"Where's Chase?"

"I told you, it doesn't matter. He'll be back to work in a week."

"That's not an answer. He hasn't shown up to work in two days. It's not like him to just skip out on an open case like this" Cameron persisted as she followed House into his office. House only groaned, pushing the door open, not so much as bothering to hold it open as she barged in behind him.

"You know I sent him to that conference in Boston this weekend. It only ended last night. Chances are he was sick of all that actual work he had to do, and decided to kick back at a bar. Bet he couldn't make it back this morning" he protested half-heartedly, knowing how weak the defense sounded to the ears of Chase's closest companion. The usual steel edge that his voice carried was softer than normal, and the empathic Cameron picked up on it immediately, much to House's distaste.

"I don't think that's it. Actually, I'm sure of it. He wouldn't do that to himself if he knew he had work to do, and like you said, this case is important. You know he wouldn't do that, he just wouldn't. And since you're not asking us where he is, you have to know. Where is he?" Turning his back to her fiery retort, House grabbed the case file off of his desk and clutched it tight in his hand. It was hard to focus, to pretend as though he could work, with images of Chase's mangled hand rushing through his mind. The knowledge, the intense burden of his information, it was searing a hole into his usually steady confidence. So he turned, a scowl on his face, and thrust the folder out to Cameron, hoping that the white knuckles of his hand were shielded by the paper.

"He's wishing that you were doing your job right now, and maybe trying to save this woman's life. She is a mother, you know. I thought that made your heart ache, I thought it made you pity. We wouldn't want her to die because you were distracted with the whereabouts of your boy-toy, would we?" The subtle sting to his voice was enough to bring a look of stubborn defiance over Cameron's face, obviously indignant on shifting her stance. She stood strong for just a few moments, which was the least that House had expected from his employee.

And then, just as he had also predicted, she folded. Her walls came crumbling down with the most subtle gesture playing out across her lips. The anger-filled pout collapsed in on itself, and she bit down on her lower lip without so much as a sound. The creases that had gorged valleys into her forehead smoothed over as she contemplated the folder that House held in his hands, eyes searching for some sort of weakness that she could exploit in a last ditch attempt to win the argument. Finding none, she struggled for not another moment longer before the fire in her eyes turned to embers and she reached for the folder, raising the flag of surrender high for House to see. But this defeat was not without its displeasure on her part.

"I know that you know where he is. And I don't know what's wrong with him, and that means you do. And if he's hurt, and you aren't letting me know, I swear I'll-"

"You'll do nothing" House cut her off, gesturing towards the door with his cane. "Now go on. Shoo. Get. Don't you know there's a woman dying?" he said with feigned desperation. Biting back down on her lip again, Cameron looked towards the door, and then back to House.

"I'm only asking because I care. Foreman is worried too. We just want him to be okay, that's all. He's our friend. I know you might not care about him, but we do. Just, if you do know where he is, make sure he's alright" she sighed in resignation, and then turned towards the door, striding out as though nothing had transpired in the previous moments.

Just like that, House was left alone, without so much as a friend nearby to soothe his thoughts. He knew that retreating to Wilson's office would mean that in the end, he had been defeated in the subtle battle of emotions. That was a defeat to which he would never admit. So instead of folding, for the sake of his own pride, House grabbed his keys from where they sat on his desk. He knew exactly where he was going to go, and he knew that he was going to waste no time in getting there.

The comment that Cameron had made about him caring had stung more than he had expressed on his face. The thought of it wounding him at all carried the bulk of the surprise for the diagnostician. In fact, he was still battling his own denial over exactly how much he did care, not just for Chase, but for anyone at all. The fact that the comment had wounded him was a clear indicator of his true emotions on both the topic of his affection and his thoughts on Chase. But as he did with anything else that struck a bit too near to his walled-off heart, he pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had entered.

Almost as though he hoped to physically leave the thoughts in the room behind him, House moved as rapidly as he could to leave the office, and escape to the parking lot. He knew that he had to head over to Princeton General as soon as he could, just for the sake of easing his own conscience.

