospital by himself. It would, however, be considerably easier and quicker if Wilson were admitted to her hospital under her aegis. So far, he hadn't given much thought to how he'd explain Wilson's present state – drugged and with enough cisplatin and doxorubicin in his body to treat a whole cancer ward – to the admitting physician, but although he didn't doubt that somehow he'd be able to bluff his way through any difficulties, he was painfully aware that he'd encounter a morass of disbelief that would slow him down. Valuable time would be lost, time that could be used to strengthen Wilson's immune system for the battle ahead.

So, he gave it a last try. "You haven't always been so fussed about disregarding patients' wishes," he said with a significant glance at his right thigh.

Lisa paled. "You bring this up now, after twenty years?" she rasped, bafflement and hurt in her eyes. "All those years you never let on that you blamed me …. "

It was interesting that he'd never before brought up her disregard for his wishes during his infarction. He must have been a soft touch in those days if he hadn't milked a good grudge for all it was worth. Maybe he was looking a little too interested in her reaction, because her eyes narrowed to slits. "Wait! You can't recall the infarction," she realised belatedly.

Busted! "That's not the point," he said.

"You're using something you can't remember in order to manipulate me," she said with a hint of indignation.

There was a definite need to get the conversation back on track before Lisa made it about herself. "Then, you went against my express and stated wishes even though there was a good chance that I'd survive."

"Hardly," she snorted.

He ignored her, gesturing towards Wilson instead. "He stands no chance whatsoever unless we go against his wishes. If you could do it then, you can do it now."

She stood her ground. "Maybe I've learned from the past," she said quietly.

He threw his head back impatiently. "Woman, look at me! Do I look unhappy to you? Miserable to be alive? Discontented with my lot? Hankering for a non-existent crown in a non-existent afterlife?"

"Wilson will be miserable, and angry," she said.

"But he'll be alive," he shouted. "You're not worried about disregarding his wishes; you're worried that he'll be angry with you. You're worried for yourself. You're making this about yourself, not about him. If he were in the centre of your considerations, his anger wouldn't matter to you as long as he was alive."

Lisa paled, but she didn't yield. "And what if he doesn't live? What if he dies in the hospital?"

"Then where he dies won't make any difference," he said.

"Wilson is of a different opinion."

He looked down at her in silence. She wasn't going to help, that much was clear. He'd have to get Wilson to some other hospital without her assistance. He turned round to contemplate Wilson; getting him to a hospital on his own would be a physical challenge. Perhaps he should phone Tanja and ask her to come back. Secrecy wasn't of primary importance anymore, because without Lisa's help he didn't stand a chance of weaseling his way out of this. On the other hand it would be awkward if Tanja got into trouble.

"Will you visit me in prison?" he said absently as he considered the pros and cons of calling an ambulance.

"Visit you where?"

He swung round to stare at Lisa, baffled.

"Jail, hoosegow, slammer, Club Fed," he enumerated, wondering whether there was an acoustic problem here. "Wasn't that what you predicted when we told you about our plan?"

"Well, yes, but I thought you'd come up with some way of, I don't know, covering your tracks," she said, waving her hands in a vague manner.

"You tell me how to explain a dead guy in my apartment who's pumped full of steroids, cisplatin and octreotide, and has traces of a sedative in his blood," he said with heavy sarcasm. "I'm a convicted felon, so this time I won't get probation."

She didn't bite her lip, she literally chewed on it. "Okay," she finally said, pulling out her phone, "I'll get a crew to pick him up."

Trust Lisa to do the right thing for the wrong reason: she wouldn't betray Wilson to save his life, but she'd do it to keep him, Pete, out of prison. He grabbed her hand before she make the call.

"Don't be an idiot!" he barked. "We'll take him in ourselves. That's unless you want to be implicated by having everyone know that he got himself into this condition right under your nose."

She hesitantly let the hand with the cell phone drop. "So what's our story?" she asked.

"He pretended he was going away for a few days to visit his family, but locked himself in instead and administered the chemo himself," Pete said. "I came back unexpectedly from a trip today, only to find him barely conscious. We'll say he lost consciousness on the way to the hospital. And you – you knew nothing."

Lisa's eyebrows rose. "No one's going to believe that he got through the chemo by himself."

Pete grinned mirthlessly. "Let them believe what they like; as long as they can't prove anything, it won't matter."

He'd asked Chase to organise a wheelchair, ostensibly to help Wilson get around the apartment during the chemo, but in fact for the purpose of getting him out of it once he was unconscious, and never had Pete been more grateful for his foresight. It took their united effort to get Wilson into the wheelchair; getting him from the wheelchair into the car proved to be a labour worthy of Sisyphus. Lisa was strong for someone her size, but Wilson, drugged as he was, had the muscle tension of a jelly fish. Lisa simply wasn't strong enough to haul him onto the back seat of her car, while he, Pete, couldn't keep his balance while manoeuvring the equivalent of a calf through what suddenly seemed a ridiculously small aperture.

