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August 21st, 2010
Gregory House wasn’t well lately. He’d been taking more Vicodin than usual, not because his leg hurt more, but because his head was killing him.
Throbbing, stabbing pain that always appeared on the right side of his head. He could feel the pain inside of his skull, like someone had taken a screwdriver and rammed it into his brain.
His first thought was Vicodin-- even though headaches this severe weren’t a common side effect of long-term use, they could still be related, right?
House knew it wasn’t true. Of course Vicodin didn’t cause this.
It was something new to him, but maybe not new to James Wilson.
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October 5th, 2010
“House? House, hello?”
Taub’s voice cut through whatever fog had seeped into House’s brain. He came back to himself, realizing he was in the middle of a differential.
“Keep your voice down when your teacher is talking,” he quipped. The board was filled with symptoms and ideas he didn’t remember writing down.
Dysgeusia
Syncope
NICENESS?
Stroke
William’s disease?
“We’ve got a whole party tray of symptoms, come on, use those lumps in your heads!”
The team looked at him oddly.
“Uh, we just discussed this,” Chase pointed out.
Thirteen narrowed her eyes. “I just suggested it was a PFO, we should do an echo. Are you okay? You’ve been acting--”
House cut her off. “Okay, P-F-O.” He drew out each letter like he was speaking a foreign language. “Thirteen, go and do whatever test you just suggested. And the rest of you--”
“I think it’s syphilis. All his symptoms match up. Could even explain the niceness.” Foreman added.
“What, have you just been keeping that idea to yourself?” House drawled.
The neurologist furrowed his brow. “Uh, no, I suggested it 5 minutes ago but you ignored me. I’ll go do an STD panel.”
With that, Foreman and Thirteen walked out of the office.
After a couple seconds of confusion, House came to again. “Chase, Taub, go search the patient’s house again—”
Chase and Taub weren’t there anymore. They must have gone to help out the team, or maybe House already told them to go do the search…
Whatever was wrong with him, it was getting worse.
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December 16th, 2010
House didn’t go to work that day. Thirteen and Chase came to his apartment, finding him spaced out on the couch with his cane and car keys in hand.
Almost as if he had planned to go to his car and drive to work, but somehow forgot.
“House? Hey, wake up.”
His eyes moved for the first time in hours, landing on Thirteen’s face.
“Huh? Late to work, dammit. Move, let me get up.” He tried to push himself up and past Thirteen, but slumped back onto the couch when she pushed him down.
“You’re not late, House, you missed the whole day. We’ve been trying to call you, but you didn’t pick up. Are you okay?”
House stared at her. “I missed.. Sorry, I don’t know how that happened…” he stammered.
Chase and Thirteen exchanged a glance.
That “sorry” — House never said sorry. He had to correct himself, because there was nothing wrong with him.
“Seriously, House. What’s been going on these past few months?” Chase interrogated.
The diagnostician seemed to regain his composure. “What? The patients got too boring for you so you have to diagnose me now? I missed work because I didn’t want to go. God forbid a man wants to rot on his couch while fantasizing about his homoerotic best friend,” House retorted.
Chase cracked a sliver of a smile, but Thirteen wasn’t impressed.
“Cut the crap, House. I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but you haven’t been yourself lately. You should get checked out.”
Even Chase looked serious now. A rarity.
“I’m not going to go get tested just because you’re bored.” House scoffed. “Even though I look like a lab rat, it doesn’t mean I am one. Apologies for the confusion.”
“House,” Chase stressed. “At least—”
“Nope! Sorry, not today! Go home, kids! Show’s over,” He pushed himself up, stumbling a little before guiding the two younger doctors with his cane to walk out the door.
Thirteen tried to step back in. “House,”
He shut the door on her. “See you tomorrow!”
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December 17th, 2010
He woke up with the throbbing headache he now was distressingly used to.
His hand reached for the two pill bottles on his nightstand— Vicodin and ibuprofen. The double dosage of the opioid wasn’t cutting off enough of the edge, and House now welcomed the sweetly coated ibuprofen capsules to smoothen the sharp edges that still persisted.
The head pain was now worse than the leg. It was the worst in the morning, and even more excruciating on this day.
House rolled out of bed with a groan, his hand now instinctively reaching to cradle the right side of his head.
He didn’t bother to grab his cane.
The pain was nearly blinding him, his vision concentrated through a tiny tunnel, everything around it blurring into grey sludge.
Vicodin’s release time was about 20 minutes, which meant he had to bear a little more of this pain.
Ibuprofen would take longer.
House cried out weakly as the pain in his skull reached a nauseating extent.
His eyes rolled back in his head as he stumbled and fell to the ground.
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“House!”
House feebly opened his eyes to Wilson standing over him.