And perhaps, for the sake of Chase's health and recovery.

-H-O-U-S-E-

Without so much as checking in at the desk, House wandered towards the recovery room for recent Post-OP patients. In this solemn space, there was less coughing, less moaning and crying than the typical hospital room. There were rows of bandaged souls, white gauze covering arms, faces, and surely more beneath pale blankets. Usually, House was not one to stare so excessively as he made his way across the space, but he was brought to ponder what exactly led these people to come to these beds.

Was it merely something routine? Had they kissed their families before they were wheeled into the OR, a slight smile on their faces? Or had they been torn from their homes, lifted up on the backs of angels, subjected to a fury of blinding lights and medical technicians yelling desperately? Had some tragedy brought them to this place? Had they been crying before a needle slid into their arm, offering them the only release they knew?

These thoughts were running rampant through his mind, and House had to will his feet to keep moving beneath him, carrying him forward, past those bodies of souls that hung in limbo. He would never know there stories, just as he never knew just how much the heart of his patients ached. Before, it hadn't mattered. Now it did, Chase's injury suddenly bringing a new perspective to the rows of bodies that lay silent in beds. They were more than just broken bits and pieces; they were broken minds, broken souls, their wounded bodies not the half of it. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he had to use all of his strength to fight it, trying to get to Chase as quickly as he could.

But before he knew it, House was standing before his youngest employee, the intensivist lying beneath pastel sheets, his right arm swathed in white. The bandages extended down to his very fingertips, and carried on up to his elbow. The hand and wrist were positioned normally, resting on top of Chase's stomach for the time being, which was the most soothing effect. It was one thing to know that the surgery had gone well, but just to see the normal aesthetics of a functioning hand were enough to bring temporary peace of mind to the diagnostician.

With a quick look over at the IV leading into Chase's arm, House saw that at the very least, his employee was free of pain. The heavy dose of drugs was a clear explanation for why the blond was resting so peacefully, his eyes not so much as twitching as his body tried desperately to pull itself back together beneath the expanse of gauze. There would be pain, and House figured it kind to spare him for at least some of it. Figuring that he would be content without speaking for at least a little while, House sat down next to Chase, staring him over thoughtfully, hoping that he could entertain himself with the palace of his mind.

Unfortunately, it was merely a few minutes later that House realized that this tactic had been well exhausted over the past few days. There was only so much silence that he could stand when his mind was constantly on fire, alight with new thoughts, ideas, and questions. Of course, he had not driven to just sit in silence beside the bed of an ailing man. If that was what he had desired, he would have paid a visit to the coma patient that he had developed quite the soft spot for. Or rather, a soft spot for the comfort and solace the room provided. But this provided the same effect in the end.

Using a lazy hand, House cut the drip of fluids into Chase's arm, hoping that the effect would wear off sooner rather than later. There were methods to stave pain that did not involve sedation (which House knew well enough) and for the sake of providing himself a conversation, House figured that Chase could be brought to the world of the waking for just a few minutes. If the pain began to return, House promised himself that he would not extend the agony that Chase was suffering, and merely restart the flow of drugs and return home.

True to his own self-proclaimed wisdom, it was within ten minutes that Chase was beginning to groan, his body stirring ever so slightly from where he lay. First his left arm twitched with a slight tremor, and then Chase's eyelids started to flutter, his lips parting in a subtle moan of exhaustion and pain. House watched the process silently, leaning onto his cane from where he sat, eager to observe the metamorphosis. It was as though he were watching a creature claw itself up from an open grave, drawing life into a body that had once been utterly extinguished of it.

Soon enough, the transition stage had passed, and Chase was on the brink of fully alert consciousness. In House's opinion, it couldn't have come soon enough. He was craving a sort of conversation, a window into Chase's struggling soul. It wasn't as though he enjoyed the show, as though it were a sick sort of entertainment. He was merely eager to catch a glimpse into Chase's mind, get an idea of just how fractured his being really was, all for the sake of promoting his recovery further down the line.

