Note: For disclaimers and other vital tidbits, see the Intro.

Part 1

The first thing Robert Chase became aware of when his brain flirted with consciousness was the familiar odor of disinfectant. Next came the too-loud echoes of beeping monitors, followed by not-too-distant voices issuing orders and the sounds of people in distress. And, moving gingerly, he could feel items attached to various portions of his body, including an IV and—he was loathe to discover—a Foley catheter. Taking that evidence into consideration, Chase could only conclude he was in a hospital. But when he tried to open his eyes to verify this deduction he joined in the chorus of misery as a blinding flash of light flooded his field of vision, the Anvil Chorus began to pound on his brain, and he suddenly tasted bile.

Snapping his eyes shut, he turned his head sideways as the meager contents of his stomach made a quick escape, the vomiting making his head only hurt worse. He heard a panicked "Doctor!" as his stomach continued to rebel, and then suddenly felt supportive hands on his back and head and something shoved beneath his face.

"Chase, just try and relax." Both the voice and the hands on his back were familiar. Allison Cameron. She sounded relieved, which, as he continued to retch, he found mildly bizarre. But then he'd never thought Cameron's behavior could be labeled "easy to comprehend."

It took a few more minutes—though it felt like an eternity—before the heaving finally stopped. Then Cameron relinquished her hold on him and a cup of water was pressed into his hands.

"Bin's still in front of you. Go ahead and rinse your mouth out."

Tired, weak, and desperate to get rid of the acrid taste in his mouth, he obeyed orders. He surrendered the cup when he was done, and then his colleague was guiding his head back down to the bed. The sound of a mop was followed by footsteps leaving the room and Chase blushed, embarrassed he'd been sick.

"Chase can you open your eyes?"

He wasn't entirely sure that was a good idea. Some of his headache had dissipated with the nausea, but a good portion of it was still there. And he felt…odd.

"No light," he protested hoarsely, his throat raw from the vomiting. "Unless you want a repeat performance."

"Never liked re-runs," Cameron quipped, and then Chase heard her ask someone to dim the lights as he felt the head of his bed being raised.

"Okay, try and open your eyes now," Cameron told him a moment later.

He cracked a lid for a moment to make sure it was safe, then slowly opened his eyes. There was still plenty of light, but it no longer felt like his brain was being seared. When his surroundings swam back into focus, he recognized the ER—incredibly busy—where he was hooked up to an array of equipment. And Cameron was staring at him.

"How…what happened?" he asked her, confused.

"You don't remember?" Cameron appeared concerned but unsurprised.

Chase began to shake his head in the negative, then thought better of it and uttered a simple "no."

Cameron opened up her mouth to speak, but couldn't get out a word before Chase heard a "You're awake!" come from the opposite side of the room. He swiveled his head to see Eric Foreman stride into his room, but regretted the movement and had to put a hand down to steady himself when a new wave of dizziness swept through him.

Both Foreman and Cameron moved to support him before he keeled over. And much as he loathed the need for assistance, Chase guessed it was better than throwing up again.

"Let's try not to do anything too stupid right now," Foreman admonished. "House has already warned us that if we can't put Humpty Dumpty back together again and he has to go through interviews, he's going to sic all of the King's Horses on us."

Chase would've rolled his eyes if he'd had the energy. "I'm moved by the sympathy."

"He was actually pretty worried, even if he'd never admit it. We all were," Cameron tossed in. "You've been out cold for nearly fourteen hours."

Fourteen hours? Chase racked his aching brain to figure out what he'd done to land himself in the ER and came up with one giant blank. "What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" Foreman countered.

"I moved Mrs. Sulser"—their current patient, who was on the road to recovery after a bout with Q Fever—"out of the ICU and then I got stat-paged to sit in on a surgery. I went to change and scrub in, and…"

"And," Cameron prompted.

Closing his eyes, Chase tried desperately to remember, but could only vaguely recall standing in scrubs in the locker room. "I can't…I don't know," he said, opening his eyes after a moment.

