Post-discharge, Chase had been sent home to take a full week off with stern instructions from his employer to rest, eat properly, and take the prescribed doses of Aleve. He suspected that House didn't want to dole out any opioids at risk of him ending up in a similar predicament to House – and despite being confident that drugs were not the kind of unhealthy crutch he'd end up relying on, Chase was grateful that he wasn't on anything too strong. Many years back he'd had a wisdom tooth removed, and the Percocet prescribed to ease the pain had made him feel detached and foggy. There was already enough of that in his head.

He was still beyond mortified at the situation he'd found himself in. None of this was ever meant to have happened. The fact he'd lost control and ended up injured in such a public way was almost as shameful as keeping it a secret in the first place. Sure, House already knew, but there was a huge difference between knowing and seeing. The difference between a patient reporting that they're a heroin addict on an intake form, and walking into the bathroom and finding them with a needle in their arm. It made everything so much more tangible – it meant that someone outside his own head could see him as vulnerable as he felt inside. Although anyone who knew Chase on a more than superficial level could tell he had baggage, it was a whole other ball park to be perceived as weak, or fragile, or needy. The idea of that made him sick to his stomach.

Almost on cue, his stomach rumbled. House must have known his instructions to absolutely not binge or purge were likely to go unnoticed, but Chase truly was trying his best. Unfortunately, his foolproof method to avoid doing so was to simply avoid as much food as possible. It was late evening, and he sighed to himself as he rolled over to pull himself out of the warmth of his bed. Time for another coffee.

In the past, he'd read tales of people who'd grappled with some kind of issue or addiction, who'd had a wake up call when they hit rock bottom. Addicts who realised the value of their life after falling into a coma; anorexics discovering a new passion after going to rehab. If this was any other patient, Chase would have classed 'starving and vomiting yourself into hypoglycaemia that leads to a head injury' as rock bottom, but in his situation it really wasn't, right? Somewhere in the deep recesses of his thoughts, it occurred to him that he might be thinking irrationally about this. He decided he wasn't. In the grand scheme of things, this wasn't rock bottom. Ending up there was not on the cards.

Monday morning rolled around quickly, and as Chase hopped off the bus outside Nolan's office (House had confiscated his driving licence until he proved his concussion was fully gone), he found himself brimming with anxiety. Another House-imposed condition was that he wouldn't be allowed to return to work until he'd had this appointment, and however much Chase hated the idea of yet another strange person attempting and failing to dive deep into his psychological issues, he'd tolerate it if it meant he could get back to his job and continue self-destructing privately. According to his employer, Nolan was a veteran of psychiatry – no nonsense, intelligent, and wise to any manipulation coming from his patients. Chase couldn't bring himself to be too concerned though. Nothing and no-one could stop him from doing what he liked to his own body; it was none of their business.

Entering the waiting room, Chase was relieved to see the area empty, save for a bored-looking receptionist sat at the desk, filling out some no doubt mind numbing data entry. He was sympathetic - he might be an intensivist by specialty, but he'd done his fair share of paperwork over the years, and it never got any less tedious. Butterflies fluttered faster in his stomach as he approached the counter. Opening his mouth to speak, he was cut off mid-breath.

"Dr Nolan's eleven am, I assume? Robert?"

Chase found himself relieved for some reason that he didn't have to broach the subject himself. There was no shame in psychotherapeutic help, but he still felt embarrassed to be a doctor of all people with issues, and he sure as hell wouldn't be standing there if it hadn't been a job requirement. He nodded slightly in affirmation.

"He'll be with you shortly." The receptionist gave a half-smile, no doubt on autopilot, and gestured for Chase to take a seat.

Absent-mindedly, he sat on one of the deceptively soft blue chairs – near the exit, it somehow felt safer - and tapped his fingernails against his knees, through his trousers. Even though he planned on bullshitting his way through as much of the session as possible, his body tingled with anxiety. Chase had always been a private person; only letting people in as much as was necessary.

It felt like no time had passed at all before a deep voice from the left echoed into the room.

"Dr Chase?"

His stomach lurched, but he forced the butterflies down as far as they'd go before standing and walking with silent trepidation towards the doctor. He forced a smile and shook the outstretched hand, hoping his own palm didn't feel as clammy as he feared.

"Good to meet you, Dr Chase. I'm Darryl Nolan. Are you ready to come through?"

"Yeah", Chase willed his voice not to shake. Get a grip! You're a fully grown man talking to another man. Pull yourself together, he mentally chided himself.

The interior of the office looked much as Chase had imagined in would, but with a little more personality than he'd expected. The room was a faded creamy yellow, and pictures adorned walls and the dark wooden fireplace, with a handful of chairs spaced just far enough apart to seem professional yet intimate. In spite of the warmth of the room, he shivered.

"Take a seat, Dr Chase. May I call you Robert?"

"Sure." Chase bit the inside of his own lip, smoothing out non-existent creases in his jeans as he settled onto the dark leather chair. Nolan seated himself in the chair opposite, face gentle but unreadable.