“I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. You’re obviously extremely sick, why didn’t you tell me? The fact that I had to hear it from Chase…” Wilson muttered while wiping House’s mouth clean of the vomit on his lips.
That was weird, he didn’t remember vomiting.
“Short term memory loss… personality changes… now vomiting, syncope… What other symptoms have you been having?” Wilson pressed.
House groaned, coming out of his remaining delirium and remembering the pain in his head.
“Headaches,” he mumbled. “But it’s probably because of the Vicodin…”
“Don’t give me that, these aren't symptoms you get with Vicodin! You need an MRI.”
House shook his head. “No… there’s nothing wrong with me.”
Wilson wrapped his arms around House’s torso to lift him up. “I’m giving you an MRI.”
“Not if I don’t consent,” House pointed out, Wilson's arm still around him.
WIlson sighed, using his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You know what? I bet you a hundred bucks you’ve got something wrong.”
Though still half-conscious, House managed a smirk.
“You better have that money ready, Jimmy.”
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Wilson sat in the MRI control room, clicking through transverse slices of House’s brain.
As he sifted through, he stopped on one. There seemed to be a small white dot on House’s right frontal lobe.
“Found anything yet, Detective Wilson?” House scorned, his voice crackling through the microphone.
The white and black coloring of the scan seemed to melt together as Wilson continued to click through the three-millimeter cuts.
That white spot kept expanding. Every time he clicked, he would discover more and more.
It was a high-density tumor. At least fifty millimeters in length, nearly forty in width.
“Let me guess, I’ve got neurosyphilis or something? I knew I shouldn’t have slept with that one hooker…” House joked, but there was a nervous edge to his voice.
Wilson scanned the rest of his brain, and then came out into the main room to let House out.
House sat up, wincing as he felt stabbing in his head again. “Do I owe you 100 bucks?” He whined.
Wilson faced him with a thousand-yard stare.
“No… House, you…”
He tried to convince himself this wasn’t true. He was seeing brain cancer because he was an oncologist. Cameron would see a fungal infection. Chase would see a lobar hemorrhage. Foreman would see… well, he was a neurologist, of course he would see a tumor.
But, the fact was, Cameron and Chase wouldn’t think fungal or hemorrhage. Fungal would look more sporadic, and if it was a hemorrhage, House would be in emergency surgery.
They’d see a tumor. Infection and bleeding would simply be something ruled out in the differential. Crossed out on that damn whiteboard.
It could be benign, but—
“Wilson. What did you find?”
House looked even more nervous now. He didn’t usually act like this, showing how scared he was. His hands were trembling, just a little.
Wilson raked a hand through his hair.
“Forget about the money, Greg… you need a biopsy. I found a tumor.”
The color drained from House’s face.
“What? There’s a…”
He stumbled forward, reaching for the oncologist with now noticeably trembling hands.
Wilson allowed him to hold on.
He was crying, burying his face into Wilson’s shirt.
Frontal lobe tumors had the tendency to change their victim’s personality.
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December 18th, 2010
“Count down from ten.”
As the anaesthetic mask was lowered onto his face, House looked up at Wilson. The oncologist had insisted on being present for the procedure.
House’s eyes were red-rimmed; panic-stricken.
Wilson moved his gloved hand to House’s, squeezing it softly.
“I’ll be here when you wake up.”
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In House’s sedated mind, he was plagued by hazy flashbacks.
“I have cancer.”
House had scoffed. “You were a little short with me the other day. You do need an excuse— Cancer may be overplaying it.”
Wilson hadn’t smiled.
“Stage two thymoma. I didn't want to tell you until I had it confirmed.”
He had run his hand over his face. A common habit.
House had just stared at him. Realizing this wasn’t a joke.
Wilson had continued, looking out the window. House could tell Wilson felt like the world was crashing down on him, all his hard work and so-called ‘good karma’ amounting to utter meaninglessness.
“I got the tests back this morning.”
He had nodded, as to confirm what he had just said. “I have cancer, House.”
At that time it didn't feel real. In fact, it didn’t feel real until Wilson was hallucinating on House’s couch, sweating and crying.
“Am I dead?” Wilson had mumbled.
House had put a hand to his shoulder, bringing him out of his terror.
“Not yet.”
Those few days. Just in those few days, Wilson had gone from looking and acting just about healthy, to gripping House’s shirt as he gasped and sobbed out his pleas to not go to the hospital.
“House… Please… You can’t do that to me. You can’t—”
Wilson’s grip loosened for a moment as he gulped in air.
“Promise me that you won’t do that to me. Promise me, House.”
And House had looked at him like he had never looked at anyone before. Gone were any snide remarks or insensitive jokes. He had just looked at Wilson with eyes that reflected exactly how he felt in that moment.
