Enjoy Yourself

Part 1: Everybody Dies

A/N: A fic I wrote right after the finale, literally the same night. My first fanfic, actually. Warning: SADNESS!

A/N 2: Edited on 5/2/2013 to lower grammatical crap factor.

Disclaimer: I don't own House MD! All rights go to David Shore and the Fox Production Company.

Greg House was never one to hold patient's hands as they died. But this was not one of his patients.

This was his best friend.

House gripped James Wilson's hand as his friend drew short ragged gasps, which were becoming fewer and farther between as the cancer progressed into it's final stage; multi-system shutdown.

Wilson had been degenerating for the past month, and it was this rainy afternoon in November that House had guessed would be the oncologist's last day to live. He had exceeded his five month deadline by one month, but he might as well have dropped dead the minute Halloween came. House would have preferred that then slowly watching his friend die a painful death.

The morphine had been easy enough to get. Stolen from an ICU in Denver, which was where they were staying, was of little help at this stage. They were running low, and House was now relying on his vicodin to help Wilson as well. Unfortunately, for the past three days, Wilson had refused to eat anything, no matter how hard House tried. House blearily leaned back in the chair next to his friend's bed. They were in an upscale hotel in downtown Denver. It had a beautiful view of the mountains and the city. House remembered when he and a weakening Wilson had first come here.

Wilson was staring out the window, contemplating something that House couldn't fathom. He stepped forward to stare out of the wall length windows.

"House," Wilson said quietly.

"Hmm?" House grunted in response. The view was quite pretty. House wished they had come to Denver earlier, when Wilson was still strong and alive. They could have gone skiing together.

"If I have to die somewhere, I want it to be here," Wilson stated, contentment in his voice. House had looked at him strangely then, and for the first time in their twenty year friendship, House had encircled his best friend in a tight embrace. He rubbed his back and spoke gently.

"Okay."

And now, what seemed a million years later, the view did nothing for either him nor his best friend. Deluded with pain, when Wilson did speak he made very little sense. House knew the dying throes of cancer well, thanks to the dying oncologist. Soon Wilson would have a burst of clarity, perhaps eat something, then survive another hour (if he was lucky) before breathing one last, ragged breath, then quietly slipping into oblivion.

House had little thought of himself in the past week. He hadn't showered once, and he hadn't slept in four days. He ate very little, which was also due to the fact that he was starting to experience withdrawal symptoms. Still, none of this mattered or affected him compared to the intense pain that filled him. Stronger than anything his leg had ever caused. Nothing compared to what he felt when he took in the remnants of his best friend.

Wilson's skin was sunken and sallow, his cheek bones standing out in sharp relief against his gaunt skin. The doctor's silky brown hair had been reduced to a mottled gray and brown rag, lifeless and dirty. His deep brown eyes were glazed over, and most often closed. A mixture of gray bags and shadows hung underneath them, and a slowly thickening five o'clock shadow was growing on his face, not unlike House's. Moving down, where Wilson's broad shoulders and well-muscled upper body once were, thin, weak segments remained. Wilson was down to one thirty, barely weighing more than a teenage girl. There was almost nothing left of his friend to acknowledge. Of course, the worst loss was not Wilson's body and looks, but his mind. The brilliant, kind doctor was gone. He had barely recognized House for the past few days.

House gripped Wilson's hand tighter, and stared deep into the other man's eyes, trying to find some small ghost of his best friend, but found none. Only the blank, empty acceptance of death remained.

House briefly remembered the last lucid exchange between the two of them. Five days ago. Wilson was writhing in pain as the cancer tore through his liver and kidneys. He was vomiting blood, and it probably felt like someone was slowly dragging a knife in and out of his lower stomach. Wilson had a brief reprieve, and gasping in pain, he yelled.

"I don't deserve this!" he screamed this over and over again, hoarse with rage. The whole time House gripped his hand.

"I know," he would say quietly as his friend screamed about the unfairness of it all. And he was right. Wilson didn't deserve this. Wilson, the man who had saved so many lives. Not because he felt obligated to or because of the puzzle, but because he was a good person. Because he wanted to help. Wilson eventually stopped and huffed, looking at House.

"Never had a successful relationship. No kids. What have I really done?" he asked weakly.

"What have you done? Do I have to go drudge up your patient files and show you the disgusting amount of good you've wreaked on the world?" House countered. "Not to mention, you're... you're pretty much the only reason I'm alive," he added quietly. "And what with all the feeding the hungry, shodding the shoeless, and reading to the blind I do, apparently you've done quite a bit," he quipped sarcastically. Wilson laughed at this.

"Gregory House, my only legacy. It's true though, is the sad thing. You were my only successful relationship. The only one who didn't leave me or die." Wilson was laughing harder now, and House couldn't help but notice that his friend sounded slightly insane. "We might as well have been married! The 'until death do us part' thing is certainly applicable here." That was the last coherent thing Wilson had said before the nausea hit, even worse now. There was no time to speak, and by the next reprieve Wilson was so delirious with pain he couldn't say a word.