"So, as you're probably aware, Dr House asked me to see you before you're medically cleared to return to your post, after a recent incident?" His inflection made it clear that he wanted an explanation straight from the horse's mouth, but Chase wasn't sure how to respond.

"Uh, yeah. It's stupid really," he laughed shakily, "I passed out and hurt my head because I hadn't eaten enough that day. I mean – you know House, right? You saw him. You know he can be stubborn."

Nolan let a faint smile creep onto his face. "I do know what he can be like. I also know he's very concerned about your wellbeing – physically and mentally. He told me he'd brought this up with you, mm?"

"I mean, he's not really concerned so much as covering his arse. And House is a total control freak; he just wants to – y'know cause as many issues for me as possible. I'm used to that by now."

"He may have issues of his own, but I really believe he's worried for your welfare. I prefer to hear directly from people what they believe their issues are, but my correspondence with Dr House heavily suggests that he believes you're dealing with an eating disorder." The smile had been replaced with a soft yet firm gaze. "Would you agree with that?"

Digging his nails into the undersides of his forearms as he sat, arms crossed, Chase prayed for coherence when he opened his mouth. This was going to be tricky. "Well, I – I know that I could probably eat a little better, but I don't have body image issues, I don't want to lose weight-"

"Dr Chase." Nolan cut him off mid sentence, and Chase was surprised. Weren't therapists supposed to just let you talk? "I'm told you're an excellent doctor. I'm sure you know as well as I do that body dysmorphia is only one potential symptom of an eating disorder."

Chase stammered as he tried to explain himself. "Yeah. But this isn't, like… it's not – it's not about food, the passing out thing was a one off. I should have eaten more that day. You know what it's like, sometimes you work yourself too hard and forget to eat or whatever."

"Do you often find you've worked yourself too hard?"

This wasn't the route Chase had expected the discussion to go. "Well, I work for one of the top doctors in the country. Of course it's a lot of hard work."

Nolan nodded. "Dr House mentioned that recently you'd dealt with some more job related stress than is usual."

Chase's stomach dropped into his shoes. Surely House hadn't told him about Dibala. He swallowed. "What, uh, what did he say?"

"He didn't go into details. Just that several of the cases recently had been particularly difficult. Is that how you see it?"

"I suppose so."

A short silence ensued. The faint noise of a clock ticking filled the air, and Chase found himself getting increasingly wound up in the absence of any conversation.

"So what is it I have to say?", he snapped impatiently. "Tell me what I need to tell you about. Or, or what I need to do or whatever, so I can get back to my job and stop wasting both our time."

Nolan eyed him, quiet and measured. "That's really up to you."

"What does that even mean?!" Biting his tongue, Chase attempted to talk himself down from the sudden wave of frustration that had overcome him. "Am I supposed to, like, talk about my divorce, or my shitty childhood, or…"

"Both of those sound like they were very stressful for you."

Chase rolled his eyes. "House said you fixed him up. Was it with this crap?" Ever since he could remember he'd become angry and reactive when his buttons were pushed, and although he had a better lid on his temper these days, it still flared up at times like these.

Nolan straightened a little in his chair, appearing entirely unphased. "I'm not at liberty to discuss another patient's sessions with you – I'm sure you understand – but Dr House has been seeing me for a not insignificant amount of time now, and whilst it's not always been straightforward, he's put in the work to begin dealing with some of his issues."

"I don't need to put work into something that doesn't need fixing!" scoffed Chase. He eyed his bag on the floor, and suddenly made a decision. "You know what? This is pointless. Tell House I'm fine. Or don't. I'm done with this shit." Grabbing his satchel, he avoided eye contact with the older man as he stormed out of the office.

"Dr Chase-"

There was no response. Chase was already halfway through the waiting area, having not bothered to close the door behind him. What a colossal waste of his morning. Who the hell was Nolan – or House, for that matter – to tell him what he could or couldn't do to deal with his own brain? Ultimately, he decided, the only person it was hurting was him. And it wasn't like he couldn't stop it if he ever wanted to. Right now, this place was comfort.

Much later, Chase sat exhausted on the edge of his bed. His throat hurt. The kitchen bin was overflowing with cardboard packaging again. The bathroom smelt of that overly strong floral air freshener. His stomach ached. His head still pounded from the force of vomiting so much. He tried very hard not to think about anything as he pulled his sore body onto the mattress and curled up as tight as he could.

[AN: Long time no speak! I can once again only apologise for the massive delay in uploading this chapter, thanks to a mixture of personal circumstances, the apparent end of the world, and frankly a shitload of writer's block. I won't make any promises I can't keep, but please know that this fic will NOT be abandoned, even if it takes forever - it means a hell of a lot to me, and from the comments I've received, to some of you too. Thank you all so much (especially Yogalicious for your incredibly thorough comments that never fail to make my day!), and a belated happy new year!