“Okay. I promise.”
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House woke up to bright hospital lights that stung his eyes and gentle yet concerned voices.
“It’s time to wake up, Gregory,” a nurse spoke while resting a hand on House’s shoulder. “Can you open your eyes for me?”
House had reflexively shut his eyes once the light hit, but he forced himself to reopen, squinting as his vision sharpened to reveal the brunette nurse looking at him worriedly and Wilson sitting in a nearby chair, wringing his hands together with an equally if not more worried expression.
As the nurse left the ICU room after rechecking House’s vitals, Wilson stood up and walked over to the side of the bed.
The oncologist looked utterly forlorn, his eyes watery.
“What did you find?” House rasped, his throat still dry from the intubation. He squinted, trying to sharpen his vision back to normal.
Wilson spoke. “It’s a stage three glioma. Four-point-five centimeters.”
He swore he could feel his organs melting inside him when he told him that. He’d told countless patients about their cancer before, but never like this. It was never him.
Whatever hope House had before was gone. Wilson could see it in his eyes, in the way his tensed shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way his lips met each other in a thin line.
“I’m going to die.”
“There’s clinical trials, and there’s always a chance the chemo—”
House cut him off. “Clinical trials for gliomas haven’t done anything except create more problems or make the patients die faster. Chemo… at stage 3, with the fastest, most aggressive type of brain cancer? I’m not getting out of this alive, Wilson.”
Wilson wanted to fight, to tell him he was wrong, but he knew House was right. Even if there was the smallest chance of chemo putting the cancer in remission, it was still a small chance.
But he couldn't help being just a little optimistic— he had beaten cancer after being told he had five months to live. Maybe House could too.
“House. You have four months to live without treatment, probably a year or more on chemo.”
“I know that. But would it be a year of a normal life, or a year of agony and nausea? How would you like to go through chemo again?”
Wilson let out a breath of desperation.
“It was horrible, but it did save my life, and I would do it again. Please, just do the chemo. You were the one who forced me to go through with it. It’s only fair to return the favor.”
He smiled a little while talking, clinging onto that tiny particle of hope that kept the lump in his throat at bay.
“Yeah,” House mumbled, his voice soft and unsure.
Normally, House would berate him, tell him he was being completely irrational.
But the tumor must have been growing faster than both doctors assumed, because Wilson saw real hope in the other man’s eyes.
For House, hope was a last resort.
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December 30th, 2010
House limped into the ER, sifting through the charts. He pulled one out that piqued his interest.
Cora Romano. Female. 26 years.
ATT PHYS: Dr. Allison Cameron
Pt presented to the ER c/o of chronic fatigue, multiple syncopal episodes, and generalized weakness.
Pt on oral valsartan for HTN ~6mo. Reports symptoms starting shortly after.
Dehydrated at admission, given 0.9% NS IV. ATT PHYS discussed the side effects of valsartan to pt. OK for discharge.
He stopped Cameron as she was on her way to attend to a bleeding patient.
“You guys are discharging her?” He uttered with disbelief.
Cameron took the chart from him, glancing over the details.
“Yeah. Side effects from her medication. I talked to her about visiting her primary care doctor to change it.” She handed the chart back to House.
“I’m taking the case.”
Cameron furrowed her brow. “There is no case. She’s being discharged.”
“Not anymore.” He quipped, beginning to hobble over to the patient.
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“Alright, team. New case. Ideas.”
House moved away from the whiteboard, revealing the list of symptoms in messy handwriting to the other doctors.
Fatigue
Fainting
Weakness
Hypertension
Chase looked up from his chart, muddled. “This patient is on valsartan for her genetic hypertension. The symptoms up there are side effects.”
This wasn’t normal. House would never take a simple case like this, it didn’t even have any interesting symptoms.
He hadn’t told his team about the tumor.
“Why did you take this case?” Thirteen’s voice was laced with suspicion. “There’s something wrong, isn’t there? With you?”
House shot down her assumption. “I had an MRI, I’m fine. I don’t know if you went to medical school, but there’s this crazy thing doctors do called treating patients. Let’s try it!”
Foreman spoke. “You’re thinking amyloidosis? Hypertension isn’t a common symptom.”
“It is possible, though. Dr. Samuel Leard wrote about hypertensive amyloid cases in the New England Journal of Medicine.” Taub pointed out, thinking back to his studies.
“Leard only reported 39 cases total of that happening. And that was in 1950.” The neurologist elaborated.
House butted in. “So… There must be more cases now. Taub, prep the patient for a bone marrow biopsy.”
