Warning(s): Violence. Language
Chapter rating PG-13
Chapter 14
A glance in the mirror showed him a man he didn't recognize. Desperate and lost, this man could see only one attainable goal. He liked to call it justice, though most would label it revenge. Most also wouldn't blame him. After everything that had happened he wasn't just going to hand over what Yarrow wanted. He'd made promise, more to himself than anyone. He was willing to risk what little he had, and give up what little he might have found to bring this to an end.
He straightened his tie and fixed his collar, looking respectable in his nicely tailored attire. It was the same suit he'd worn to Zinedine's funeral months ago. Now he was wearing it to Montrose's. It was more depressing than it was fitting. He sighed at his reflection and reminded his weary body and mind that today was the last day. He'd say goodbye to Montrose, put an end to this conflict with Yarrow and, if he was still in one peace at the end of the day, he'd find House and apologize.
H
Chase didn't come to work the next day. House had called, driven to his apartment to bang on his door – nothing. He spent the rest of the morning just sitting and staring, watching the people pass by the glass walls to the conference room in the vain hope that the next person that came by would be the missing physician. It was vaguely creepy to the two remaining fellows, House just sitting in the chair at the end of the conference table nearest the door, waiting and staring. He picked up his phone every once in a while, to page Chase or call his cell phone. The pages received no response and the phone was always off.
"Still no answer?"
House blinked and noticed Wilson in the doorway, blocking his view. He could only guess how long he'd been there and not noticed. The only person his brain was set to notice was Chase.
"Seems we're not the only ones looking for him," Wilson said. House didn't comment on the 'we' part. Wilson had been reluctant to help him on his hunt until ten o'clock came and went with nary a peep from their resident blond. House figured he was still sceptical. You think he'd have more faith in the diagnostician's powers of deductions. He'd predicted all of Wilson's divorces. "I came to give you advanced warning that the cops are back."
House didn't move. "So soon?" His eyes briefly followed a resident in a lab coat as he passed by the glass wall. He was quickly dismissed from House's mind. It wasn't Chase. "I figured they'd wait a couple of days. Maybe set up some speed traps on his route to work, try and hassle him into doing what they want."
Said cops made their entrance, halting their hurried steps at the doors of the diagnostics room. House's eyes narrowed as his view was blocked again.
"Dr. House."
Eventually House brought his eyes up to the man in the dark suit. "Detective Goren, a little out of your jurisdiction aren't you?" his little, blonde partner was there too, as was Chamberlain, her little upstart Yankee and some other tool.
Detective Eames, the small blonde, hastily explained the reason for their visit. "Something's going on today and your fellow is directly involved. We have reason to believe there's a hit out on him. If you know where he is you need to tell us." It was actually a phone tap in New York on one of the suspects Goren and Eames had a hunch about that lead them to Princeton this morning. To prevent any hurt feelings they'd hand no choice but to inform the locals on the case. They'd had enough run ins with the FBI to know they didn't take kindly to anybody stepping on their toes.
"Reason to believe –huh? Those phone psychics are rarely right. Ten percent, tops."
"You have psychics we have phone-taps. People are worried about loose ends. Yarrow has been compromised. Some of his associates are worried that he's gotten sloppy. They want Yarrow gone and Chase is in the line of fire." Goren crossed his arms and let his eyes skip to the other doctors. They took their lead from House, he knew, but they would speak out if it was important. "If you know something and you don't tell us you're going to get him killed."
Wilson, House, Foreman and Cameron were silent. The latter two glanced around hoping somebody would say something. They hadn't been aware that the situation with Chase was this bad. Wilson glanced between his seated friend and the pair of New York detectives. Behind them Chamberlain and her group waited for any information. House didn't respond. He didn't have anything to tell them. Eventually his shoulders lost their rigid posture, defeated. He had no hand to play, no deal to strike.
"We don't know anything," Cameron says with honest upset straining her otherwise professional tone. "If he's not here or at his place…" she shrugged and shook her head.
Chamberlain gave a short huff from behind Eames and Goren. "Call the locals get a description of Robert Chase out there. We're wasting time here." She rushed her people out. While the other suits left Goren and Eames stayed behind.
"So, he didn't tell you anything," Goren re-iterated. "Probably to protect you. Problem is he's alone against an army. You guys know him the best. Where would he go?"
