Detective Madison introduced himself to Chase, who was sitting up in his bed. He had been flipping through television stations, bored and restless.

House moved the chair Cameron had slept in closer to the bed. He took the remote control and turned the television off after noticing that Chase had been watching something on Animal Planet. "Educational programming?" he scoffed, disgusted. "Isn't Spongebob on?"

"I need to get a statement," Madison said, setting a messenger bag on the floor beside his chair. Another officer, at least ten years younger than the first, followed him into the room. He had a small digital video recorder in his hand. He was introduced as Marty Simms.

"I'm interpreting and monitoring. If you start to look like you're going to blow a gasket, he's out. And no faking your blood pressure, Mister," House warned as he wrapped a sphygmomanometer band around Chase's arm and set the machine to check his blood pressure every ten minutes.

Chase shook his head. They knew damn well that he could not give them a statement.

He was getting tired of all these people coming in and out of his room. Cuddy had sent a crisis counselor to talk to him--or at him. She had shown up less than ten minutes after Wilson left. She had blabbered on and on about how it would take time to heal emotionally as well as physically and she was there to help him through every step of the process. She had said that it was okay for him to feel whatever it was he was feeling. Chase decided that she obviously did not have a clue about what he was feeling or she would not practically be sing-songing the benefits of therapy. He viciously thought for a second that actually being raped should be a requirement to be a rape counselor and immediately hated himself for letting that thought enter his mind. He would not have wished this on anyone. He prayed for forgiveness silently while she continued her spiel.

According to Ms. Sunshine, all that he had to do was share his feelings with her and the world would be a wonderful place full of daffodils and bunny rabbits or some such nonsense. She was bright, cheerful, oh so positive, and he momentarily wanted to shove her out of the nearest window just so he would not have to endure the grating tones of her happy, happy voice. He prayed another prayer of repentance and wished that she would leave so he would stop wishing evil upon her.

Chase had refused to even write a "Hello" to her. He knew how these things worked. He could outlast the hour she had set aside especially to harass him. He guessed that he might even be able to wear down her resolve so that she would leave in less than an hour. That's exactly what happened. Chase claimed victory thirty-eight minutes into their session, when she left with drooping shoulders, a cheerful promise to come back, and an invitation to call her at any time. He wondered if that meant three o'clock on a Saturday morning before he tossed her contact card into the trash can by his bed.

One down, he thought, wondering how long he would have to be unresponsive to get this group to leave.

"I'm aware that your injuries are keeping you from speaking," Madison said. He set a small audio tape recorder on the bed.

That's rude, Chase glared at the micro recorder. It was too close, encroaching on his space and he did not like it. He found it asinine that they had two recording devices when he had not consented to give a statement and could not say anything for them to record anyway.

"Dr. House said you have been communicating by writing, so I'll ask. You answer. Dr. House will read your answers and bear witness that you wrote everything yourself."

"It was me or the pharmacist. No one else can read your handwriting," House told him. That was not exactly the truth, but it served as a good enough excuse for House. He volunteered to be Chase's voice. He wanted to piece together the clues in this mystery to solve the puzzle. The only way he could have access to Chase's side of the story was to be here now. He knew better than to assume that Chase would ever talk to him about it directly or to believe that Foreman had given him a complete picture of what had happened.

Chase thought there ought to be more technically advanced ways to handle this. Instant messaging would be easier than this setup.

"Think of Dr. House as an translator. If we had a deaf witness, they could make a statement through sign language that someone would interpret. As a matter of fact, if you know sign language, we can bring in a ASL interpreter," Madison offered as an afterthought.

Chase shook his head, indicating that he did not know how to communicate that way.

"Though you are mute, there is no question that your intelligence is such that you can comprehend and reply to the questions." At one time, deaf or mute witnesses had actually been considered incompetent based solely upon their disabilities.

Madison retrieved a notebook and pen from his messenger bag. "Use this. We're going to keep your handwritten statement."

Chase stared at them blankly.

"Dr. Chase?" Madison asked.

Deciding that the nonresponsive approach was not going to work as well against three people, especially when one of them was House, Chase opened the notebook that he had been given and wrote, "I don't have anything to say."

"You don't want to press charges?"

He did not have an answer. I don't want to be… he could not even let himself think the word. I don't want to be killed, he told himself. Though the truth was that the light he saw when he was not getting any oxygen was a more inviting alternative than being raped again.

"Even if you don't press charges, you'll be subpoenaed as a witness," Madison warned him.

