A/N: Happy New Year everyone! I am sorry I am so late with this. This is the final chapter. I really found that I was confused as to what to do with this story. Really! I struggled! I didn't even ignore the story. I just struggled. So it is clear that I am done. There is no riding into the sunset in this story. I hope that's okay. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you again for reading this with me. I have really enjoyed meeting you all!

Thanks

Sheila

Heart Cancer

Chapter 15

He found her standing against the wall across from his office. She was leaning as if it was more than a mere convenience. House let out a sigh and walked toward her, holding out an arm. She took it gratefully and let him lead her to a chair in his office.

"Consuela," he started gently.

She put a hand up. "Save it. There's a cab outside. I'm on my way to the airport. I just want to know if he's okay."

House nodded. "He woke up last night. I called before I came in; his vitals are strong. I was just going to head down to see him. Do you want to come?"

She shook her head. "I just want to know he's fine before I go."

"I'm sure he would like to see you."

She looked at the wall behind him. "No. He should focus on the direction he's going; I have to focus on where I'm going."

House looked down. "I'm sorry, Consuela. It's a tough journey."

She bit her lower lip. "I think I'm coming to grips with it in a way. Feeling like this is no way to live."

House walked around the desk, and pulled a stethoscope out of a drawer. "Let me take one more listen. I might be able to give you something for the plane."

"Always trying to get into my shirt. You should be ashamed. You're his best friend."

He chuckled and warmed the scope before placing it on her back. He asked her to breathe in and out as best she could. Her breathe was shallow and labored. "The pain?"

She shrugged. "I have three months of medication with me. Other than that, I'm on my own."

House grabbed a pad off his desk and began to scribble. "Get these. It'll help."

She took the scrip from him and leaned heavily against the desk as she pulled herself upright. She grinned at him grimly and headed for the door.

"Conni," he said.

"The cab is waiting. Sorry." She left slowly, and he considered helping her down to the lobby, but he suspected that neither one of them would have found it a comfortable walk.

………………………………………………………………………………..

Dr. James Wilson recovered at a remarkable rate. He was out of the hospital within a week. House held off on the MRI as long as possible. He needed to let Wilson heal, and early tests were not a good indicator of long term results.

Thin and ghostly pale, Wilson sat home in front of his big screen and watched 12 hours of ESPN a day. He was beginning to relate to Chris Kirkpatrick in an alarmingly personal way. Uninvited guests showed up on a daily basis. Foreman and Chase showed up one night with pizza and beer, and the three of them could find nothing more palatable than Western collegiate girl's softball. These visits tended to be fairly solemn affairs. Wilson was pleasant enough, but the dark circles under his eyes and the struggles of the last two months hung over him like a fog. He watched the TV, but everyone could see the distracted look on his face. Eventually his pretense of mood would die and the conversation drift off. Wilson would mention feeling tired, and his friends would be gone in minutes.

House showed up without fail once a day. He brought magazines and takeout food, keeping up a steady chatter of his complaints and crimes. It was victory any time he was able to coax a smile out of Wilson.

The day they did the MRI, everyone gathered in House's office to wait. Cuddy paced like a first time father outside the delivery room. House walked in with no pretense; a rare wide smile spread across his thin features. Everyone was smiles and good cheer, and for a moment, House imagined that Wilson was as good as new.

He had been home about three weeks when he and House had the big fight. It started out well. Wilson was feeling better; he'd been out for a walk and was even chuckling at House's stories. Then he told House he had come to a decision. He was feeling up to going down to Puerto Rico; he wanted to spend time with Conni before she was gone. House couldn't contain his impatience. Perfunctorily, he told Wilson that it wasn't possible. Wilson asked if he wanted to come with; together they could make her last days comfortable. House snorted and told him that there wasn't anything they could do to make a difference for her.

Wilson persisted. He was feeling restless; useless. She had been there for him, and he wanted to do the same for her. House dropped his head into his hands. Finally he lifted it, and said, "There is no way. I haven't followed you through this entire ordeal to have you take off again while you're still recovering."

"I can't do nothing!"

House stood up. "Do you really think she wants to see you? If she's even alive, my guess is that she is not interested in seeing anyone. You think she'd love to see you? The disappointment? Shock? The pity on your face?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "I'm an oncologist! I wouldn't show those things."

"You're a man, Wilson. You care about her. You would show everything. Leave her alone. Let her be with her family."

"I want to help."

House threw his arms up. "Why? Because you can? Because you can offer her something no one else can? Or is it because it's the only thing you know how to do? She doesn't need your help. She needs peace!"