“A bone marrow biopsy?” Chase interjected. “Do a Congo red stain first, if you insist on doing tests. A bone marrow biopsy doesn’t need to be done at all unless there’s a problem with Cora’s blood.”
House had no idea why he had suggested a bone marrow biopsy as the first test to be done, nonetheless for an easily solvable case. It wasn’t even a case at all. He had picked a random file off the ER shelf and forced himself to see something.
Not because he was short of cases— that couldn’t be further from the truth. He had rejected tens of cases in just the last week. Usually, they were rejected for the typical reason: they were too boring.
He was rejecting them now because he couldn’t understand them. The mosaic of mysterious symptoms that he used to solve in a few days became so hard to understand that he couldn’t even begin to take them on.
If this was the tumor working, then only God could help his atheist soul now. If he was losing brain function already…
House was losing the sole thing that made him, him.
What was he without it?
A sudden, splitting headache pulled him from his thoughts. A painful reminder of his future months to come.
Thirteen noticed the way the diagnostician's hand went to clutch the right side of his head, and stood up. “Fine, if you don’t want to tell us whatever is obviously affecting your performance, then don’t. But I’m not going to go do unnecessary tests on a woman who just needs a change of medication.” She walked out of the room, her white coat flowing behind her.
Chase just let out a sigh, and Foreman cast House a glance. They left the room.
Taub collected the file and stood up. “I’ll do the Congo red stain.” He murmured, and walked out of the office.
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“You ordered a bone marrow biopsy for a perfectly healthy patient?” Wilson’s voice was scathing to House’s ears.
“Jesus, Wilson, keep it down. I’ve a headache.” The older man grumbled.
That people-pleasing glimmer of concern found its way into Wilson’s eyes again. “Are the painkillers not working anymore?” He asked, apprehensive.
“No… I took some Vicodin and ibuprofen, but it still hurts. Hurts less, but I can definitely still feel it.”
Wilson guided his partner to the couch in his office and closed the blinds to shut the light out.
The other mumbled his thanks. He didn’t need this, but it was nice to have.
The oncologist looked down at him, arms crossed over his chest. “You need to start the chemo.”
Alertness piqued again in House’s brain. “No… that… It won’t do anything. I don’t want to go through that.”
“Please, Greg. You told me earlier that you would do it.”
He scorned weakly. “I did not. I just agreed that it was only fair that you bother me about this, since I bothered you.”
“Yeah, and I ended up doing it! I had fucking five months and I beat it! You have to try, for once in your life! You can’t just ignore it and hope it gets better, House!” Wilson yelled.
House winced slightly at the loudness of the other man’s voice. “You think I haven’t tried at anything in my life? Every single day for the past five or so years I’ve woken up in agony! I can’t fucking walk without a cane or function without opiods, yet I still arrive at this godforsaken hospital every day for my patients!”
Wilson let out a disbelieving scoff. “You do not come to work for your patients, House. You come for the puzzle, because that’s all you care about! But you won’t even be able to do that soon, will you?”
That retort felt like a stab at his own conscience. Solving puzzles, all he was good for? Is that what Wilson really thought?
Wilson, ever the apologizer, dropped his hostility when he realized what he had said. “Greg, I didn’t mean that. I don’t think that’s all you care about, and if you do the chemo, you can still keep practicing—”
“That’s not the point! The point is… I don’t want to be in pain. I want to keep doing what I do without having to go through all that treatment! I just want to live like everyone else for once! I…”
That wasn’t possible, was it?
It never had been.
From the moment he was born to this moment now, he had never had the opportunity to live like everyone else.
First, there was his “social issues,” then the leg, then cancer.
And he was either going to die from the tumor, or get treated with pity and heartfelt comments if he survived.
There was no “normal” way for him to live. So what was he living for? The puzzle? No.
He wanted to stay alive for longer than four months. He didn’t want to leave Wilson behind.
The only person he couldn’t stand being in pain more than himself was Wilson, it was always Wilson.
House’s lips quivered in a pathetic attempt to keep in his tears, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
“Jimmy,” He reached for Wilson feebly.
The oncologist wrapped his arms around the older man as he started to sob.
Deep, painful sobs that pounded his head wracked House’s body, his throat raw.
Wilson held him. He knew exactly what the other was feeling, as he had gone through the same exact thing just almost two years ago. He could almost taste the regret, the terror, the pain, the anger.
It was all too familiar, and he hated that the person he loved most had to go through such a thing. It almost felt like his own fault, somehow.
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January 15th, 2011
After a second MRI, it was confirmed that the tumor had progressed to an early glioblastoma too quickly, and stem cells were likely to be left behind in an excision. The tumor was too close to the thalamic area, so it was decided to treat from the outside-in.
House underwent a couple rounds of radiation before being ready for chemo.
