"Anyone in there?"
"Occupied", Chase yelled out from the floor of the wheelchair-accessible bathroom stall. He prayed his voice was steady.
It was a long story. He hadn't exactly ended up there on purpose. Apparently, skipping breakfast and lunch on a day where he'd be on his feet in surgery for six hours straight was unwise - it was a minor miracle he'd managed to keep the shaking of his hands at bay throughout. It didn't take a medical degree to figure out the signs of low blood sugar, and as soon as he was back in the conference room, Chase brewed himself the strongest coffee he could bear, complete with two and a half spoonfuls of sugar. Under his breath, he snorted at the phrase printed on the machine.
Good Coffee - Cheaper than Prozac!
The slogan had been there as long as Chase could remember, but recently in particular its irony had not been lost on him.
The team's latest case - some college sophomore with unexplained allergy symptoms - had been successfully diagnosed and discharged the day before, with no more than a course of Prednisone and stern instructions to stay away from chamomile tea, so the department was unusually quiet for three in the afternoon. Thirteen was on clinic duty. Taub had left early - something about his kids. Foreman was consulting on a case in Neurology. House was, presumably, harassing Cuddy or pestering Wilson. Chase sat, grateful for the uncommon solitude, swirling the spoon in his mug. He really did feel like shit.
Logically, he knew that anyone veering wildly between the extremes of his current diet would have some less than desirable side effects. He wasn't sure if it was all that, though. Recently he'd gone from tired to seriously fatigued; he couldn't hold his focus. Concentration had never been an issue for him in the past - he thrived under pressure, acing his medical exams, never one to shy away from high-intensity situations. Hell, that was his entire specialty. He just couldn't get his brain out of this sludge it seemed to have settled into. He'd have felt defeated if he had the energy to.
Downing the coffee in two gulps, wincing as it burned his oesophagus but grateful for the sensation, Chase was overcome by a wave of nausea. That was way too much sugar. The saccharine taste wouldn't have made him flinch a few months ago, but he had grown accustomed to drinking his coffee plain and black. A grimace spread across his features.
Ironic how much I hate feeling sick given what I'm bloody doing to myself, he half-chuckled as he exited the office, unable to ignore the slight shake in his hands as he fumbled with the lock to the disabled bathroom. The mild guilt that he felt each time he took up one of only two wheelchair-friendly stalls on the whole fourth floor was pushed to the back of his mind as he perched on the closed toilet lid, breathing purposefully and deeply. At least this time he wasn't using it for unsavoury reasons - although when that was the plan, he had come to the somewhat shameful situation that this was the best place for it - away from prying eyes and ears in the public men's bathrooms, and with handy grabrails for pulling oneself from the floor.
Leaning forward to reach the handily positioned basin, Chase turned on the cold tap with one hand and cupped the other under the running water, splashing the mercifully cool liquid up across his face. When glucose failed, a shock to the system never failed to cement him back firmly on earth, even if only for an hour or two. The beads of water trickled down his cheeks and temples. Still, he couldn't seem to control the trembling in his hands. It was almost as if his whole body was shivering despite the sweat also forming on his brow.
Chase mentally chastised himself for no longer carrying mints around in his pocket. They may have been a tell to his employer that he was engaging in some behaviours he'd much rather keep secret, but at least they'd offer some more sugar. Much to his chagrin, he came to the conclusion he'd have to both eat something substantial, and keep it all down. That had been getting progressively harder lately.
Leant over the sink, head resting on arms and arms folded against the cold porcelain, he swallowed and took a deep breath before pushing himself upright. He should have expected the white noise that took over his head for a split second - after all, it happened whenever he stood up these days, and orthostatic intolerance would only be made worse by his clearly low blood sugar. But he didn't.
The fuzziness around his vision intensified, and he stumbled backwards. Attempting to reach for one of the grab rails, Chase blindly threw his arms to the side, hoping to find one to clasp onto for stability. He grabbed onto thin air instead. Even through the static in his vision and the soup in his brain, he registered the almighty crack as the side of his head smacked into the blue linoleum tiling of the floor.
Chase wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but it couldn't have been more than a couple seconds. Intriguingly, the impact seemed to have stopped the persistent shaking, and he lay there, stunned by the fall. Gingerly shifting his weight as he pulled himself upright, he was relieved that he didn't seem to have fractured, dislocated, severed, or otherwise seriously maimed anything. His mouth curled up and he winced as he moved his shoulder - that would leave a bruise. In the grand scheme of things, a bruise didn't seem so bad. He figured that the ugly noise made as he'd hit the ground had been the sound of his scapula against tile.
"Anyone in there?"
"Occupied", Chase yelled out from the floor of the wheelchair-accessible bathroom stall. He prayed his voice was steady. Still rather lightheaded, he got to his knees, cautiously lifting himself from the floor. Time seemed to have slowed down somehow. The footsteps outside the door had thankfully receded.
He walked back to the conference room in somewhat of a daze, mildly horrified he'd neglected himself to the point of passing out in a workplace bathroom. That being said, it was less that Chase cared for his health, and more frustration over it occurring in work hours. If something like that were to occur in front of his colleagues, he'd be in deep shit. Approaching the office, he noticed House seated at the table, a stack of papers substantial enough to indicate they were likely onto a new case; a welcome distraction. He said a silent thank you to a God he didn't believe in as he pushed open the glass door.
"Doctor Chase! Nice of you to join us. Well, I say us, it's actually just..." House trailed off. Chase raised his eyebrows expectantly, and then with trepidation. Concern was not a look he was used to seeing on his boss' face.
"Actually just what?"
House stood quickly, not bothering to grab his cane. "What in God's name happened to you?"
"I don't know what - nothing's happened to me, I-" As he spoke, Chase glanced down at his shirt, which seemed to be the focal point of House's attentions. He was shocked to see a not-insignificant patch of blood. Tracing the scarlet trail along his collar and up his neck, he felt an awful stickiness against his palm. The realisation that he was bleeding profusely from his head hit him almost as hard as the fall had. The colour drained from his face as House grabbed his wrist, and it was only then Chase realised he was swaying. Everything seemed a little too bright.
"What the hell have you done to yourself?"
There's no getting out of this one was Chase's last thought before everything dimmed into a soft, dull darkness.