Wilson stared at him, eyes narrowed. "The only thing I know how to do? What does that mean?"

House looked away. "Nothing. It's not important. James, it's time to wake up and be grateful you're alive."

"Like you do every day." Wilson frowned at him.

"I was a pain in the ass before the infarction. You think a bad leg was going to clear that up? Please do not get this confused. We are definitely talking about you right now."

"I'm tired."

"And you're depressed and you feel lost or something; I don't know. All you do is sit there and smile and tell everyone you can't wait to get back to work. This is not you."

"Maybe I'm just a boring guy who can't wait to get back to work."

"Well, I think you're a guy who has had a lot of time to think."

"I'm supposed to know what you're talking about."

"I don't know. If I had to guess, I would say you've been taking a good, hard look at your life, and you don't like what you see."

Wilson screwed up his face. "What's wrong with you? You can't just let me recover from cancer? You gotta find something new to complain about? Jeez, you really know how to wear a guy out. All I want to do is help a friend."

"Listen—" House began.

"No, not interested. Not today. It's time for you to go." Wilson started herding him toward the door.

"You're not going to Puerto Rico," House yelled before the door was slammed in his face.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

James Wilson didn't go to Puerto Rico. He stayed home, and let his body heal. Immediately after his fight with House, he stopped encouraging visitors; ignoring phone calls and the persistent knocking at his door.

Two weeks later, he returned to work. He felt like a different man, and knew he looked like one as well. His features were sharper, and a new head of hair included the first sprinkling of white hairs. He knew he was too thin, but he was still unable to find the appetite to eat the extra calories.

House kept his distance and Wilson was glad. House wasn't good at superficial conversation, and Wilson had no interest in rehashing the details of their last encounter. He focused all his attention on his department; working late into the evening most days.

He was deep into reviewing charts one evening when a shadow passed over the file in his hand. He looked up to find Cameron standing there. He nodded politely and greeted her.

She shifted uncomfortably.

"So, Allison, what can I do for you?"

She took this as an invitation and sat in a chair across from him. He suppressed a twinge of annoyance. Cameron appeared to be staying for awhile.

"Well, I just wanted to see how you are."

"I'm okay."

"We miss you."

He looked around his office and shrugged. "I'm not that hard to find, actually."

"House is worse than usual."

"And he's not being held pending bail? How is that possible?"

"He's actually not precipitating any lawsuits right now. In fact, he isn't insulting anyone. Cuddy was wearing one of those ridiculously low cut ruffled blouses she likes, and he spent at least an hour in the same room, and said absolutely nothing about it. Foreman wants to do a neurological work up on him, and Chase wants the church to investigate for a miracle."

Wilson leaned back in his chair, his hands interlaced behind his neck. "Sounds like a dream come true to me."

"He is also not taking any risks with patients, and, in fact, brings very little to the table at all diagnostically. He seems…dull right now. Not stupid, of course. But there are no sharp edges."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "He's pouting."

"He misses you."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic. He gets this way every couple of years with me or without me. He needs a few months of Wellbutrin, and then he'll be back to his nasty self."

"Why are you mad at him?"

"I'm not mad."

"What do you mean? The two of you are usually as thick as thieves."

"I'm taking a little House vacation. He can really be a piece of work, you know."

"Well," she said, looking at the poster over his left shoulder, "he misses you, and it's affecting his work." She leaned forward. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't worried. The idea of losing you has weighed heavily on him for months now. He doesn't sleep well; his clothes hang on him more loosely than I have ever seen. He's lost some of his fight. I think he's tired; he's spent the last six months caring for you. And you got better, but now you're fighting with him. I think he's depressed."

Wilson looked down at his desk. "He can never be satisfied. Sometimes, it's too much. I can't just be physically healthy, now I gotta completely rethink my life; like I'm the one who's screwed up his life."

She cocked her head. "I don't really know what you're talking about."

Wilson let out a deep breath and shrugged. "Never mind. He just hit a nerve is all."

"So you think you're going to get back from this House vacation anytime soon?"

Wilson smiled. "Give me a couple of days. I'll think about it."

Cameron got up to leave.

"You know, Allison, he's really lucky to have you watching out for him. He doesn't act like it, but he does see you."

Cameron looked down for a moment and then smiled. "Thanks."

……………………………………………………………………………………

House poured another scotch. He sat back in his chair and turned the volume up on the big screen. The Nets looked almost life size running up and down the court chased by the Cleveland Cavaliers. He glanced over at the coffee table at the half eaten pepperoni thin crust, but decided he couldn't reach it without getting out of his chair and his thigh was throbbing from a long day at the hospital.