As Chase took in the light from the blinding fluorescents above, there was no surprise he had a look of discontent on his face while regarding House's presence. The elder diagnostician had expected nothing less. The Aussie had been less than pleased at being relocated for the surgery, and even more upset over House's callous words and actions regarding his bodily violations. So it was not so much startling, as it was disappointing, to hear the first words from Chase's mouth muttered at a low rasp.

"What're you doin' here?" Chase slurred beneath his breath, obviously still shaking off the effects of the drug. "What time is it?"

"It's just about one in the afternoon" House answered honestly, knowing that there was no benefit to any sort of benign deception. "You've been out for something like twenty four hours now. You must've been unconscious for the sponge bath" he joked halfheartedly, knowing that his face was still somber.

Chase didn't so much as twitch at the joke, only looked down at his arm with a slight grimace. "I'm guessing all this bandaging means that it worked. I'm just glad to see it's all still there. At least my medical proxy didn't decide to have something removed while I was under" the intensivist muttered. Admittedly, the blow stung, and House felt the words bite into his skin as Chase uttered them. It seemed that the doctor was conscious enough to be rude, which House took as good of a sign as any. Perhaps it was just the temporary peace washing over him, but House noted that the hollowness had vanished from Chase's eyes, and was replaced with a subtle fire. Perhaps it was the slightest spark, a manifestation for the will to live.

Yet despite this sick bit of humor that Chase presented, House found himself irritated enough to ignore Chase for the next passing moment. The intensivist could busy himself with studying his own arm, staring at the shell wrapped around his hand, while House wandered down to the edge of the bed to grab the chart that was hanging there. He hoped to find exactly what medication they had prescribed, as well as any specific procedures done. Unfortunately, the doctor overseeing Chase seemed to have the same problem House did; an absolute refusal towards filling out charts all the way.

Without so much as grumbling over the small roadblock, House pulled himself towards Chase once more, staring at the doctor with curious eyes. "So tell me, Chase, how're you feeling? Has the pain set back in yet?" Chase didn't miss the acidic malice that had been laced into the question, but from the slight grimace inching its way up Chase's lips, House already knew the answer.

"Asking how someone feels, that's a new one for you. But yeah, if you have to know, it hurts like a son of a bitch already. Please, House, do you have what you want to know? Because whatever the hell I'm on is some good stuff. Just ask your questions, and let me go back to sleep."

And there it was. The chink in the armor that House had used to tear down the entire shield. With a simple question, an admission of some sort of concern, was enough to tear down the pitiful façade that Chase had pieced together in a matter of seconds. The intensivist was still broken, still hurting, and from the glassy sheen that had come over his eyes, House suspected that the memories had returned as well. House prepared to ask another, but thought better of it, recalling his own severe pain following the surgery, the ghost of pain that clung to him every day. He couldn't bring that upon someone else, knowing firsthand just how much the wound could carve out a piece of soul.

"No, no questions. That's all. Make sure you keep an eye on what the nurses are giving you. You're smarter than them, and probably most of the doctors on staff here. I'm just a call away, but that's not an open invitation for you to call me. It's just something I'm saying to be polite. Now get some nice, peaceful, drug induced sleep" House chirped with a false grin, reaching for the plastic tubing and allowing the drug to continue its path into Chase's blood.

The young doctor didn't reply, for he didn't have adequate time to form a response of any kind. The instant the drug hit his veins, his eyes were already rolling up into the back of his head. House didn't need an answer to his verbal questions, for he had received the answers to the unspoken he in those few short exchanges. Medically, he was satisfied for the time being. But Chase, he had quite a long ways to go.

Sorry that this update is so late, but thank you all so much for reading! I hope that this chapter was enjoyable, and I hope to be updating again soon! Thanks so much for taking time out of your day to read this story, and I sincerely appreciate every follow, favorite, and review that i have recieved on this story. Thanks again!