"When the cancer starts getting really bad, I want you to kill me."
With forty-eight years of moments to choose from, that was the only one Gregory House could remember as he lurked in the doorway, watching his almost-brother struggle to see, struggle to breathe. He had never been more aware of the gun sitting underneath the sofa on which Wilson lay. Just waiting to be used. At least something in this room had a purpose.
Wilson finally found enough strength to give a feeble wave. "House," he called. "I know you're there. I heard your cane."
The tapping of the cane again irritated his sensitive ears as House limped closer. "Is it time?"
"Maybe you can...sit and...talk to me first. Just for awhile."
House hesitated briefly, listening to Wilson's labored breathing as he tried preparing himself for saying one final goodbye to the both of them. Then, looking down at his suffering friend, he leaned closer. And pushed his legs out of his way. Wilson found it in his good-natured self to chuckle humorlessly as he bent his legs, resting a tight fist on his wet forehead. House sat in front of his feet and leaned forward, sliding the gun out into the open and picking it up off the floor.
The night exploded in noise as House turned the safety off. He looked over at Wilson, whose eyes were now wide open, and cast to the vault ceiling. But all Wilson said was, "Can you make sure Hector goes to a good home?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'll take care of your dog. And while we're on the subject of bitches...want me to say anything to Sam?"
Wilson inhaled sharply, closing his eyes and shaking his head.
"Sorry," House said instinctively. "I know. Respect the dead."
Wilson opened his eyes. "No message. Not to that bitch," he added, choking on his laugh as he cried. He struggled to sit up a little, his left hand fumbling over the cushion as his right hand gripped the back. With a groan of a Herculean effort, he barely moved. "Oh, I was stupid," he began, and fought for several breaths. "All that time I knew how this was going to end... I never wrote a single damn goodbye. And there's so much I want to say. So much I want to hear, and...and do."
House looked at him.
"And I never will," Wilson concluded, squinting at House.
"Everything you want to say, they know. Everything you want to hear, you know. And everything you want to do is overrated."
"The only child I ever had was a prank. I've got nothing, House."
"Well, that's not true. You've got tumors. And you raised them all by yourself."
"Uh, I was wrong," Wilson strained, as he continued attempting to sit up. "I don't want you to talk." He groaned again as he finally uprighted himself, and House handed him a little dish rag. He took it and began mopping his face. "I need you to do something else for me. Not long before I was diagnosed, I became an organ donor."
House nodded, letting the gun finally dangle motionlessly between his hands. "I'll take care of it."
"I know." Wilson squinted at the table, trying to discern what was on it. "I'm glad you're here. I need an ass."
House frowned at him. "Well, what's the point of getting a lift now?"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "Touché."
"Hey. Touché-ing is extra."
Wilson was smiling despite himself as he watched House's blurry hand set the gun on the coffee table. He listened to House beginning to serve the beer. "Well, I...I guess I do have one message," he said.
Suddenly, Wilson's hand snaked out and grabbed the gun. He pointed it at House as he lunged to his feet, stumbling backward between the couch and coffee table. His hands shook terribly. He couldn't see House at all, who stared up at him, frozen on the couch―his nerves screaming.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
"Refusing to let you add murder to the list." Wilson motioned into the vague direction of the door with the gun. "Get out of here and get far away. I'll do it myself."
The glass and bottle clattered on the table, then his blurry form stood up. "We had a deal."
"We never had a deal. I just wanted to spend more time with you, go on that hike with you, tell you what it meant to me...but being the jackass you are, doing what you always do, you didn't let me say it. You didn't let me say a word. The safety is off, House... Get out of here."
House curled his fist around his cane and got painfully to his feet, limping towards the door. "You won't be able to do it. I know you want to live."
"Not like this! Not another day."
House hesitated for a moment, putting his cane in his left hand as he put his right on the knob. Then he looked up at his friend one last time. "Okay. If you're sure."
"Your charges are already going to be huge. If you put a bullet in my head, you will never see the light of day and I am not going to let them do that to you!" he nearly shouted, and paused to catch his breath. "I'll wait five minutes, and you better floor it. Someone better see you."
House unlocked and opened the door. "Goodbye, Wilson."
Wilson nodded, lowering the gun slowly. "Goodbye, House."
The door banged shut, and all Wilson could hear in the blurry dark were his own labored breaths. He inhaled deeply and held his breath, listening for the softest rustle of fabric, or one clumsy step. But there was no sound, and House never came to take the gun. Then he jumped as a motorbike roared to life near the cabin.
He waited for House to drive away, then began to count.
Behind his glass shield, House was gritting his teeth as he roared down Dog Creek Road. Wilson had always wanted to see Alkali Lake. Of all the places he could have gone, he wanted to see Canada. House didn't understand it...but he would respect it. Just enough to see what all the fuss was about.
But little did he know, he would never make it there, either.
House ripped past a blue and white sign that read B&B Juniper Trails, took two bends in the road and had just torn past another blue sign announcing lakes Felker and Chimney. At the exact same time he heard a gunshot, suddenly he saw a rather suicidal deer standing in his path. Instinctively, House yanked his handlebars to the side, skirting around the deer and into oncoming traffic. He opened his mouth in a scream muffled by his helmet as the bike flipped over onto its right side. The cement road bit into his leg, the bike slammed into it from the knee down, and he felt the pain of muscle death twofold.
He skidded down a little grassy knoll and came to rest on the corner of roads Dog Creek and Chimney Lake.
Still crushed by the bike, House let his head fall onto the back of his helmet and he stared up through the now filthy glass of his face shield. Then he realized that his bike was illuminated by headlights. They weren't moving.
Suddenly the form of a beautiful woman stepped into the light. She gazed down upon him, then looked up in shock. "Logan! He's alive."
The lovely lady knelt beside him and pried House's fingers off the handlebars. "Sir. Sir, we're going to help you. Have you been shot?"
They worked together to remove his helmet. House stared up into her caring face.
"No. Not shot," he uttered.
His eyes were then drawn to the new presence of a man. A massive man, whose muscles were prominent enough to cast shadows. And who grabbed the bike with one hand, lifted it off his leg, and tossed it aside. Thinking he was suffering from head trauma for sure, House allowed his head to fall to the dirt as the world began closing in. The last thing his poor road-smacked brain erroneously told him he felt were the hands of the Hulk grabbing him by the shirt and picking him up.