I wrote this because to me, Chase appears to be the soothing foundation that the rest of the doctors rely on. The Bible verses mentioned have some sort of significance, and House's actions versus Chase's have an odd connection. See if you can catch it.

I obviously do not own any of this.

Guilt, fear of isolation, helplessness, chronic exhaustion, loss of interest, significant weight loss: The symptoms were there, but I had never acknowledged them. I am supposedly one of the best diagnosticians there are, but what good is it if I can't even save someone right in front of me?

"Please turn your bibles to Psalm forty-one," the priest murmured, his voice wilting in the chilly, still air of the funeral home.

"Blessed is he who has regard for the weak;
the Lord delivers him in times of trouble."

"He looks like he's sleeping," sobbed a horde of melodramatic bitches, peering into the casket from their seats. They obviously hadn't known Robert Chase very well. If they'd ever bothered to watch him at rest, rather than leaving after a good night's fuck, they'd know Chase- no, Robert -always slept on his side. His mouth was always slightly open and tense, as if to protest, and his brows knit together in some unknown concern I knew I could never subdue. In his unconsciousness, he would grasp my fingers like a child, and clutch my hand to his heart. This brought me more comfort than anything. That was all we ever saw him as. Comfort.

"The Lord will sustain him on his sickbed
and restore him from his bed of illness."

But that's all gone, now. I watched him die, and I couldn't save him. I can't stop replaying that last day over and over in my mind. I could have stopped him, somehow. I know it.

Robert stood at the door of my office, staring into my own dilated pupils with those pale, placid eyes, as I gripped my leg. The pain wouldn't stop; it was so strong that I could barely breathe. He bent down to pick up the empty prescription bottle at his feet, and in determined strides, came beside me and pressed an open palm to my chest.

"Where does it hurt?" he murmured, as he always did, nestling his forehead into the crook of my neck.
"Everywhere,"I replied, as I always had. And it did. I was tired of my pain, my life.
"Give me your tired, your weary," he'd say, pressing his lips to my temple. "Father, please heal this man. Take his brokenness and pain..." I'd never believed in the healing properties of prayer, but from his mouth, it was the momentary tranquility I needed to regain my sanity. Robert helped me to his car and drove me to his apartment. He soothed my torment with kisses and hushed the cacophony of rushing blood that filled my ears with his soft mewling, as he lowered himself onto my cock. Tears streamed down his face, and I kissed them away as we reached completion. As I put on my pants and rose to leave, feeling much better, Robert reached for my hand.

"Don't leave me," he sighed drowsily, curling up into the blankets. His voice held a desperation so unlike him, that I failed to identify its meaning. I tried to tug away, but he held fast.
"These meetings mean nothing," I reminded him in my barking tone. Robert's face fell as he pulled my hand close to his chest and lowered his sunken eyes.
"I know." As his breathing evened and softened, and his face took on that customary, pained expression, I lowered myself back into his bed. Lying close to him, I realized how desolate he looked, knees drawn loosely against his gaunt and pale body. His protruding bones shed shadows against his stomach, pulsating like waves as he breathed. I closed my eyes and let sleep overtake me. One time wouldn't hurt.

"I said, 'O Lord, have mercy on me;
heal me, for I have sinned against you.'

My enemies say of me in malice,
'When will he die and his name perish?'

Whenever one comes to see me,
he speaks falsely, while his heart gathers slander;
then he goes out and spreads it abroad.

All my enemies whisper together against me;
they imagine the worst for me, saying,

'A vile disease has beset him;
he will never get up from the place where he lies.'"

My mind jolted awake at the sound of a resounding thump. Keeping my eyes squeezed shut, I clenched my fingers around the cold sheets beside me. I sat up abruptly at the realization that I was alone. Ignoring the dull throb in my thigh, I reached for the cane discarded on the floor. As I limped through the halls, I followed the sound of periodic thumps into the kitchen.

"Chase?" Robert sat, slumped, at his small kitchen table, one hand in a loose fist, the other wrapped around the neck of a bottle of vodka, knuckles white with tension. Craning his neck, he turned his face towards me, mouth quivering, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed. Robert raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply for a moment before setting it down heavily onto the table with that familiar thump, exhaling in ragged pants.
"What?" he groaned sickly, gulping as if he were about to vomit. His knees banged against the arms of the chair in a clumsy effort to straighten himself. In his disoriented scuffle, two small pills spilled from his clenched hand and were sent skittering across the table. Robert reached out sluggishly and clawed to retrieve them, knocking over an orange prescription bottle, cracked haphazardly, as if crushed by a fist. Picking it up, I recognized the brand name as a tricyclic antidepressant. I hadn't even known he'd been taking antidepressants. I grabbed his wrists and shook him.
"Chase, how many did you take?" I screamed at him. His head began to loll backwards. I grabbed his hair and shook him again. "How many did you take?"
Robert stared wearily into my eyes and gave a harsh laugh. He sat within the reaches of death, and he laughed. But it was the first time I had ever seen him truly happy.
"Enough," he whispered raggedly. His body slackened, and his eyes rolled back lazily in their sockets. He didn't wake up.

"Even my close friend, whom I trusted,
he who shared my bread,
has lifted up his heel against me."

All of us took advantage of the solace Robert seemed to radiate. He was an excuse to feel superior, an amiable painkiller, a therapist, or even an object of lonely lust. The bottom line is that we all poured our weaknesses and desperation into his life, seeking comfort, empathy. And as long as we were satisfied, we were too blind to see that he was breaking beneath the heavy burdens of our lives. I was too blind. I could see the guilt pouring from every face in that room. It was easy to tell that many people had just come to his wake to atone for their neglect and abuse. They didn't want that on their consciences. I don't either, but it will never leave me. If I had just looked past my patients and addictions, I could have stopped him. I could have fixed him, just as he had fixed me time and time again. And did I deserve a savior? Never.

"But you, O Lord, have mercy on me;
raise me up, that I may repay them."

I could say this was a human mistake, and that I won't do it again, but that won't bring him back. The man in that casket should have been me. It should have been any other reassurance-seeking failure in that room. It should have been anyone but him.

"In my integrity you uphold me
and set me in your presence forever.

Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel,
from everlasting to everlasting.
Amen and Amen."

Fin.