The Nets were 0-12 for the last ten minutes, and an upset seemed imminent. House dreaded the ending no matter who won. It was still hours before he would find sleep, and he wasn't sure how he would entertain himself next.

The doorbell rang, and he dropped his head back and groaned. He waited, and started to relax when he heard nothing more. At this time of night, it was probably some kid playing games. He grabbed the remote and turned up the volume again. the doorbell rang again, this time a more insistent series of rings. House cursed and pushed himself upright, grabbing for his cane.

Wilson was leaning against the stoop when House opened the door. House cocked his head and gestured inside. Wilson nodded and walked past him into the house. Without a word, he headed to the liquor cabinet and pulled out the expensive whiskey. He poured himself three fingers, and carried the bottle with him to the couch.

House sighed and returned to his chair. "Did they call?"

Wilson nodded and took a long sip of his drink. "She passed away yesterday morning. Marta called."

House picked up his scotch and followed Wilson's lead. "I kept you from going. You got something to say?"

Wilson shook his head. "I could have gone. I just figured you were right."

House slowly twirled his highball glass with his long fingers and waited.

"It really wouldn't have mattered," Wilson continued, "She was unconscious for most of the last month. She would never have known I was there."

Another silence descended. House reached over and turned down the sounds coming from the TV. Wilson swallowed hard and stared into his drink.

House chewed on his lip for a moment before saying, "And you lived."

Wilson closed his eyes and leaned back into the couch. House hit mute, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of the clock on the wall.

"I hate it when you play Freud."

House shrugged.

Wilson saw him and chuckled, "Yeah. Well, you were right. I did feel guilty for living. I did feel like she had more stake in this world with those three beautiful kids. And I did feel like I've done very little in my life other than a successful medical practice and a penchant for alienating nice women."

"Yeah, but the professional part is no small thing. You make a difference, dawg."

Wilson nodded, smirking at his reference. "And I resented hearing it from you. I am healthy one in this relationship. You're the one too miserable for words."

"Sorry, I messed with our formula." House let a grin tug at the edges of his mouth.

"Apology accepted," Wilson murmured before taking another long drink.

"She really broke your heart, didn't she?"

Wilson snorted. "They all do, Greg. What can I say?"

"She was a good woman. Who knows? If things had been different…"

"I would have screwed it up."

"Maybe not. Odds are you got get it right one of these times. There is a learning curve, you know."

Wilson smiled and reached for the bottle again. "I wouldn't count on it. I'm thinking with the track record the two of us have, we should probably just stay bachelors."

"Sounds like a plan. We'll watch games every night and drink like sailors."

Wilson cocked his head. "Yeah, but I really dig kids. I am discovering this. Maybe we should get some kids. A couple of boys, maybe a girl… They'd have the Wilson name. House isn't really a name; it's a thing, a domicile, you know."

House raised an eyebrow. "Would these children be our servants?"

His head was back laughing, and House couldn't help but join in. Wilson reached for the congealed pizza and took a slice. "I do know that I want my life to have meaning outside the hospital. I need that."

House rolled his electric eyes. "For me, the only meaning in life I need is encased in whichever television screen I have in front of me at the time."

Wilson looked around for something to wipe the pizza grease on. "Okay, so the balance of the universe is in place again with me being a fairly decent person, and you being a moral vegetable."

"Yeah, it really does feel like the universe is right again." House settled back into his chair and poured another scotch.

"So I have signed us up for a little something on Wednesday nights," Wilson said casually, careful not to meet House's eyes.

House winced. "I'm pretty sure I don't want to be part of your project."

"We're going to do health checks at the Salvation Army from 8 p.m. to midnight."

"You might be doing that, but I'll be busy not doing that on Wednesdays. Sorry."

Wilson leaned forward. "Come on. Just think. No charting. You can say what you want. We'll steal supplies from the hospital. Cuddy will freak when the antibiotics start disappearing. We'll be like Robin Hood. It'll be fun."

"And if you do your part for the homeless people of Princeton, then maybe karma will protect your brother wherever he is."

"Maybe."

"And does this somehow help you get over Conni?"

Wilson shrugged.

"But whatever your motives, you would like your misanthropic friend to participate with you?"

"We'll go out for pizza and beer afterward."

House chuckled. "If our only other alternative is adopting kids, then I think I'll go with this."

Wilson grinned. He picked up the rest of the cold pizza and shoved it toward him. House reached over and grabbed a piece. "Turn up the damn game." He pointed a remote at the big screen and the two of them settled in as the Nets fought to make up four points they were down.

The End