Chase was horrified. He knew a subpoena would force him to testify or he could be held in contempt. They'll send me back to Australia, he feared.

"They brought firearms into an extension of the university campus. Princeton is pressing charges. We have a statement from your friend who was also held hostage. He is pressing charges."

Chase felt trapped, almost as closed in as when he was in that room. He did not realize this had gotten so big. The university was involved as an institution. Did everyone know what had happened to him? How would he ever show his face in public again? He did not want to be that person, the one whom everybody pitied, the one whom nobody would look in the eye. He despised Foreman at the moment. How dare he press charges and force me to testify?

His hand was shaking as he wrote, "They said they would kill me if I told anyone."

"We have reason to believe they will follow through on that threat," Madison cautioned.

"Meaning you have to cooperate with the police, not with the trash who did this," House interjected.

"They said they would kill Foreman if I talked." He wished that part did not matter to him at the moment, but it did.

"Everyone who meets Foreman threatens to kill him eventually," House shrugged. "I've threatened him at least sixteen times."

Chase could not help but smile. "They got that on tape," he wrote to House.

"Oops," House smirked. "The point is you really don't have a choice." He was pleased that Chase had not lost his sense of humor.

I rarely do, Chase thought. His life had been a series of doing things that he did not want to do for the sake of someone else's needs or demands. That's why they picked me. I have pushover tattooed on my forehead. His mind wandered, questioning what it was about him that let them know that they could take him and make him do whatever they wanted and get away with it.

"Did you recognize the men?" Madison started his interrogation, unwilling to give Chase any more time to consider whether or not he would cooperate with the investigation.

Snapped back to the task at hand, Chase answered, "Not at first. They reminded me." He wondered what it would be like if he tried to speak, but could not force an attempt.

"You did not recognize a guy whose throat you reportedly had sliced open?" Madison asked, skeptically.

"I've sliced open a lot of throats." Chase answered, annoyed. "Lucky for my patients, I tend to pay more attention to the neck than the face." House read the statement with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

"Where did you initially meet these men?"

"The White Dove Café."

"What were you doing there?"

"Having dinner."

"What kind of place is it?"

"It's a restaurant and a singer/songwriter's circle."

"What does that mean?"

"Amateur songwriters play original music most nights. Sometimes there is a certain person featured. Some nights anyone with a guitar can get up and sing."

"How often do you go there?"

"Every 4-6 weeks."

"Do you only eat and listen or do you play and sing?"

Chase frowned, failing to see how the answer was pertinent. This was not one of the things he had ever intended his coworkers to know about him. "Sometimes I play or sing." It felt like there was nothing left in his life that was private.

House noticed that Chase's ears were turning a little bit pink. "You want to quit medicine and be a rock star?" he asked bitterly.

"No, but it's nice to have some positive feedback once in a while," Chase wrote quickly, increasingly annoyed by the line of questions.

"I'm positive."

"About something other than my hair." House read the message to himself, refusing to read it aloud for the camera.

"Would you classify yourself as a regular patron?"

"I don't know what constitutes 'regular,'" he responded.

"Have you ever seen the men who attacked you prior to the night where you helped to save Joe's life?"

"No."

"Are you sure they were never there at another time when you were there?"

"No. I can't be sure of that. I don't take note of every person in a room with me."

"What happened on the night in question?"

"I was watching whoever was singing, but there was a commotion. He appeared to be choking, so I was going to try the Hymelich. When I got closer, I realized he had stopped breathing and was breaking into hives, so it had to be anaphylaxis. I asked what he'd eaten and if he had any allergies and also if anyone had an Epi-pen. His friend said he was allergic to fish, but he had not eaten anything with fish. I'd imagine there had been cross contamination in the kitchen, but that's just a guess. Someone had already called 911. I knew St. Sebastian's was 15 miles away. I didn't think the paramedics could possibly get there in time to save him. I asked for some supplies from the kitchen just in case I had to work on him--gloves, alcohol, a small flat edge sharp knife and any kind of tubing. The only tube they had was a straw. He was already starting to become cyanotic, so I knew he wasn't getting any oxygen. A few more minutes would have meant brain damage or death. I did what I had to so he could get oxygen."

"That works?" Madison asked after House read back Chase's paragraph.

"If you know what you're doing, it works. It's gross negligence if you don't. It's a procedure I've done with optimal materials dozens of times."

"Dr. Foreman said they told him you used a razor."

Chase looked puzzled. "No, definitely not."

"Did you say anything to the other man?"

