Author's Note: "If you should go, Love, leave me like the light, the gently passing day;
We would not know, but for the night, when it has slipped away.
Go quietly; a dream, when done, should leave no trace
That it has lived, except a gleam across the dreamer's face." – Countee Cullen

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 was pleased and surprised to see Mrs. Baver sitting up and taking an interest in her lunch tray.

"Nausea's gone?"

The woman smiled at him. "I'm still as stiff as a rusted out mechanical toy, but at least I can eat, thank goodness!" She had in fact eaten all the fruit, all the salad, and all the veggies off her tray, only the entrée remained. She poked at it with a tentative fork, a look of mild concern on her lined face. "What do you imagine this might be?"

Chase looked at it. The food at PPTH did indeed take getting used to. "It's a chicken breast stuffed with wild rice."

"Hmmm." She lifted a forkful to her mouth, looking at her young doctor as she chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "It looks vaguely disgusting, but doesn't taste bad." She cut another piece and ate that as well. "So what's the verdict?"

"We think you have polymyalgia rheumatica."

"By 'we' you mean you and your unseen boss."

"Yeah, h—"

"Who sends you down here with the diagnosis like Dorian Gray while he sits up in the attic getting uglier?" Her expression was a wonderful blend of amusement and irritation, as befit one who'd seen a lot of doctors in her time.

"He only gets ugly if it's something bad. A PMR diagnosis is good news: it's treatable."

"They told me it was Lyme Disease," she objected. "What happened to that?"

"It's not impossible that you may have had Lyme… originally."

"It's 'not impossible', you say? You think I may not have had it? Ever?!" Her eyes had grown huge.

"There's no way to be sure."

"What do you mean!? I was tested! Repeatedly!"

"I know, but… it's not as simple as that." He pulled up the bedside chair and sat, so he could explain. "Lyme Disease is an infection caused by a bacterium called Borrelia burgdorferi. A lot of times, we can test for bacterial infections by taking a blood sample and 'growing' the bacteria in culture."

Mrs. Baver nodded understanding. "You can't do that with Lyme?" she guessed. "But they said my t—"

"Borrelia burgdorferi doesn't grow… in captivity."

"So, what do you do?"

"Well, the CDC has decided we should use two tests. One is called ELISA, and it looks, not for the bacteria itself, but for the antibodies your immune system makes to fight the bacteria. The second test is called the Western blot test—"

"Does that look for the bacteria?"

"No, it looks for specific proteins that make up the antibodies your immune system has made. There're ten different kinds of proteins: if you test positive for five, then the CDC figures you have Lyme."

"Did I test positive for five?"

"No, just now you tested negative for all ten. The highest result I found in the records you gave me was three."

"Oh, I remember, Dr. Dickson said he considered three positive, because—"

Chase made a gesture of understanding. "I'm told some doctors have made their own rules about it, but the CDC says five."

"So, I never had Lyme? I had a rash they said was—"

"Well, that's the thing. It takes your body a while to start producing these antibodies, but Lyme Disease is serious enough that, if you have a target rash, which I understand you did, no sane doctor would wait to prescribe antibiotics: the risk of a negative outcome would be too great."

"But?"

"But that means the antibiotics may kill the bacteria before your body makes any antibodies, and if that happens, you're cured, but—"

"But there'll be no proof you had the disease in the first place."

"Right."

Mrs. Baver shook her head and scraped up the remaining gravy from the chicken. "And I thought medicine was simple… I gotta say, it's really wonderful to be able to eat without wanting to puke, so you and your boss are already geniuses in my book. Now tell me about this disease you two think I have?"

"It's an autoimmune disease." At the woman's blank look, he continued, "It makes your immune system attack healthy tissue."

"So, what do we do?"

"Basically, the opposite of what your doctors did when they thought it was Lyme Disease. They wanted to beef your immune system up. We want to calm it down, so we use a corticosteroid such as Prednisone."

"And you're sure I actually have this poly… whatever it was. PMR? There's a test for that that I'm positive for?"

Chase smiled, but shook his head. "I'm afraid not. There isn't any test for PMR. We've ruled out the other conditions that might account for your symptoms as best we could, but really our 'proof' will be if the steroids work."

Mrs. Baver folded her arms across her chest, wincing a bit at the stiffness. "Is there anything you people have a reliable test for?"

"We've quite a good test for strep throat," Chase offered.

"My throat feels fine."

"Then I'd venture to say you don't have it, even without a test."

"Fine," she agreed. "Give me the Prednisone, and we'll see what happens."

The pleasantly ordinary Christmas in Connecticut had re-sensitized Rob to the goings-on at the club, with the result that, instead of enjoying the end of year celebrations, his attention was repeatedly drawn to the sight of the tawny haired 'true' dom Annette quietly strangling her sub in one corner of the room. The club had a general safe word, and all the doms were expected to keep watch to make sure no one exceeded the bounds of safe and polite play, but still—it was disturbing. And how do you say a safeword if you can't breathe?

"Lisa," Hank called, approaching the bar, where Lisa was fetching two tall flaming drinks. "Annette says she doesn't mind an audience, but she thinks there's something wrong with your sub."

Lisa snorted. "My dom, you mean?"

"Yeah, your dom. You are the least submissive sub on this planet, and your partners tend to be the least dominant doms."

"God love him," she admitted. "He does try."

"Go take care of him."

Lisa approached carrying the two flaming tumblers. Chase accepted one of the glasses and clapped his hand over the top to smother the flames before all the alcohol had burned away, then drank as if he believed the glass to be filled with nepenthe.

"True blue, wallaby?" Lisa asked.

Rob looked equal parts surprised and relieved. It was barely past midnight. He'd expected her to want to stay a lot longer.

"Yeah, that'd be great."

"I have to tell you something, Rob." She snuggled comfortably against his chest.

Sated with what she termed 'vanilla' sex, he murmured, "What's that?"

"I got a job in Manhattan. I'm moving this weekend."

Chase inhaled deeply. Lisa's shampoo had a spicy scent he'd always loved. Manhattan. It wasn't that far away.

"Jeremy's going to take over looking after you and your father's business at the bank, if that's all right."

"Sure," Chase agreed. "And what about… us?"

Lisa pulled away a little, so she could meet his eyes. "It's been fun."

He thought about that. "You don't want to...?" he let the question, offer, whatever it was hang in the air for a moment.

She shook her head. "Nor do you." She reached up to stroke his cheek. Smooth. His skin was so smooth.

He sighed and reached up to rub his eye a bit. "Okay… do you… need any help moving?"

She laughed and kissed him. "What a good sport you are, wallaby. I would love some help moving."