He insisted on doing it at home, as Wilson had allowed him to move back into the condo after he started experiencing complications from the cancer. He thought Wilson was stupid when he himself had undergone chemotherapy at House’s apartment, but he understood why. He was in a hospital almost 24/7, treating patients. To become one felt eerie and almost shameful.
“You look horrible. I’m going to get you some water.” Wilson murmured, rubbing House’s back as he dry heaved into a repurposed plastic basin.
“Wilson,” He clenched his fingers in the younger man’s shirt. “Don’t leave.”
Wilson swallowed the lump in his throat that almost threatened to trigger the release of the contents in his stomach. His mind drifted back to two years ago. When he felt like he was on the brink of death, he had fisted his hands in House’s shirt, begging, crying out his pleas. In that moment he would rather have died in House’s arms than recover on a ventilator in the hospital.
And he knew that’s how House felt right now.
He moved his hand from his back to stroke his thinning hair, trying to calm the older man down.
“I won’t leave. I promise, Greg, I’m here for you, I won’t leave you.”
He sniffed, wiping the tears that had accumulated and spilled onto his cheeks.
“I love you,” he whispered. “Don’t go yet, please. Hold on. I’m h… I’m here.”
Wilson could barely get the words out. This whole situation was all of his worst traumas combined. He’d already had Amber die on him, and then he almost was the one to go…
He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. Maybe, he thought, he was already past his breaking point. He knew he had to hold on, push through, do whatever it took to stay composed in front of House. The older man was having his brain literally pushed and shoved around all with Wilson watching. WIlson’s cancer was horrible, but it didn’t change his brain chemistry.
His thought process.
His personality.
Weak cries stirred Wilson back to the present; House was tugging on his shirt.
“Wilson. Lorazepam, in the bookshelf case. Please, I’m so fucking t-tired..” The hoarseness in his voice was grating.
Wilson nodded, standing up and taking the leather brown case from the bookshelf, opening it with a click.
The case was padded inside with pulled black velvet that held sterile syringes and glass bottles of medications, ranging from other sedatives to morphine.
Wilson assembled a syringe and took the small vial of lorazepam, turning it upside down in his fingers to extract a singular dose.
The clear liquid was pulled into the barrel, and Wilson was sure to tap the air bubbles out before leaning down to House and rubbing his shoulder with an alcohol wipe he had opened with his teeth.
Wilson moved the needle down to the site and pushed the plunger down until the sedative was completely gone.
House let out a slight sigh of relief from the immediate psychosomatic effect. The actual medication would start to work in about fifteen minutes, but just the notion that it had been administered almost relieved some of his pain.
Wilson knelt down next to the couch, stroking House’s hair as he waited for the medication to work.
“Sorry if the syringe hurt. I know intramuscular access isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world.” He murmured.
House managed a weak, sarcastic huff of air. “A prick isn’t going to kill me, Wilson. Maybe your worrying will, though. Cut it out..”
Wilson laughed. “My worrying will kill you? Yeah, I’m sure it will.” He leaned his head down to rest it on House’s chest (softly, so he didn’t hurt him). “I’m sure it will…” he murmured softly, before pressing a soft kiss to the other man.
He pondered the possibility of the chemotherapy working. He didn’t have to lose House. Just because he had lost all his past lovers, didn’t mean he would lose him.
Wilson just prayed that God would let it happen this time.
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February 2nd, 2011
The chemo had done a good job of slowing the tumor’s growth. Glioblastomas usually did not see this level of improvement, and things were beginning to look up for House (and Wilson). Although the diagnostician had not yet gone back to leading his team, he was healthy enough to sit in differentials and offer his opinion.
Cuddy had mandated this policy, as she didn’t want House to get confused again. Her terms were that once House exhibited no more altered mental status, he was able to lead the team once again. For now, his opinions had to be checked by Foreman. She and Wilson assumed him to be annoyed about it, but he seemed to take it like a normal person. Clearly, he wasn’t fit to be the head of the department again just yet.
Although he was allowed to technically practice medicine, he spent a lot of days either in Wilson’s condo or office, too exhausted to go to work. Much to Cuddy’s distaste, Wilson cared too much to not be with House. The two men were skipping work now like it was a competition.
“Wilson, I understand why House is not showing up, but for you to join in with him is unacceptable. You need to show up for your patients, please.” Cuddy spoke to Wilson over the phone, toying with the cord nervously.
Wilson’s sigh was heard on the other end. “Lisa, I’m sorry. He needs me. He’s going through intense treatment right now, and I need to be there for him.”
Shuffling crackled through the line, as if Wilson was in bed.
Cuddy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Your patients are going through intense treatment right now. Without the Head of Oncology, the department is becoming overworked. Please, James. Even House’s team is worried about you both.”