"Let's put him in the trunk," he finally said. Lisa's car was a hatchback with the ample cargo space that was required to accommodate Rachel's wheelchair; it would work just fine for Wilson.

Lisa looked disconcerted for a moment, but then she pushed the wheelchair round to the back of her car, saying, "Let's hope no one sees us."

He crawled into the cargo space and turned around, crouching. "Turn the wheelchair so I can pull him over the back," he instructed.

When Lisa had done so, he threaded his hands under Wilson's armpits, clasping them in front of his chest. "Hang onto the wheelchair!"

Lisa held onto the footrests causing the wheelchair to tip backwards, which made it easier for him to slide Wilson from the chair into the cargo space. He got the torso in, but then he ran out of backing space, and Wilson's legs and feet still hung out. Letting go of the wheelchair, Lisa took hold of Wilson's feet and swung them sideways into the trunk. She paused, looking at the inelegant way he was folded into the trunk, then she said, "I'll get a pillow and some blankets."

With that she was gone. Pete adjusted Wilson's head and shoulders so that he wasn't quite so twisted, and then he climbed out to fold the wheelchair. It wouldn't fit in the trunk with Wilson, so he placed it in front of the passenger seat instead.

Lisa came back with a whole arsenal of blankets and bolsters. "You'd better ride in the back with him," she said, "or he'll roll all over the place."

He'd figured that too, so he helped her jam Wilson in as tightly as possible, reserving a large cushion for himself.

Riding in the back unable to see where they were going was more unnerving than he would have thought possible. "Don't keep stopping, woman!" he groused when the car slowed down for what seemed the hundredth time for no apparent reason.

"You want me to get stopped by the cops for running a red light?" Lisa asked.

No, he didn't. But surely they could go faster that what she was driving!

"We're almost there," Lisa said in soothing tones that undoubtedly worked wonders on her sprog on long car rides, but left him with a barely repressible desire to climb over the seats, tug her out of the driver's seat and push down on the accelerator. Nevertheless, a few minutes later they drew into the parking lot at Lisa's hospital. He looked around for cameras; luckily for them (and for anyone wanting to perpetrate crimes) security cameras were few and far between.

"That ill-lit spot over there," he said, pointing to the far corner.

Lisa pulled into the parking spot. Silently they got into position to get Wilson out again, now with Lisa crouched in the car and Pete positioned behind the wheelchair. This time round they were a lot faster; getting him out was easier than getting him in, and they worked as a team now.

Lisa locked the car, squared her shoulders and said, "Let's go!" She strode ahead while he followed, pushing Wilson.

The next half hour was a blur. Lisa, acting as if appearing at the hospital with a case of acute medication poisoning was the most normal thing in the world, waved an irritated hand at the admission desk, barked orders into her phone and at any nurse unwise enough to ask questions, and led the way to the ICU.

"His friend found him barely conscious," she said to the doctor on duty as two orderlies sprang forward to transfer Wilson into a hospital bed. "He passed out when we got him out of the car. …. No, I don't know what … Pete, do you know what Wilson took?"

It was as if they'd rehearsed it before. He pulled out the medication plan that Wilson and he had set up and handed it over. "Found it next to the bed," he said.

He stepped back and watched as the unit kicked into action, only half paying attention to the resident who was trying to get a patient history from him. Nurses bustled around hooking Wilson up to monitors, the physician on duty took Wilson's vitals, a resident paged oncology, another hovered in the background trying to look competent, and Lisa paced around, making one phone call after another.

"They're getting a clean room ready just in case his white blood cell count tanks," she said to him between calls. "Pearson from Oncology will be here in a moment. Is there anything else we need?"

"A haematologist would be neat," he said. "And maybe someone from gastro with a speciality in liver disease." She nodded and turned away.

"Try to lie low," she said. "Why don't you go to the cafeteria and get yourself a bite to eat?"

Predictably, the cafeteria was closed and he didn't have any change for the vending machines, but a little gift shop was open, so he helped himself to some candy bars and a ball under cover of browsing through the magazines there. Half an hour later he was back at the ICU.

There, three doctors in white lab coats huddled around Lisa, arguing heatedly. They looked perplexed while Lisa alternated between rocking on her heels and pulling a hand through her already dishevelled hair. He could almost hear her debating the advisability of introducing him to her staff, but after a moment's hesitation she waved at him to come over.

"Guys, this is … Pete, Dr Wilson's best friend. If anyone knows what Wilson would want, it's him," she said. "Pete, this is Leo Kaminsky, our haematologist, Annie Liu from our ICU team, and Bill Pearson, our head of Oncology."

He nodded stiffly while Lisa's minions looked politely puzzled.

"Pete has experience in – interdisciplinary approaches to medicine," Lisa added.

"You're a doctor?" Liu asked.

He nodded.

"There's nothing interdisciplinary about this," Pearson said. "We need to get him off all medication, otherwise his liver will fail. We can keep him alive without an immune system, but not without a liver."

Kaminsky looked unhappy. He turned to Pete. "Any idea why he took this crazy cocktail?"

