Author's Note: He who studies medicine without books sails an uncharted sea, but he who studies medicine without patients does not go to sea at all. –Denis Diderot

Disclaimer: I don't own House, M.D., nor its concepts, characters, and setting, but I do love them, especially Chase. This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not meant to take the place of the advice of either physicians or lawyers licensed to practice in your country or state.

Chase sat dejectedly at the glass table, drinking his seventh cup of coffee, and trying to concentrate on the page before him.

Galactosemia is a carbohydrate metabolism disorder caused by inherited deficiencies in enzymes that convert galactose to glucose. Symptoms and signs include hepatic and renal dysfunction, cognitive deficits, cataracts, and premature ovarian failure. Diagnosis is by enzyme analysis of red blood cells…

Chase was bored. He normally found the entries in Merck's interesting, but after five straight hours of it, diagnoses were not so much dancing in his head as laying around in exhausted heaps, mingling their symptoms and treatments in a very unhelpful way.

This 'fellowship' with House had turned out to be much less structured than the programs Chase was used to. There was no syllabus, no list of things House was required to teach, or Chase to learn. It was not even an accredited fellowship under the American rules. More a clever way of keeping the Department of Diagnostic Medicine's salary expenses low.

Not that the salary actually mattered. Dad was generous with money, if not with time or affection, and his allowance was ample to cover both his needs and his desires.

Nor did the DDM earn their keep, in Chase's opinion. His eyes strayed from his book to his boss, sitting behind the desk in his 'private' office, if a glass walled room could be said to be private.

What was the man doing? It wasn't time for his stupid soap opera on the telly. He never seemed to be charting. It looked like he was reading a magazine. Could be a medical journal, Chase supposed, though it could just as easily be a copy of Penthouse or Hustler. Either way, this was ridiculous.

Chase got up and knocked at the glass door that separated the inner and outer DDM offices. House looked up and motioned for him to come in.

"You have a question, grasshopper?"

"Why don't we go down to the clinic and see some patients?"

House was clearly annoyed, but only mildly so. "I've told you before: I don't see patients." His eyes dropped back down to the magazine open on his desk.

Chase, who could read upside down, noted it was the American Journal of Tropical Medicine and Hygiene. Useful, he supposed, if they got a patient with a tropical disease, but not exactly critical daily use information for New Jersey. He felt frustration rising. "You saw the patients from the six cases you handled alone."

"Back to that, are we?" House eyed him. "I promise I won't hide any more cases from you."

"Clinic's full of cases right now," Chase pointed out hopefully. "They said so when I was coming back from lunch. Said they could use some help."

The young man reminded House of a golden retriever bringing over his leash to show he was eager for a walk. He wasn't impressed. "Full of runny noses and stomach aches. Boring. Besides, you've already done seven clinic hours this week. That's more than you're required to do. Go read the book."

"I've been reading the book all day."

"Have you finished it?"

"No, of course not! It's over twenty-eight hundred pages long!"

"Then—" House made an airy gesture towards the conference room to indicate Chase should return to his assigned task.

"It's a reference book, House. Not a novel. Please, can't we take a break and see some patients for a while? Just a couple?"

House sighed, very put upon, but magnanimously gave up. "Fine, you want to see patients so badly, go ahead." This time he waved his fellow towards the door that exited onto the hallway, signifying permission to go. "Run along."

Chase just kept standing there. "You know I need a license with me."

"Ask Wilson."

"Wilson's already down there."

"Perfect, so just tag along with—"

"It's not helping them if I do that. Wilson can see as many or more patients working by himself." He paused to moisten his lips nervously, then pressed on. "You're the one I'm supposed to be working with. Why won't you see patients with me, House?"

"I DON'T SEE PATIENTS!" House yelled. "Now get out of my office!"

Chase obediently turned and walked out, exiting through the door to the hallway, which House took to mean he was going to the clinic. That kid is an idiot. Doesn't know when he's well off. He watched the young man sit down on the bench in the hallway. Whatever. I don't care what he does.

House tried to resume reading his journal article, but couldn't help sneaking little looks out to where the demented young fellow continued to sit motionless on the bench. What does he think he's doing?

After reading the same paragraph three times without being able to get a sense of what it said, he got up from the desk, grabbed his cane, and limped out into the hall.

He looked down at Chase, unmoving on the bench. "What are you doing?"

Chase kept looking at the floor. "Waiting," he whispered.

House thought about that. "Did Cuddy put you up to this?"

The young man exhaled heavily. "Maybe. Yeah, I guess. She said—but she warned me you wouldn't do it." He looked up at his boss pleadingly. "Look, I know I'm a lot of trouble for you, but you don't have to do anything. You can bring along your magazine and read it while I'm working—"

House's voice was quiet. "I don't like being manipulated, particularly by people who work for me. If I tell you to go back in there and read the book, are you gonna do it?"

The light green eyes looking up at him held an ocean of disappointment and regret. "Yeah," he breathed.

House gesture at the conference room door.

Chase got up, went in, and settled himself back at the table in front of the big book.

Diagnosis is by enzyme analysis of red blood cells and DNA Analysis. Treatment is dietary elimination of galactose. Physical prognosis is good with treatment, but cognitive and performance variables are often subnormal.

The thump of House's cane heralded his arrival from the inner office.

Quiz or lecture, Chase guessed. Fine.

"Come on," House said, without sitting down.

Chase just sat looking up at him, at the magazine he held. Now what?

House arched a brow. "Or have you changed your mind about wanting to go to the clinic?"