Wilson shook his head, even though he knew Cuddy couldn’t hear it. Right now, he was the only one who could take care of House. The chemo had made the tumor shrink, but that hadn’t gotten rid of the effects it was having on his frontal lobe. His personality was less and less like the House he knew by day, and he was clearly scared of death. He needed his partner there with him.
“I’m sorry, Lisa.” Wilson repeated, and hung up the phone.
House was exhausted from the radiation, and he was currently asleep with WIlson in bed.
The chemotherapy had made his hair thin progressively, and Wilson now avoided brushing his fingers through it because of the fallout.
He bit back the tears that threatened to leak out. Emotion wasn’t ideal right now; House needed him to stay strong, to keep on going.
Falling apart wasn’t an option anymore.
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February 8th, 2011
Every day spent with House was like meeting someone new. Although the cancer had messed with his personality, he was recovering and getting stronger every day. It wasn’t long before his snarky comments made a comeback, and Wilson was happy to see a glimpse of the past again, knowing that with time it would become a renewed normality.
Wilson was cooking roast chicken with steamed broccoli on the side that day with the intention of giving House something good to eat without it being another canned chicken soup.
“Wilson, why are you putting the broccoli in the water?” House called out from the living room, where he was sprawled out on the couch watching Discovery Channel.
The oncologist turned his head. “What do you mean? I’m steaming it.”
House snorted. “You idiot, do you even know what steaming is? You cook with steam, not boiling water.”
Shit. House was right. “Oh, yeah…” Wilson chuckled. “It’s fine. I guess we’re having boiled broccoli then.”
House grinned, appreciating Wilson’s stupidity when it came to cooking. The guy was always more of a “ramen and instant coffee” person during med school, while House surprisingly was able to cook something up or meal prep most nights.
When Wilson was finally done, House limped over to the table, making sure not to lose his balance.
The chicken was sliced and plated, with flavorful cooked skin and rosemary garnish. Obviously, it looked good, since Wilson had actually bought a pre-marinated chicken from the store. The boiled broccoli was scooped onto the side of the aromatic chicken, looking rather mushy. Wilson had overboiled.
House picked up his fork and cut into the generous serving of roast chicken, the meat tender and perfectly cooked, shockingly. Wilson was shit at cooking but he could definitely follow package instructions.
Wilson, looking over his broccoli mush, smiled sheepishly, “My condolences, House. I didn’t intend to make infant food.”
Despite the insipid appearance, the green mush actually didn’t taste all too bad. Wilson had mixed it with black pepper to enhance the flavor and House could confidently say it did work.
“It’s fine, Jimmy. ‘s good,” he told him with a mouthful of broccoli.
Wilson smiled. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, that’s gross.”
House’s brain damage from the tumor had somehow done away with his fatal flaw. Wilson did miss being made fun of more often, but it was nice to have House be kind and accepting of his affection.
Wilson uncharacteristically wrapped his arms around House’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his nape. He was feeling very affectionate, and he wanted his partner to know that.
“It’s good you like it, Greg. I know my cooking isn’t… Michelin star worthy.” He laughed, pulling away to sit down for his own meal. “I’m glad you’re getting better.”
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February 13th, 2011
“Fifty-two year-old male, heart rate 135, BP 80/60, temperature 94 Fahrenheit and dropping. He’s losing consciousness.”
The nurse checked the chart. “Mr. House, can you hear me? Gregory? I need you to respond to my questions. Are you having trouble breathing? Can you hear me?”
Wilson was running at the side of the cot, keeping up with the nurses.
“He’s disoriented! What the hell do you have on your chart, let me see—”
“Mr. Wilson, you need to calm down. In what way are you related to Gregory House?”
Wilson scowled, not having the time for this bullshit. It was necessary, yes, but House was in critical condition.
“It’s Dr. Wilson. I’m his boyfriend and primary physician. He has a developing glioblastoma in the right frontal lobe. He’s had three chemotherapy sessions and four radiation sessions, and it did shrink to four centimeters since his last MRI; it used to be four-point-five. You need to get him in for a head CT, stat.”
The nurse sputtered. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wilson. We need to stabilize him first. And you don’t work here.”
Wilson wanted to scream. “You can stabilize him in the machine! Oh, for fuck’s sake. Transfer him to Princeton-Plainsboro, Dr. Chase can accept him. Now.”
Since Wilson was House’s primary care doctor, the nurses really had no choice. They nodded. “He’s stable enough to survive the ride. Take him to Princeton-Plainsboro.”
House was wheeled back into an ambulance, and Wilson was the last to get in before closing the door. He placed heating packs across his body in hopes of heating up his core body temperature.