It was embarrassing to admit that though they worked so closely together, they didn't do much interacting outside the hospital. There respective haunts were unknown to the others. House and Wilson knew of the Bomber but that was all.
"We don't know," Wilson said again.
Goren nodded. He walked further into the glass walled room, hand at his chin while he thought through Chase's situation. "He's in a corner and people like him will fight there way out with a ferocity that might surprise you. He's not going to let Yarrow win, even if it means they both lose. His only qualm would be that nobody else goes down with him." He'd made it over to the opposite window and turned around to eye the missing man's colleagues. "He may not have told you anything but this has been consuming him. I can't tell you how long he might have been planning this and I know he must seem different now than he was before, but there must have been something. Something that he did, something he probably didn't even know he was doing. It might seem insignificant but it could lead somewhere." He didn't know what exactly Chase might have let slip. While he was contemplating his strategy he must have dropped a few subconscious hints, almost hoping for discovery.
Even Foreman, with his general mistrust of law enforcers, had to admit that these two didn't seem that bad. The large man was obviously very intelligent if a little awkward, and the woman was sharp, and likely the more practical of the pair. He wished he had something to tell them. He wished Chase had told him something. Cameron wished the same thing. House, seated, realized that Chase already had told them.
After being almost motionless House rose from his perch of vigilance and walked slowly and deliberately to the garbage next to the cabinet that supported their trusty coffee maker.
"What is it?" Goren asked. He may not like House but the man was brilliant, he couldn't deny that.
"He's been scoping out a place."
"What?" Cameron walked over and peered down. Brows furrowed she picked up the disposable coffee cup from the garbage. It was decorated with an unfamiliar logo on the side. She felt somebody approach from behind her. She glanced back finding the petit blonde detective. Cameron handed her the cup then looked back into the almost full bin. There were more cups with the same logo filling the trash can.
H
"You called me here. What do you want?" Yarrow asked. Chase tried not to show his discomfort as he sat down across from his nemesis. He'd called this meeting, picked the time and place, kept it secret from his friends and the coworkers he would occasionally venture to call his friends. He had to let Yarrow know that this ended here, one way or another. It was conceivable that he wouldn't see tomorrow or one of the following days but should that happen he hoped not to cause hurt to anybody. That was why he didn't respond to House's request, fled before his treacherous mouth could spill what he had to hide.
If he had given in, if House knew, then the man would be relentless, more than he already was. Chase didn't need or want House getting caught up in this. Despite his feelings of guilt this was not his fault. Chase was the one who'd accidentally stumbled into a family with more secrets than his own, and had been a pawn in a power struggle. Nevertheless, pawns could tip kings.
"You've lost," Chase said once he was resting in the seat across from Yarrow. The small café was not even half-full. He knew the lunch time crowd wouldn't begin their expedition to this particular luncheon venue for another forty or so minutes. The establishment boasted the finest wraps in the area. Chase had tried one and not been impressed but he hadn't gone there for the food. The place was small, quiet, with one exit at the front and one at the back. The surrounding neighbourhood was semi-business. There was a clinic and private medical office a few blocks away. The place next door was a dry cleaner and across the street was a government building, the department of something-or-other. There were no schools nearby, no daycare, no hospitals, no parks or malls. The nearest theatre was a good twenty minutes away but McDonalds was only ten, which was important, because it meant that on a day to day basis this place was fairly quiet even at peak hours. And Chase knew well when those peak hours were, and had planned accordingly.
He and Yarrow were at a small table at the front of the café, Yarrow with his back to the glass and the outside world, Chase with his back to the rest of the patrons. He knew that sprinkled within the other five customers, was at least one of Yarrow's goons. He didn't concern himself with that.
"I've lost? Really?" His tone indicated amusement as if Chase had just said something cute.
"That shipment coming in today, Customs just might decide to take a closer look at your cargo." That was harder to get out than Chase had expected. He couldn't remember what exactly he'd just said and wondered if he'd mixed up any words in his haste and anxiety.
The smirk on Yarrow's face fell to a scowl.
Judging from that reaction, the point had gotten across, mistakes or not.
"Those tip lines can be a real nuisance." His delivery reminded him of House. A slight smile tugged at his lips to mask the expressions of fear that might otherwise be displayed. "That little spin-off business or yours isn't going to get off the ground. In fact, your partner just might be arrested soon. I mean, those DHS guys investigate every little tip that comes in –considering the details that went with that tip, their definitely going to be interested. Your associates will be disappointed I'm sure, and you'll never be trusted with anything again, but I here nine of ten new business fail in their first year." His voice was steady, a little clipped but he hid the fearful response Yarrow's angry demeanour had conditioned his body to feel. His heart was pounding and it was a constant battle to keep his breathing even.