"I probably said that Joe might get an infection, because I was worried about that, but I was really too busy making sure he was getting air to talk to anyone. I was keeping watch over him while we waited for the paramedics."

"Dr. Foreman stated that they said you said death couldn't be cured."

"That's stupid. I'd never say anything that glib in that kind of situation. They're obviously nuts." House smirked as he read the statement, but wondered what was so wrong about a glib remark in the middle of a crisis.

"Did you say anything at all to anyone else?"

"I told the paramedics Joe's symptoms, who I was, and what I had done."

"At any point during the ordeal was Joe conscious?"

"No. I don't think so. Maybe a few moments when the anaphylaxis started, but it escalated rapidly and he was unconscious within seconds of when I first saw him."

"Dr. Foreman said thy specifically asked for 'the blond doctor with an accent' and that the accomplice said Joe had not been able to stop thinking about you. How could Joe identify you if he was unconscious?"

"I have no idea. I guess the other guy told him."

"Did anyone ever use his name?"

"No."

"To limit confusion, we'll refer to him as Dave from this point forward."

It struck Chase odd to have a name, even a fake name, to associate with the man who had held him at gunpoint and encouraged Joe to attack him. Although he knew Joe Smith was also a fake name, it did not feel as eerie to him as designating a random name for the other attacker.

"Did you accompany Joe when he was transported to St. Sebastian's?"

"No. The EMT's took my contact info and handled it from there."

"The next time you saw him?"

"In the clinic." He wrote. A feeling of panic washed over him. He did not think he could discuss this ordeal, even in writing.

House noted that Chase's heart rate jumped.

"In your own words, what happened in the clinic?"

Who else's words am I going to use? he asked silently, thinking it was a insensitive way to phrase the question. He inhaled slowly to steady his nerves.

"Foreman called me for a consult. He told me the patient wanted to see me because I had saved his life. I didn't recognize him at first, but they reminded me who they were. I don't remember everything. Dave had a gun." He paused, trying to collect his thoughts.

"What's wrong?" House asked.

"I don't remember exactly what he said."

"Do your best," Madison encouraged.

"They didn't have a reason to keep Foreman so I asked them to let him go, but Dave said Foreman was their insurance that I'd cooperate. He said he would kill him if I didn't do what they wanted." He kept writing without pausing for House to read.

He remembered that Joe had touched his hair, but it was not a detail he felt compelled to include in his narrative. "He tried to kiss me but I wouldn't let him. I think that Dave hit me. He told Joe to get what they came for. They made Foreman tie my hands behind my back and," he could not remember. Had they pushed him? Had Foreman pushed him? Had he just fallen to the floor because they told him to? "I had to get on my knees," he decided was the best way to phrase it without lying.

Tears sprang to his eyes while he recalled the horror and humiliation. "Foreman held me there for Joe because Dave was holding the gun."

He realized it was easier to write this than it would have been to tell the story out loud. Even without choice, this gave him some small aspect of control.

He remembered how it felt--his knees on the hard floor; his arms aching more and more with every minute that passed; Foreman tall and sturdy behind him; firm hands on his shoulders reminding him that someone else's life was at stake; no relief from the suffocating intrusion. He could not escape. He could not breathe. He could only move the way Joe forced him to move. Tears fell onto the paper as he summarized his horror with four words. "He used my mouth." Chase stopped writing, falling into the memory.

House took the statement away from Chase, and read it to the officers. He hid his shock as he read about Foreman and cringed as he read the last four words.

"What does that mean, exactly?" the officer prodded. "Used your mouth for what?"

"Oral sex, you asshole. What do you think he means?" House answered hotly.

Chase looked at the man in disbelief. Why was he being so dense?

"He has to be specific," Madison replied.

House handed the notebook back to Chase who wrote, "Oral sex, you asshole," and handed it back to House.

Officer Madison sighed with frustration. "I have to ask." He observed that the victim appeared to be channeling strength from the abrasive older doctor.

Chase frantically took back the notebook and wrote, "I'm sorry," terrified that he had made the man angry and would be in trouble, though he had no idea exactly what trouble meant. Something told him that he was not allowed to be angry.

"Just continue. What happened next?"

"Foreman asked them to untie me. They started hitting me, but I don't remember why." It bothered him very much that he could not remember why they were hitting him. He could recall being held against the examination table, but there were gaping holes in his memory. What did I do wrong? he asked himself why he deserved to be hit. "They both hit me. I think Dave hit me with the gun. He hit my head with something hard. The next thing I remember is being on the floor with Joe on top of me. He slammed my head against the floor and started strangling me. I remember trying to pull his hands off me and knowing that he was killing me. I was dying and then he breathed into my mouth and I had to breathe again."