He saw Cameron and Foreman exchange a brief look, observed the way-too-active ER, and once again demanded, "What happened?"

"A surgical resident found you out cold on the locker room floor," Foreman told him. "How you ended up that way, we could only guess, based on what went on everywhere else. But I'd bet a paycheck that you collapsed from a seizure, probably hit your head on something on the way down, and ended up with one hell of a concussion. You got a nice-sized lump on the back of you head."

Chase's hand flew up to his head at that and he winced as he encountered a tender spot that would certainly account for his short-term memory loss. And then he managed to focus on what he'd just been told. "A seizure?"

"World's biggest collective migraine might be a better way of putting it," Foreman observed, rubbing his own temple. "Trust me, you weren't the only one. Pretty much everyone on the planet went along for the ride. Yours lasted a little longer than most."

"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Cameron added.

"Story of my life," Chase muttered, though he was more confused than ever.

"Look, even if we could explain everything, you'd have trouble swallowing it," Foreman claimed. "So let's say I give you your first neuro and then we do show and tell."

"I'm fine," Chase responded reflexively.

"Yeah, and House just won Mr. Congeniality," Foreman retorted. "You were unconscious for fourteen hours, and your EEG readings were all over the map for more than 7 of them."

That, Chase recognized, was not good. "Scans?"

"A concussion, but otherwise clean," Cameron told him in a manner clearly meant to reassure. "So was the C-spine. But considering what just happened, it's probably a good bet that you have post-concussion syndrome, which means…"

"…you're stuck here until I clear you," Foreman finished.

Chase wanted to protest, but then realized how futile it would be. "Fine," he said with unquestionably bad grace. His head still hurt, he still felt very much in the dark about what happened, and he was very tired. "Let's just get it over with then."

The next few minutes flew by as Foreman ran him through a standard neuro check. Only one hiccup occurred in the procedure when Foremanflashed a penlight in his eyes to check his pupils. Chase recoiled almost immediately, and was relieved when the light blew out and refused to function when Foreman tried it again.

"I just changed the damn battery," Foreman muttered as he shook the offending instrument.

"Guess the bunny's on strike."

Chase looked up to find Gregory House standing just inside the room and leaning heavily on his cane. Chase thought his boss looked like shit and wondered when he'd last taken his Vicodin. Then he wondered if House might be willing to share—he'd made it through most of the neuro test, but his head still hurt terribly.

"He pass?" House asked Foreman.

"Aside from his balance still being off, photosensitivity, nausea, and what I'm guessing is a killer headache, yeah, he's ready to go."

"I'm sensing some sarcasm."

"I'm fine." Chase protested weakly; the vomiting had taken a lot out of him and he was still feeling dizzy. "All I need is some Tylenol and a little sleep."

"Well then, the good news for you is that you're already in a bed, and I'm pretty sure we have some Tylenol around," House told him. "And we're a full-service property—you get two-hour wake-up calls free of charge, and I'll even throw in an ice pack."

And then, before Chase could even think to argue, House turned to Cameron and Foreman and told them, "Move him to a regular room. Our beauty contestant has won a 24-hour stay at beautiful Princeton-Plainsboro with you two as chaperones to keep all those needy nurses from taking advantage. If, at the end of that time, he's passed all his neuro checks, kept the admittedly depressing cuisine here down, and managed another clean EEG, I might allow him out on the town."

"But should he try to jump ship before those 24 hours are up," House added pointedly as he moved to leave, "Doctor Cameron will personally tie him to his hospital bed. I'm sure that'll bring back some good memories. Or maybe it was the other way around?"

If House registered Cameron's squeak of protest or Foreman's eye roll—and Chase doubted that—as he departed, he gave no sign of it. Chase merely sighed in resignation. He was pragmatic enough to know that defying House would result in more pain and humiliation than he'd already suffered. And contrary to what his boss seemed to think, he wasn't a masochist.

"I don't suppose I could get those meds," he asked meekly when the silence seemed to stretch forever. With any luck, his headache would die down and he'd be able to get in an hour or so of sleep before his next neuro exam.