Yarrow leaned across the table his intense, dark glare spearing Chase. "I don't like it when you speak. I prefer you with something stuffed down your throat."
Chase forced back the gag at the rush of memories. He wouldn't let Yarrow distract him. He continued. "News of your side-line business is going to be all over soon. Those you kept in the dark won't appreciate you scheming behind their backs. Prison is a great place to make connections, but you talk just a little too loudly and way to much." Chase smirked at blend of anger and shock on Yarrow's face as the older of the two realized that his cellmate had learnt too much without him knowing. For Chase, it felt unbelievable good to be one up on the mobster. The grip Yarrow had on him was loosening and he felt his apprehension easing in counterpoint to the rising fury presenting on the man across from him. With a few phone calls and a few hints Chase had, how do they put it, 'dropped the dime' on the plot that was already in action. He went on outlining Yarrow's fall and feeling his mood rising with each word. "You don't even have the funds to finance your, now failed, venture. That's why you want what Montrose gave me." The man had a great deal of money from his many years of cleaning money for the mob. Montrose had been an expert at scrubbing, hiding and moving money around. Yarrow needed those connections. Montrose had known and, in an effort to make Chase more of a player and less of a bargaining chip, he'd written his will to leave everything to the foreign man that he thought he owed a great deal too. His plan had backfired, leaving him dead. It was only now, in this round about way, Chase made it work. He had those connections Yarrow so desperately needed, and the money too, but he had no intention of giving them up, or ever using them.
Through his rage Yarrow found his voice enough to spit out a warning. "You don't want to make an enemy of me. I can end you and your friends with a snap of my fingers."
"That won't solve your problems. If anything you'll add to them. You see there's this guy, Arnello, right bastard, but a little indebted to a friend of mine. He and his boss are actually quite happy with your project being sunk –less competition for them –I'm practically one of the family," Chase exaggerated. "You hurt me and they'll drop twice the hurt on you." He didn't like to think of this as helping Arnello or his people, but rather, preventing the introduction of yet another supplier of cheap drugs that people could just kill themselves with. No country needed more drug suppliers and a man like Yarrow didn't need more power. He didn't deserve any.
The unglamorous man sat back a little and glared at the much more fetching man across from him. Mentally, he went through his options. His carefully constructed plans had just been torn apart by this little punk. If he hadn't had the Islington's, his previous 'accountants' on the project, eliminated he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. Unfortunately the couple had left him no choice when they decided they would go to the cops. Montrose had been his last ditch effort to salvage his project. All the money in the world was useless if he didn't have a place to keep it safe or the connections to move it around. He was out of options.
"Yeah," Chase said with a smug nod, knowing that Yarrow knew he'd been beaten. Knowing, more importantly that he'd beaten Yarrow. "So why don't you just fucking choke on it," he spat with such venom he could have been a cobra. He threw one last look at Yarrow and went to stand, triumphant and free at last. With speed Chase hadn't expected, his former cellmate reached across the small span of the table to grab the younger man around the back of his neck. Chase winced at the pressure and grit his teeth as the vice tightened.
"I'm not afraid of your friend, and there's no way I'm afraid of you," Yarrow hissed, his breath brushing across Chase's face. "I can still fix this but I'm afraid it's over for you." Yarrow tugged hard, pulling Chase forward and crushing their lips together in a harsh mockery of a kiss. He had his own plan set up in case he deemed Chase to be too much of a liability. He clearly was.
Wide-eyed and revolted, Chase struggled to pull away. Yarrow released him without warning and Chase tumbled back into his chair, nearly falling backwards. He was too shocked and sickened to say anything. Flushed with indignation and nausea he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That wasn't very nice."
Both men turned to the entrance. Chase was shocked to find…
"House!" He'd run to his car, broken numerous traffic laws, and sped all the way there. He hadn't spared a moment to tell the others where the business was located, so it was no surprise that he beat them to it. He did wish he'd had the foresight to bring a gun or something.
"You're skipping work again," House stated without looking at his wayward intensivist. His chilly gaze was locked on Yarrow. "And you shouldn't touch what's not yours."