"How do you know you were dying?" Madison prodded. A convincing charge of attempted murder could make a strong case and get the perpetrators a longer sentence.

"I think my heart stopped. I saw the light," He was hesitant to write the part about seeing a light. It was cliché, but it was true. He knew in his soul and in his mind that he had been seconds from death. If anything had come of this ordeal it was that he was certain, absolutely certain for just a moment, that there was an eternal home waiting for him.

"Do you think it was real? Could it have been a hallucination from lack of oxygen?"

Chase was not sure how to explain, but it in all the fog of memories one of the clearest was the moment he knew that it was over. He had been fighting for air; his heart felt like it was going to burst through his chest; his hands were pulling against Joe's grip. Then there was nothing. He no longer feel his heart beating or the anguish of struggling to breathe. He could not feel hands clamped tightly around his throat. His own arms had fallen to his sides, no strength left in them. All he felt was the desire to keep moving forward. It seemed much longer than the few seconds that it had taken for Joe to jerk him back to the tortured body he had left. I felt a second of eternity, he thought, awed by the idea.

"I believe I was dying," he wrote. Somehow this defied explanation. It was a matter of faith. It was none of their business anyway. He knew House would call it an anomaly of the brain shutting down. He would demean it and demean Chase for believing it. Chase refused to let anyone have the power to take that glimpse of peaceful certainty from him.

"Joe choked you, but then stopped you from dying?"

"Yes."

"I need to ask you some specific questions about the strangulation. What did he use to strangle you? Did he shake you?"

"He used both hands, pushing his thumbs into my windpipe. He slammed my head against the floor, but I don't think he did that while he was choking me."

"How much pressure did he use? Was it continuous pressure? How long did it last?"

"I'm not sure. Enough that I couldn't breathe. No, it wasn't constant," Chase realized. "He would sort of let go just a bit so I could breathe for a second and then use more pressure so I couldn't. He never let up for more than a second or two, but he did alter the force." It was the first time he had considered that Joe had actually been prolonging the experience by not cutting off air completely. Somehow that seemed even more disturbing to him than the idea of Joe expediting the process.

House deduced that the altering pressure and possible altering pressure points had likely contributed to swelling and fractures within the structures of Chase's throat. He was able to do more damage by prolonging the attack.

"Can you demonstrate the way he had his hands on your neck? You can use me."

Hesitantly, Chase placed his hands around Madison's neck, though he applied no pressure and barely made contact. He moved away quickly.

"Did he say anything to you while he was choking you?"

Chase thought for a moment. He could see Joe above him, the maniacal look in his eyes. Another memory surfaced. "He said it was amazing, asked me if I thought it was amazing."

It clicked with House at that moment. They were looking for someone with an asphyxiation kink. Joe likely associated not breathing with great sex and had fixated on Chase because of the near death experience. He had managed to cause terrible damage without killing Chase because he had practice with controlling that kind of contact. The idea of being trapped in a game with these deviants was repulsive to him.

"Describe his facial expressions and demeanor."

"Insane. He was intense and happy. His eyes were like a wild animal or something." Chase doubted that the image of that face would ever leave his memory again.

"Was he wearing any rings, anything that could have left a mark?"

"No."

"What did you do to protect yourself?"

"I fought against him. I had my hands around his wrists, trying to pull him off of me. I tried rolling away from him and pushing him off of me."

"Did you scratch him?

"Probably. I'm not sure."

"Did Dr. Foreman assist you in any way?"

"No," he answered, considering it. A vision of Foreman's lab coat, the back of Foreman's lab coat appeared. He turned his back, Chase realized. Foreman had turned his back and let the men do whatever they wanted without so much as a word. Why does he hate me so much?

"All right. What happened after he tried to strangle you?"

"I don't remember anything else," Chase wrote. "Except that if I tell anyone they'll come back and kill Foreman and everyone else I care about." He found himself wishing that he did not care about Foreman. It was obvious that the other man thought he was worthless. Why didn't he ask them to stop? Because they had a gun, you idiot, Chase snapped at himself. You are worthless. Why should anyone risk their life to help you? You're an idiot, a stupid, useless idiot. Stop thinking you can make anyone care about you. Trash. You're not worth it. You never have been and you sure as hell never will be. Not now. Not after what you did. You should have died when you had the chance. You think God will still take you after what you let them do? You can't even die right, you moron.