Wilson buried his face in his hands, biting back tears. He had just been going to sleep with House when he noticed that something was wrong. At first, he assumed an infection since the man was shivering. But a quick oral thermometer check proved him wrong. At that time, House’s temperature was 94 degrees, two whole units below what it should have been. On top of that, he was slurring his speech and had a weak carotid pulse despite his heart rate approaching tachycardia. Wilson had immediately driven him to Princeton-General since it was closer, but he hadn’t expected this delay. He just hoped that whatever the hell was causing this was treatable.
At Princeton-Plainsboro, House was rushed into the emergency room. Chase was the accepting physician, because he had been working in the ER ever since House had made a habit of chronic work skipping. The blond’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of his boss on a gurney, barely conscious and shivering.
“What happened to him?” He asked Wilson.
“He’s hypothermic. You need to get him a warming blanket now and CT his head. I think the tumor may have grown. This isn’t a delayed reaction to treatment.” The oncologist’s tone was sharp.
Chase nodded. “Get him to Radiation, and keep him stable. Make sure to hang a warm saline bag.” He told the nurses. They nodded, immediately preparing intravenous access.
Wilson walked to the corner, wringing his hands together. He let out a harsh breath. Chase noticed, and walked over.
“Hey… I’m really worried about him too. We’re gonna do the best we can, okay?” He murmured, trying to calm the other’s nerves even as his own were being fried.
Wilson later followed Chase to the CT room, watching the monitor with intense focus. As the tumor came into view, Wilson felt like someone was holding his throat and choking him.
The tumor had grown rapidly. Instead of the previously shrunken four centimeters, it was at least five now.
“Get a sagittal view,” he told Chase.
Upon further inspection, Wilson’s fears were confirmed. The tumor had grown into the hypothalamus and was now wreaking havoc on House’s endocrine system along with screwing up his temperature.
“What’s his temperature now?”
“92.4 degrees. He’s approaching stage three hypothermia.”
The image became blurred due to House shivering violently in the machine. Wilson swallowed; this was the final stage of shivering before the body’s response was completely nullified by the cold.
“G-Get him on warming hemodialysis,” Wilson choked out. “He’s gonna be fine.”
He quickly strode out of Radiation, trying to take deep, careful breaths. House’s body temperature had dropped from normal to 92.4 in just under one hour. Hell, it was probably at 91 now.
There was such a dangerous, looming mortality rate for this.
Gregory House was going to die. And what could James Wilson do?
Wait.
Everything that could be done was already being done.
Wilson sank to his knees in the hallway and cried.
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“His temperature was at 89 but we were able to boost it back to 93. His shivering response hasn’t come back, though.”
Wilson stood over House’s hospital bed, not even trying to hide his tear-stained face. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead, which was cold but not as cold as before.
He knew it was futile.
But it looked like House was improving. He smiled, kneeling down on the side of the bed before regressing back into sobs. He held House’s barely warm hand tight.
“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, you’re going to be okay. House… I know you can hear me. I don’t know…” He laughed bitterly, swallowing back sobs that threatened to tear him in half. “What kind of stupid dream you’re having, but I know you can hear me, Greg. You’re going to be okay. Everything will work out, okay? Once you’re done with treatment, we’ll get married, like…” He sniffed, coughing. “Like I was planning. Okay? I’ll let you move in with me officially again, and you’re gonna go back to curing weird patients and bothering me when I’m meeting with my own patients.”
Wilson moved his hand to House’s hair, brushing it softly. He hadn’t done it in a while because of the chemo, but he didn’t care. Hair fell onto the pillow and Wilson felt like his heart was about to burst.
He had set out to help people with cancer, but it seemed as if the disease was almost punishing him for trying to kill it. Cancer had seeped into every inch of his life.
Wilson just prayed that this time, it lost the battle.
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February 27th, 2011
The suds of fresh dishwater ran down the metal of the frying pan as Wilson cleaned it. He had gotten more into cooking, at House’s request.
“These damn oil burns are really hard to scrub off the steel, even with the metal sponge,” he huffed, trying at the task again.
House called from the living room, “Just leave them on. It’s clean anyways. Gives the food more flavor.”
Wilson rolled his eyes but his lips twisted upwards in a small smirk at that comment. He proceeded to rinse the soap off the pan, and leave it on the rack to air-dry.
“Something tells me that’s not too sanitary, House. We’re doctors, we know this.” Wilson wiped his hands on a dishcloth.