Yarrow laughed. "Doctor House, again. You want to die with him? Be my guest." A snap of his fingers and suddenly House's arms were pinned behind his back by a rather shabbily dressed minion of Yarrows. Another large man emerged from his corner to stand near Chase, silently threatening bodily harm should he try anything.
The proprietor of the café who'd been ignoring the rather blatant argument between Yarrow and Chase began to step in now. "Hey-" Yarrow's thug whipped out a firearm, sleek and black, and took aim at the café owner who backed slowly away with his hands up. The other few patrons remained still and silent, watching the events unfold.
"I am sorry it has to end like this," Yarrow said to Chase with what sounded like fondness in his voice. "As for you." He walked over to the scruffy physician and stared at him for a moment. "Well, I just don't like you."
House smiled "Ditto."
Yarrow briefly returned the smile. He stepped back as though taking his leave but at the last moment he swung his foot, delivering a kick to House's injured thigh.
The pain paralyzed him, brought tears to his eyes and when the grip on his arms was removed he fell. The sound of his name being called was faint, barely noticeable background noise to the sharp discomfort overtaking his senses.
Chase began towards House but the goon turned shifted his gun, forcing him to a halt. He glanced at the hard, emotionless face and down to the one contorted in pain. The clenched jaw and the lines of expression from the pinched features were deeper and darker due to the greyish shadow of stubble on the older face. Clawed hands, petrified with tension enough to raise his veins and tendons, grasped at the injured part. Watching the scene of suffering bled away whatever sense of triumph Chase once had. The weight of guilt, shame and fear again suffocated him as he considered what Yarrow had just done; what he'd just heartlessly taken away.
"You bastard!"
"You did this to him!" Yarrow snapped, exploiting the guilt he knew the more decent man was feeling. "I told you I could hurt you and your friends. You made me do it. And you're making me do this too."
Chase looked into the eerily bright, brown eyes and read the intent. He wasn't going to see tomorrow. He wasn't going to get a chance to apologize.
House struggled through the searing discomfort, and lifted his head to watch, if not hear, the last exchange of angry words between his fellow and the crook. Chase's face was flushed with anger, maybe some panic too. Yarrow was calm, angry but calm. He directed his men to leave and House felt a shadow cross him as one of the thugs stepped over his form. Yarrow made another gesture and smiled cruelly at Chase. That smile, that face, and the next few moments would be the stuff of his nightmares for some time to come.
The large glass window fronting the café erupted with a network of fine white cracks and a single small hole. A small cloud of red droplets burst from the gangster's chest and Antony Yarrow's eyes went wide with shock. The stunned Australian only a few feet in front of him raised a shaky hand, and the finely dispersed spray of blood coloured his palm and fingers red. He didn't even notice Yarrow fall to the ground as another hole appeared in the glass window bringing the whole pane down in a shower of bright splinters.
House watched helplessly as Chase's body jerked. A red stain quickly blossomed on the front of his shirt. Chase looked down at himself. Feeling nothing, he watched the patch of dark red grow, ruining the light blue fabric. Somehow he was down on the floor watching the ceiling. There was commotion around him and the sound of what he thought were guns being fired. He decided to stay down. Being shot once was enough.
The rest of his mind began to filter back and the pain began. That part of himself that was still detached from the situation catalogued the wound and began estimating his own chances of survival; depends on bullet path, calibre, type, whether he got medical attention soon, his general state of health. His musings ended with him biting back a scream. Something was pressing against his chest, right on the wound.
"Chase! Rob! Stay with me! Keep you're eyes open!"
"House?" The name was nearly lost in the gurgle that came with it. A froth of blood dribbled from his mouth, staining his lips and tracing a bright line across his paling cheek.
"No speaking," House admonished in his usual manner. For some reason that made Chase smile. House clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. He relaxed it to speak, biting out harsh words. "What are you so happy about? You just got yourself shot. Hey, no talking!"
Chase coughed instead, bringing up drops of blood to dot his face. His breaths started getting shorter. More blood slipped out of him between House's fingers. From beneath him a pool of crimson liquid was expanding. The puddle crept outward, it's movement mocking the effort House was making to save the severely injured man.
"Shit! What have you done to yourself?" House asked rhetorically. Chase thought he misheard the waiver in his boss's voice. He hoped he misheard it. He didn't want to hurt him.
"…m'sor..sor…sorry…" Maybe he could apologize after all.