"Chase!" House called for the third time.

Finally recognizing the voice, Chase blinked a few times and looked at House expectantly. House nodded toward the policeman on the other side of the bed. Chase turned to look at him.

"Were you assaulted further?" Madison continued his questions. He did not have time for the trauma drama.

"Yes."

"Describe what happened."

"I don't remember."

"Then how can you say you were assaulted further?"

Chase was angry and frustrated. He wanted to avoid this. "I have the documented injuries to prove it," he answered.

"You don't remember sustaining those injuries though?"

"No."

"How can you say for sure that Joe caused them?"

"Ask Foreman. Compare DNA samples."

"How can you not remember?"

"Head injury. Oxygen deprivation. Take your pick." He left repression, dissociation, denial and any other useful defense mechanism off the list of options.

"Those are legitimate reasons for memory loss," House supplied a bit of medical expertise. "Pushing him may or may not make him remember, but at this point it could have a negative impact on his physical recovery. Change your line of questioning or I'll have to ask you to leave," he said, noting Chase's blood pressure and heart rate. Here was excellent evidence that blood pressure could be severely affected by stress. He decided he would administer another sedative as soon as the detectives left.

The detective nodded. "What do you remember next, after being told not to talk?"

Chase searched his memory. He was looking for the moment that defined the separation of his old existence as the Australian intensivist who held the record for lasting the longest with House's fellowship and his new existence as the pathetic rape victim.

"Being in the hallway in a wheelchair," He could remember holding House's cane and looking at Cuddy's shoes so he did not have to listen to everyone around him arguing.

"Can you tell us anything else about your attacker?"

He considered the question. "Joe smokes. A lot. His breath tasted like cigarettes and his teeth were yellow. His fingernails were yellowish too." It was nauseating for him to remember the taste and smell of the man. His stomach turned at the memory of his tongue trying to force it's way into his own mouth. "He had an appendectomy scar from many years ago. He had another surgical scar, more recent. He probably had his gall bladder removed within the last year."

Madison nodded, almost impressed. It was the first time he had ever had a victim speculate about their attacker's medical history. "Did you notice any distinctive characteristics about Dave?"

Chase thought for a moment. "He had a swirling tattoo on his right wrist, letters, but I didn't really see them well enough to read them. Blue ink."

"One more thing. I want you to look at these portraits and tell me if they look like the men who attacked you." Madison pulled a large manila envelope from his bag. He opened it and produced copies of the drawings that had been made based on the security camera's footage and Foreman's recollection of the men's faces. He placed both pictures in front of Chase and allowed him to study them. "Look closely."

Chase was repulsed and fearful when he saw the faces staring back at him. Seeing the photos only served to slightly alter the memories of their faces in his mind. "That's them," he wrote and turned away. Maybe they were not exactly as he had pictured them, but the portraits were accurate enough that he would rather agree with them than study them and risk remembering more details of what they had done to him.

"Are you sure nothing needs to be changed?"

"Foreman wasn't hit in the head and strangled. His memory is clearer than mine anyway," Chase justified to himself why Foreman would be able to help an artist render a more accurate portrait than he could. He hoped that Madison had meant it when he had said "One more thing." He was emotionally exhausted.

"Fair enough," Madison answered, taking the portraits back. "I think that covers everything. If any more questions arise, I know where to find you. An official transcript will be compiled that both you and Dr. House will have to sign."

At this point, Marty Simms turned off the digital recorder while Madison took the micro recorder. Simms took the notebook from Chase. The two policeman said a polite farewell and left Chase and House alone.

Exhausted, Chase laid his head on his pillow and turned onto his side.

"You did the right thing," House assured him.

Chase huffed. He had been waiting for House's approval for three years and he finally got it for being forced to relive the worst experience of his life. He closed his eyes to shut out the world.

House sat a moment, pondering some of the things Chase had written. Foreman had some issues that he was denying. Chase had a worrisome amount of memory loss, assuming that he was telling the truth about the blank period between the strangulation and finding himself in the hospital hallway. He felt less strongly that the inability to speak was more mental than physical. Believing that another sedative would be in the best interest of Chase's health, he stood to go order the medication.

A glance at his patient found the other man already asleep. His chest was rising and falling steadily and his breath was even. "That's the best thing for you right now," he said in a low whisper, longing for the simplicity of a patient with leprosy.

A/N: I'm not to proud to beg! Please leave a comment. :-) Lots of hits and few reviews makes me cry. Actually, I'd really like to know what you think of Chase's emotional investment in his Near Death Experience.