Back from vacation and ready for more writing. Thanks to everyone who left a review for me to read. Updating will be a little slower as I go back to work on Monday. Thanks again!
House's POV
I didn't expect much from Chase during the past few days, but now I'm starting to worry. I don't know how much of it's physical and how much is emotional. Physical I can deal with. It's the emotional I don't know about.
The slash marks on his back have mostly faded to white lines. The stitches would be removed in a day or two. The gun shot wound was also healing nicely but slowly. Another three weeks or so and Chase would be as good as new.
But he was still weak. Chase spends most of his time in bed. And needs help to get to the bathroom and back. Part of me wishes that he was in the hospital so that I could monitor him better and run more tests.
But until Wimmer is caught I'm not letting Chase out of this apartment or leaving him alone. The only person I trust him with is Wilson.
We've both discussed in depth, what happened and what's happening to my wombat. Wilson wants to blame my feelings for Chase, as the reasons why I'm letting him stay. I don't have the guts to tell him he's right.
"Chase, you got to wake up." It's sad when you have to force feed a 27 year old. He shouldn't be sleeping this much. Unless there's internal bleeding somewhere. Or there's something psychological. There's can't be internal bleeding, I would see it come out of some orifice if there was. That meant it had to be psychological.
"Huh?" He's never coherent when he first wakes up.
"Lunch." He just nods. "Chase, you have to eat. You have a sandwich and some juice."
"Okay." He moves himself to sit up. He winces in pain and I can't help but wince with him. I know his side is still sore. He grabs the sandwich and takes a bite. He chews and swallows slowly, almost in a daze. It's so aggravating that I'm almost willing to talk to see what's wrong.
Thank god for the ringing phone. "House."
"They got him. He's gone."
Huh? "Who?" I walk out of the bed room. I don't know where this conversation might go.
"Wimmer. The police cornered him. There was a shoot out. He's dead." I can picture Wilson jumping up and down.
"Where are you?"
"Hospital. Cuddy just told me. She wants to know if you want to bring him back here."
"I don't know, yet. Let me tell him first and we'll play it by ear."
"Do you need me over there?"
Do I want him over here? Yes. Do I need him? Probably not. I think that I need to do this on my own. "No. I think I got it."
"Call me if you need anything."
I close my cell phone and take a deep breath. I have to tell him, he needs to know. But what kind of reaction is he going to have. There has been no reaction to anything since he woke up. Hasn't even asked why he's here, or why he's in my bed.
Unless he wants to be in my bed.
"Chase?" I walk in. He's gotten through about a quarter of the sandwich. "That was Wilson." I move the plate from his lap. "They found Wimmer. There was a shoot out. He's dead."