House's face pinched further as the sound of Chase's choking apology made it to his ears.
"I told you to shut up."
The ragged breathing stopped. House was frozen for a moment, his mind screaming that he hadn't meant it like that. He was about to begin resuscitation when he was pulled away and uniformed EMTs went to work. That's when he noticed the sirens, the body of Yarrow and one of his cronies a few feet away, and the flashes of blue and red light that coloured the trashed café.
"Sir, stay down. I need to have a look at you." Another team of EMTs descended on him.
"I'm fine." He tried to get up and back to Chase but his leg kept him down. The pain was so intense he felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat and his stomach churned in an unsettling manner. They quickly had him manoeuvred onto a stretcher. "Take him to Princeton Plainsboro," he managed to call to the EMTs still working on his unconscious, possibly dead fellow.
"House!" He heard Wilson calling his name once outside the café. He didn't immediately have the breath to respond to the shout. Before he could, the doors to the back of the ambulance had closed and he was being sped away from the scene.
H
"Where is he?" House demanded impatiently.
"You're not supposed to be up. How's your leg?"
"That's not what I asked. Where is Chase?"
Cameron wasn't offended by his tone. She'd worked with him long enough to be able to brush some of it to the side. And he was in pain. His thigh was hurting, he was walking with the help of a crutch, and he'd just been involved in a shooting –another one. He was allowed to be cranky –crankier than usual.
"We haven't heard anything. Wilson called a while ago to say he was still in surgery."
"Called?"
She sighed. "They took him to Princeton General instead of here."
"Fan-fucking-tastic. Get your car we're going to the Gen."
"Don't bother."
Cameron and House both swung around at the sound of Dr. Wilson's drained voice. Cuddy walked in next to him and Foreman brought up the rear, having seen them in the corridor and followed them back to diagnostics to hear the news. Lisa and James looked bad and House knew before they said anything. Cameron knew too.
Her mouth opened, probably to word a denial. Nothing came out. She only shook her head, as though her defiance would change the truth.
Wilson shook looked dully at them, hating having to be the one to impart the sad news. "He lost too much blood–"
"That's what transfusions are for!" House yelled.
Wilson went on as though there had been no interruption. "The damage was too extensive. The bullet went through his inferior vena cava, through his left lung and out. They tried to repair the damage but he…there…there was just too much blood loss."
Foreman and Cameron fell into chairs at the table. There were already tears in her eyes and Foreman lay a comforting hand on her back as they tried to come to terms with the sudden loss of their colleague…and friend, not matter how they may have denied it.
"I thought you were better at this," House said finally, voice reverting back to his usual tone. "I'm not going you thank you for that bit of bad news." He hobbled past them with the crutch he clearly wasn't used to. It was a pitiful sight, a marker of the fall they'd all just taken.
Cuddy shifted her eyes away briefly then posed: "Where are you going?"
"To see him."
His two closest friends warred with what to say. Cuddy had to say something. "He's dead, House!" The harsh statement brought everybody in the hall to a halt. House slowly turned around. Patches of dried blood still stained his shirt and jeans, Chase's blood. They stood out on the haggard man and drew out the haggard lines of his face. Cuddy had to wonder when House had become so old; maybe just in the past few hours.
"I need to see him," He eventually admitted, though his tone was neither embarrassed, nor even subdued. House needed to see him. It was a fact.
Cuddy relented. "I'll drive." She looked at Wilson who shook his head. Cuddy and House left. After a quick glance at the two grieving fellows left in the diagnostics conference room, Wilson went to his office. He didn't turn on the light. The sun was still high in the early afternoon sky. He could make his way through without tripping. It was dark enough though, that he could just sit there and hide from the world for a little while. He sat in his chair staring silently forward at the wall, not knowing that to think. Things felt a little different. One person didn't change the world, so he assumed it must be him –bereavement perhaps the culprit.
H
The crutch was chucked in a corner the moment he got home, replaced with another crutch and his cane. He popped another pill, adding to the two he'd taken after leaving Princeton General. Cuddy hadn't objected, she was actually the one who written the prescription. When she dropped him off she'd tentatively rested a hand on his leg, his good leg and given a gentle squeeze. House had just nodded, not entirely sure what either of them was trying to convey, and then left for the solitude of his apartment.
