Returning to the hospital Chase found that the walk to the lab was entirely too demanding on his aching body. He walked slowly, leaning against hand rails he had never appreciated before.

"Chase!"

He turned to the owner of the voice, and found himself faced with the harassed countenance of Allison Cameron.

"What did the analysis turn up?"

Chase rested his back against the wall before he responded.

"I haven't done them yet."

As he had expected, Cameron was not pleased.

"Why not?"

"I'm ill." Chase replied with a sigh, resigning himself to the work he had ahead. "Give me an hour and I'll get the results to you, ok?"

"No, actually, it's not ok. Mr. Jameson is seriously ill. Foreman and I have been working all morning without having to pick up your slack, and you, by the way, are not ill. You have a hangover."

Cameron stalked away down the corridor, leaving Chase dazed and confused. He did not have a hangover and he certainly had not been drinking the day before. How he could convince Cameron of that, however, he wasn't sure.

Sighing once again Chase continued his laborious trek to the lab.

………………………

Hunching over a microscope did nothing to ease the headache that pounded relentlessly through Chase's skull. His eyes burned with tiredness and he struggled to focus them on the task at hand.

The analysis was nearly complete, and had thus far yielded nothing. The tablets, despite their questionable claims of everlasting health and vitality, appeared to be harmless.

Chase retrieved the final electron micrograph from the printer. Nothing untoward had contaminated the samples, and whilst this boded well for the untold number of people who undoubtedly took the various multi-vitamins and mineral supplements, it had shed no further light on the cause of Mr. Jameson's condition.

At the sound of his pager Chase gathered the accumulated paperwork together. The test results were long overdue, but Chase found that he little cared. Every moment that he remained on his feet felt like energy was being drained from him, and he was determined that he had grounds to discharge himself from what was left of his shift. Princeton Plainsborough Hospital had a policy, after all. He would merely be obeying the rules.

Chase left the lab and made his way as rapidly to House's office as his tired body would allow; the thought of home driving him onwards.

The exertion proved too much however, and Chase found that once again he began to cough. He stopped to take a drink before continuing at a more measured pace, the short walk taking far longer than the distance usually required.

Nearing House's office Chase found that he was forced to stop. Each breath sheared agonizingly through his lungs and came in ragged gasps.

For the second time in as many hours Chase found himself bent double. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he fought for breath and the file of test results slipped from his hands.

Foreman strolled down the corridor, no trace of speed present in his leisurely steps. He was quite used to arriving in House's office long before the man himself put in an appearance and so was quite content to take his time.

Rounding the corner however, he was concerned to find a man doubled up, gasping for breath.

Hastening forwards Foreman found himself taken aback to discover the man was Chase.

"Chase?"

Chase did not – could not – respond. His eyes met Foreman's, wide and fearful, rimmed red from the continued choking. He clutched at Foreman, desperately trying to maintain his balance, but he fell forwards onto his knees.

"Chase? Chase, listen to me. You're going to be ok."

Chase found that Foreman's words were followed by a swift and powerful blow to his back, knocking him forwards and propelling what little air he had managed to gasp out of his lungs.

Chase tried to say no, to tell Foreman to stop, but found that no words would come.

A second blow connected and Chase saw stars, his vision clouding as the lack of oxygen began to take its toll on his system.

He shook his head as vigorously as he could, desperate to communicate with Foreman, to tell him that he wasn't choking; that he couldn't breathe.

Incredibly, Foreman seemed to understand. He moved to face Chase whose mouth now opened in repeated futile attempts to draw in air.

"I need a crash cart!" Foreman yelled, to no one in particular, supporting Chase as his body began to slump, consciousness deserting him.

"Someone get me a crash cart!"