House's head throbbed along with his leg, and he absent mindedly scratched his eyes, crusty from lack of sleep and tears. House didn't cry often. Once every decade or so. The last time he had cried was when Cuddy had left him. But for the past few days, almost every thought, every glance at his best friend, or any memory of their twenty years together brought forth a flood of burning, painful tears.

He couldn't hold himself together while Wilson was dying. What would he do when he was dead? House had contemplated killing himself, but had decided against it. Eerie reminders of the ghosts that had visited him when he had attempted to kill himself last time. Stacy's voice echoed in his head.

"You can still be happy, Greg."

Without Wilson? Unlikely. The last five months after House had 'died' were the best of his life, and he was happy. When he dated Cuddy, for a while he was happy. When he was with Stacy. Other than that, had he ever really been happy? Cuddy's voice now spoke, replacing Stacy's.

"House doesn't do happy."

How true.

These voices had been bothering him incessantly since the cancer started getting to Wilson. And they weren't just feathery shadows that would speak briefly from memories deep in his mind. They were tangible, as if Lisa Cuddy was standing next to him, and chastising him like she used to. They had worsened in the past three days. Cuddy, Stacy, Thirteen, Cameron, Foreman, Chase, Taub, Kutner. An endless parade of the life he left behind trampling through his mind, unhinging him.

"Imagine if we start arguing with each other," a voice said from behind him. House jumped and slipped out of his chair next to Wilson's bed. He let go of his friend's hand so he wouldn't drag him off the bed with him. He was sure this time, that voice was real. He spun around as he forced his leg to move despite it's throbbing protestation, and was faced with pale blue eyes and a mocking grin.

"Amber," he whispered in shock. He was struggling to stay on his feet, barely coherent.

"Your favorite hallucination is back," she said with a smile. House stared at her.

"No," he insisted. "Not again," he said, backing up until the back of his legs were jammed against Wilson's bed.

"You've been hearing voices for a month, and now that one of them isn't inside your head, you're worried?" she laughed, high and pure. "Leave it to you to rationalize the insanity."

"Go away," House growled. Amber raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm you. I can't go away," she said matter-of-factly.

"You did last time," House replied.

"Just pretend I'm here for moral support." She cast her eyes toward Wilson, and a hideous grin covered her face. "Oh, dear. He's not in good shape is he?" Whatever small semblance of sanity that held House together snapped, and he lunged at the apparition. He felt real skin under his hands, but his rage consumed proper thought. He throttled her, and Amber choked and pleaded.

"Stop! Stop please!" But it wasn't Amber's voice. It was...

It was Wilson's! House blinked rapidly and jerked his hands away. Instead of standing by the door of the bedroom, strangling Amber, he was hunched over Wilson, who now had purple and blue marks blossoming on his neck.

"No!" House cried. He grabbed his hands. "God, Wilson, I'm sorry. I can't tell what's real anymore. I thought you were Amber." He doubted his best friend would be able to comprehend him, but a spark was in his friend's chocolate eyes.

The moment of clarity was here.

Wilson now gripped House's hands back and used them to pull his half naked form off of the bed. He was clad only in poorly fitted boxers. However, life emanated from him. Wilson's thick eyebrows were furrowed.

"This is the last time we'll ever speak, House," Wilson said simply, though his voice was incredibly hoarse. Of course Wilson would understand what was happening. He'd seen this happen to thousands of patients as they died. What a cruel twist of irony that Wilson would pass into darkness in the same way.

"I know," House muttered. The strangling was already forgotten. Wilson grabbed at House's shoulders, entwining his bony fingers in House's tee-shirt.

"Don't give up," Wilson choked out, milky tears brimming in his eyes. "You were the only constant in my life, House. I love you. You're my best friend. I wouldn't have survived without you." Wilson was speaking faster now. "There's so much I should have said to you years ago. But House, promise me, promise me you won't give up. You won't just fade away." He was sobbing heavily. House looked at his friend, tears brimming in his eyes now as well. They slowly spilled out of his eyes, collecting in his eyelashes.

"I promise," he said quietly. Wilson smiled at him, a brilliant, happy smile that House rarely saw on his friend. For the second time, House circled his arms around Wilson, and the two men gripped each other like life preservers. "I love you too, Wilson." House told the other man quietly. They stood like that for a long time. They both cried. But soon he felt Wilson's strength begin to flag, and he held his friend's hand once more as he lowered him back into his bed. His death bed, a small voice spoke inside of him. It sounded like Amber. He was trembling now. Wilson was staring at the ceiling. They both knew what was coming.

Wilson drew a long, harsh breath. One last round of tears spilled from the oncologist's eyes, and then all life flew out of him. His breath ceased, what little color was left emptied from his skin, and his body sagged back into the bed.

James Evan Wilson was dead.