The cane had been easy enough to get from the closet. It was just sitting there, waiting for him to come back. If the inanimate object could talk it would be saying "I told you so". Currently he was getting enough of that from his conscience, or his superego, or whatever they called that little bastard that always gave him advice he didn't listen to. I told you it would end like this, in pain. However, to be fair to his conscious mind, this wasn't the type of pain anybody would have anticipated.
He knew what would take it away.
Booze. Not the stuff he usually drank, or the stuff he shared when Wilson came over to mourn over his latest failed tryst (or marriage as he liked to call them). No this was the good stuff; the liquid relief that he'd drank when he got home after his infarction, and then after he lost probably the only woman who would ever love him.
The first sip of the amber ambrosia burned better than when he'd first bought the slightly over-priced hooch. He'd regretted the purchase until he'd had reason to drink it. Then he went back and bought more.
Mixing booze and painkillers was a recipe for disaster. There was a certain order that made it not-so-bad but he couldn't bother to recall whether it was booze then drugs, or drugs then booze. Judging by the quick high, the hazy room and the general weightiness of his limbs he thought he got the order correct. On the other hand, he was beginning to hear the taunts coming from his cane –the jerk –so maybe he did have the order wrong. He shrugged lazily, unevenly.
Who the hell cared?
Wilson –he would grieve alone, at least at first. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, they would go get sloshed (most likely in silence), just providing a little company with which to lament alone together. Cuddy had already offered her comfort. Despite how they argued, and how they cared for each other, they rarely touched so the gesture was important, noteworthy but that was all. He'd turned it down, her offer of compassion. He didn't even want her to know that Chase's loss affected him. This time it wasn't even his fault and it was still hurting. And he was alone, like he'd previously wanted to be, so why did he feel worse than he had before?
Maybe it was the incessant squeaking of that damn wheel!
"Steve, quit it!"
They yell was followed by silence and he cringed. The silence was worse. He turned on the TV. Didn't care what channel or what program was showing. All he wanted was something to fill the sharp silence, the cold emptiness. Nothing worked.
That afternoon, that evening, and that night he would drink, take pills, and repeat. He would hallucinate, dream, and converse, trying to forget a face, a voice and a feeling that had never really been his except for one night and one morning.
The sun was rising, his head was pounding and his alcohol and codeine induced buzz was taking a turn for the worst. He'd lazed on the couch for most of the last several hours, getting up only to unplug his phone when the ringing felt like a lance through his head, and to use the toilet. It was the latter urge that now pulled him from the soft cushions of his furniture. He didn't make it one step before he fell to the floor, the area rug scraping against his several days old stubble.
He'd forgotten about his leg. It wasn't better anymore. It hurt again. He hurt again. "Welcome back, status quo," he whispered miserably to himself. He smiled the smile of the confused and broken. The despair and the killer hangover stirred the few contents of his upper digestive tract spilling a small pool of greenish bitter liquid from his mouth. The twisted smile was gone.
Greg raised himself to all fours, keeping as much weight as possible from his injured fourth. The last bit of vomit dribbled from his slack lips and he watched without impression as the viscous liquid narrowed into a thin strand before it fell from his bottom lip to its new home as a stain. He crawled with a strange limp just far enough to get away from the mess, then collapsed.
His leg was really throbbing, not as bad as it could be but bad enough, and it was just going to get worse. He hadn't missed this, the constant reminder that he wasn't whole and that he never would be, the weakness that kept him from doing the things he used to love, from being with the woman he used to love. Now he'd lost again and he welcomed the pain as a deserving distraction. Maybe penance but that seemed more seminary-drop-out-style than brilliant-misunderstood-doctor.
He lay there for some time until he fell into a fitful slumber haunted by shattering glass, hailing bullet and smiling thugs. When he woke hours later he would only remember the very end of his REM figment. Rob was there, asking, begging to be found. So Greg got up, splashed some water on his face and began his search to find Chase.
How does a hospital lose a body anyway?
H
House jerked back from his desk when a device was dropped onto the surface with a resounding clunk.
"What the hell is this?"
"A shaver. Use it."
The diagnostician ran a hand over his fuzzy jaw. "And loose my signature look?"
"A beard is not your signature look." Wilson didn't even get into the fact that his signature look wasn't much better than his current state of unshaven-ness but a beard was just too far.
"I think I'm an inch away from actually calling it a beard."
"I'm an inch away from tossing your computer and your phone out the window! All you've done these past four days is search…for a body!"