House puffed. “Yeah, just because we’re doctors doesn’t mean we have to live in a hospital-clean environment.” The man stretched his leg and lifted it up onto the ottoman to take weight off it. “Speaking of hospitals, when are you gonna go back to work? I still have an excuse, but you, on the other hand…”
Wilson waved his hand to shut House up. “No, I’m not going back yet. I know you’re fine on your own now, but…” He felt a strange tingling at the base of his skull that was slightly painful. It felt like something was stuck inside his brain. “I don’t know. I don’t feel ready, there’s… something wrong.”
“Wrong? Like what?”
Wilson pressed his hands to his head, applying pressure to try and ease the strange pain. “I… I don’t know. I feel like… I can’t describe it. I know it’s something mental, but…”
House laughed, but he looked worried. “Go to therapy, Wilson. The world can’t just stop because you feel weird.”
Wilson nodded slowly. “You’re right. I’m… I’m going to my room, I think I’m getting a migraine.”
The oncologist put the now-dried frying pan back in the cupboard, then shuffled to the room he shared with House. He furrowed his brow as he spotted a black leather case below the foot of the bed. Out of curiosity, he pulled it out and set it on the mattress with a soft thump.
The case looked to be House’s, as he recognized it to be the same material as the other cases he used to keep in his apartment while living there.
This specific case was slightly weathered, and had collected a fine layer of dust above it. Wilson swept it off and undid the gold-paint clasp. The inside was sparse, with just a couple papers and a closed envelope. He swept up the papers, and frowned. It seemed to be a couple of recipes— sugar cookies, Pad Thai, cheesesteak— that House had made in the past for him; the ones he had really enjoyed.
Why would he keep them here?
Wilson put the recipes down and picked up the envelope. It was a bit crumpled, but it was definitely new. He ran his finger on the inside of the sealed paper, lightly separating it open.
Inside was another paper, and as Wilson unfolded it, he realized it was a letter.
Wilson,
I’m writing this before I die. I noticed on my previous MRI that the tumor was still growing despite the initial shrinkage, and it will become a full-grade glioblastoma soon. I think you knew, but chose to ignore it for the sake of hope.
My brain has changed so much from this disease, and even though it will kill me soon, there are positives. My personality has shifted to allow me to open up more to you. Be more vulnerable. I still feel like the same person, but when I’m with you, I just can’t bring myself to mask with offensive jokes anymore.
I wanted you to know the real me, behind the facade. And I think you did, seeing how you’ve become more affectionate these past few months.
Something I wanted to do before I died was marry you. I guess I just couldn't muster up the courage, because here I am, writing it down to you. There isn’t time anymore. But I want you to know that even if we never were together under the law (which is kinda stupid, actually), I think the love we had for each other really just was infinitely more than that. Even before we officially got together, we had that same kind of love.
So maybe I don’t regret not marrying you. You’ve lost enough already, wouldn’t want to be your fourth failed marriage.
I don’t know how you’re going to deal with me dying. I hope you’ll be (mostly) okay without me. I know we can venture into codependency. If you died, I would probably wind up dead in a couple months with you. I think you were the only person in my life that could get me to change my mind.
Like I said, I have no idea how you’re going to deal with this. But I have a request: just stay alive, okay? No point joining me in nothingness. I want you to keep on living so you can make sure all your patients don’t have to get on the death train with me. Yeah, I know, I actually do care about other people. I think you always knew that, though.
Anyways, this is getting kinda long. Even with brain damage, this kinda sickly-sweet writing still pisses me off a little.
Oh yeah. Here’s your hundred bucks. You were definitely right, there was something wrong with me.
I enjoyed life with you, Jimmy. I hope you enjoyed life with me.
Yours,
Greg House
Surely, Wilson found a hundred-dollar bill enclosed in the envelope.
He put the items on the bed, taking a deep, shivering breath.
Hallucinations. He had been hallucinating House ever since February 14th, the date he had passed away in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital from irreparable hypothermia caused by a grade II glioblastoma growing into the hypothalamus.
Time of death, 2:04 a.m.
And Wilson’s sleep-deprived, screwed up mind had decided to deal with it by pretending it never even happened; every little interaction had been fabricated by his brain.
He couldn't stop it when the tears started to fall, and a gruesome sob brought him to his knees, covering his mouth as he fought the churning feeling in his stomach. His organs felt like they were being squeezed inside of his body cavities and he couldn’t focus his eyes, blurred by salty tears. He choked on his breaths, the pain in his belly so intense and yet not even there at the same time. An uncomfortable heat that spread to his chest as he continued to sob, like the lumps in his throat had communicated to his bodily systems to feel the same.
Wilson had never felt like this before. He’d never let himself cry like this, ever, even as he felt it wasn’t a choice. The cries felt like they were forcefully being ripped out of his throat.
Wilson sobbed until the most his weak body could muster was an exhausted snivel. Maybe he could work through this. For him. He needed to.
But then, nothing would ever be the same again, would it?