Pete shrugged. "To shrink his tumour, maybe?"

Annie Liu snorted. "Look," she said, "I need a decision. Any decision. We can discuss Dr Wilson's state of mind and medical judgment afterwards."

Kaminsky looked even unhappier, if that was possible. "There's no sense in agreeing on something that Dr Wilson will overturn once he comes round and can make his own decisions again. We should try to figure out what he'd want and implement that, regardless of whether that reflects our medical opinion," he said. "Judging by what he took, his liver wasn't his primary concern, so we should …"

"Neither was his immune system, as far as I can make out," Pearson interrupted. "If we judge his wishes based on what he took, we should get out a gun and shoot him!"

"Bill, that was incredibly insensitive," Lisa said. "If you can't say anything constructive, keep your mouth shut."

Pearson stared at her. Liu applauded. "Thank you," Kaminsky said, assuming that Lisa was taking his side.

Lisa rounded on him. "And you, stop prevaricating. We need a medical opinion, not a set of assumptions about what Wilson would or wouldn't do."

"Then why are we including the patient's family in the process?" Liu asked reasonably.

Lisa glanced at Pete. "Because he's a good doctor."

Liu folded her arms. "So are we."

"I'm a better doctor than you," Pete said, sticking his tongue out. Liu looked expectantly at Lisa, probably hoping that she'd give him a dressing-down like she'd done Pearson.

Lisa sighed. "He's right, so listen to him, please."

Three pairs of eyes stared at him with hostility. He preened himself until Lisa stuck her elbow in his side.

"Up the meropenem," he said. "We need to stabilise his immune system before that tanks too."

Liu looked at Kaminsky. When he nodded she turned to the ICU nurses.

"What kind of a freaking quack are you?" Pearson growled. He turned on Lisa. "If you listen to him, I wash my hands …"

"As long as you're working at this hospital, you'll accept my decisions!" Lisa snapped. They locked eyes until Pearson dropped his. "This is an intensive care decision anyway, not an oncological one," Lisa added in a more conciliatory tone. "We're not poaching on your territory, Bill."

"Whatever! I guess I can leave then." Pearson stomped off, huffing.

"Great," Lisa said. She shook her head as though clearing thoughts of Pearson's hissy fit out of it. "I'll go and get Wilson officially admitted. Do you have any papers of his?" When he'd handed her Wilson's driver's licence she left.

He was sitting on the floor bouncing his ball against the opposite wall when Dr Liu marched up to him with a clipboard.

"The blood test results have come in."

Catching the ball, he rose. "Can I see?"

"Sorry, you don't have privileges here. But you should know that his liver is failing."

"Expected that," he said briefly. "How much longer?"

She ignored his question. "When we couldn't get him to come round, I also ordered a tox screen. He has vast quantities of tranquillisers in his blood. Would you care to explain that?"

"Tranquillisers?" he echoed. "I haven't a clue. Maybe he was feeling anxious, couldn't sleep …"

"Look, Dr …," she paused, waiting for him to supply his last name. When he didn't respond, her lips tightened, but she continued, "Sooner or later Dr Wilson will regain consciousness. If he doesn't want to stay here, we can't force him to do so. Maybe we can shorten this charade and liberate valuable hospital resources for patients who actually want them …"

"Look, Dr Lulu," he said, mimicking her as he loomed over her. "For all you know, the tranquillisers were a suicide attempt, in which case he'll have to stay here on psych watch."

"But he doesn't have to consent to any form of medical treatment while he's on psych watch," she countered.

"Didn't your tox screen tell you that he also has vast amounts of prednisone, cisplatin and octreotide in his blood? He's not refusing medical treatment!"

"What if he says he didn't take the tranquillisers? Then we can't put him on psych watch, and we'll have to let him leave."

"Everybody lies, especially people who want to commit suicide. You're gonna believe him just because he says he didn't take them?"

She rolled her eyes and flicked her long, dark hair back. "Look," she said – it seemed to be one of her favourite words. "Seventy-two hours on psych watch, and then what? He isn't going to change his mind about staying in a hospital just because we babysit him for a few days." She stared at him challengingly. "If I'm to keep him here against his will, I need something to work with."

"Acute liver failure can cause hepatic encephalopathy," he said meaningfully.

She looked at the clipboard, her mouth working in concentration. He squinted too, but he couldn't read the numbers from that distance and angle.

"Okay, I guess we can posit stage II encephalopathy with confusion and personality change," she finally said. "That would suffice to keep him here without his consent."

"Great!" he said with false cheer. "Now that we've settled that, maybe we – meaning you – can go back to saving my friend's life."

Slapping the clipboard against her thigh in irritation (most likely she wanted to hit him over the head with it), Liu went back into the ICU. He slumped down on a bench, tossing his ball into the air and catching it. A moment later, a hand plucked the ball out of the air before he could catch it.

"What was that about?" Lisa asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled. "Your staff sucks."

"Sure," Lisa agreed amicably. "You're hungry, I'm tired, and Wilson will be out for the next few hours. Let's go home."