The Lonely God [a House M.D. one shot]

Last Days

If you had one day left to live, what would you do? ~ Megan Miranda

*****

3 days before the death of James Wilson

Wilson was sitting on the couch watching television when he felt a tightness in his chest and suddenly he couldn't breathe, as if there was something blocking oxygen from entering his airway. He clenched his fists, trying to fight the urge to cough again. He had been counting down the months since the day he was diagnosed with stage two thymoma and given six months to live. There was only one week left until the end of six months, so he made the reasonable deduction that he had only few days left to live, at best. Even though I might not even last until the end of the week, he thought bitterly to himself.

He glanced at the front door of the hotel room he and House booked for the one-day trip at Chicago, and shook his head. He had spent the last six-ish months preparing for the moment of his death, having gone through all stages of denial, anger, bargaining and depression, he finally reached some level of acceptance. But he knew that House was not ready. Not yet. Even though the former diagnostician would most probably never admit it, but Wilson knew he cared about him very much.

A few thudding sounds could be heard before the front door opened, interrupting his thoughts. It was House, holding his cane with one hand, and two boxes of egg noodles with the other. "I bought Chinese food." He announced, hanging the tip of his cane on the frame of the door. Wilson reached out his hand and grabbed a box. Then he and House sat together on the couch and started eating their egg noodles while chatting like they have done everyday since Wilson was diagnosed with cancer.

Chatting. A few years ago, the former oncologist would've never thought House was even capable of having a civil conversation. House would always spit out vulgar words or make jokes that were sexually and morally inappropriate. Now, however, chatting had became their new norm. In the past six months, Wilson was introduced to a side of House he had never seen before.

While his best friend still acted very much like the House he knew all these years, but this House was much more... compassionate, empathetic. God, compassionate and empathetic, two words that Wilson would've never associated with House years ago. Yet here they were, chatting about the daily news and checking off their to-do list of things to do before his death. Now that they had already arrived in Chicago, the next stop on the list was the city of Berwyn.

Mid-conversation, Wilson started to cough again. He unintentionally chocked on the noodles he was eating and started hyperventilating. House immediately dropped the food in his hands and rushed to help Wilson, trying to calm him down. Wilson continued to cough persistently. As a former doctor, House should've known that talking wouldn't help the situation at all.

"I'm calling 911," the former diagnostician said, pulling out his phone. The phone started ringing. Wilson immediately swiped it away from his hands and ended the call. "N-No," he coughed. "I-It's not an e-emergency. It's only... a-a cough." He managed to croak out before coughing even more violently. "Just... d-drive me to the hospital. Plus... we already know what's w-wrong. It's... not a m-medical emergency."

House snatched the phone back with force. "Don't say it."

Wilson's eyes met with House's. House had the same calm and carefree expression he always wore, his breathing steady and shallow. He could tell that his best friend was trying so hard not to show any emotion, and to anybody who didn't know House as well as he did, they would've been fooled by his brave facade. But Wilson knew that House was on the verge of breaking down and loosing it completely.

"House... I'm dying."

*****

2 days before the death of James Wilson