"I know. I was there." House went back to his self-appointed work.
Wilson gave up. "Fine. If you won't listen to me, then listen to him." He held out a piece of paper. It was a standard size of eight point five by eleven inches, folded three times and held shut with one staple. "I found it in my desk with a little post-it attached. Said I'd know if and when I had to give it to you." Wilson didn't say who it was from. They both new already.
For several seconds Greg stared at the letter wondering what Chase might have thought he needed to say to him. What was the last thing Chase wanted to tell him? He cautiously took the letter and James only stared at him for a few seconds before he left. With Foreman and Cameron in the clinic or somewhere he was alone in the diagnostics rooms.
Without pause or ceremony he ripped out the staple, lips pulling to the right as the small piece of metal took a chunk of paper with it. Thankfully the ripped paper didn't contain any of the message in it, the short message.
Greg,
STOP!
-Rob
His first thought was, "What the fuck?" Who was this piece of shredded, flattened and bleached tree shavings to tell him what to do? Who was Chase to think that he would listen? Then he realized that he'd been right. This was proof. Chase had been trying to protect him. He distanced himself from them knowing that things might go badly, left a message for him guessing how he might react –maybe he was becoming formulaic.
Cameron and Foreman returned from clinic then. They paused in the doorway, confused and wary of the expression of affront on their superior's face. House looked over at them holding the two in place with his eyes. The team didn't feel right. The whole hospital didn't feel right. He was used to working with three, fighting with three, dodging five on occasion. Two and four just didn't feel right. Cuddy was probably preparing a stack of resumes for him to rifle through for a replacement.
He shook his head. Cameron had been saying something quietly earlier, about a funeral. Nobody but him seemed to think that fact that they didn't even have a body to bury was a problem. They'd figured it was just a mistake, an oversight. After all they worked in a hospital. They knew that sometimes things didn't run as smoothly as one would like, or expect. So they weren't exactly sure whether the body of Robert Chase was in the morgue under a mistaken name or at the coroner's office. Annoying, sure but not something that would warrant a conspiracy theory that Chase was still alive just hidden somewhere.
House wasn't even sure what brought him to this conclusion. The sudden disinterest of the FBI might have something to do with it; that and his suspicious nature in general. He was sure Wilson would have to count using all his fingers and toes the number of times his cockamamie theories had proven correct no matter how little evidence he'd based them on. Of course for each one he got right there were the numerous differentials prior that were wrong. He had to admit that maybe this was one of those times he was wrong.
He rubbed the growing beard on his chin and frowned. He'd been at this non-stop for days and he'd found nothing but dead ends and raised eyebrows –he could hear them even over the phone. It could be time to let this go. Chase could be his new Ester.
He packed away all the papers from his searching, stuffed them into a drawer reserved for those special files. The letter, Robert's last message to him, written in the familiar, tidy, efficient scrawl of Dr. Chase, he folded and slipped into his pocket.
Funny that the only person whose opinion held any weight right now was a dead man. Well, everyone kept telling him Chase was dead and he could only deny it for so long before they started thinking he was crazy.
The drawer closed with a skid and thud. This chapter was at an end.
H
'Cough, bruises, fever, dyspnea, seizures, mental retardation' the white board read when Cameron and Foreman returned from their lunch break. Foreman took his break in the cafeteria while Cameron had spent half of hers in the clinic helping out with the backlog of patients, and surreptitiously keeping an eye on House. He hadn't been the same since two days ago when he shoved all those papers in the desk where Ester's file had once resided. When House had been away from the office she'd snuck in and peaked, and now she was worried. She tried talking to him but he just stared at her calculatingly. She would ask a question hoping for an honest response. He would ask one of his own, one that made her believe for a brief while that he wasn't worth the effort. When the tapping of the cane that House had brought out of retirement reached her, she was back to being concerned.
Walking into the conference room and seeing the symptoms listed on the board almost brought sighed of relief from the immunologist. A glance at Foreman and he looked relieved too. They missed Chase but their lives were still going on and there were still lives to save.
"Differential," House demanded. He stood near the board eyes on words he'd written just a few seconds ago.
"Coughing, fever and dyspnea point to pneumonia," said Foreman. "What makes you think the bruises are anything more than plane old bruises?"
"A hunch."
The short answer with little bite and no sarcasm caused the two remaining fellows to glance at each other. They remained silent for a minute wondering about House.
"C'mon! Differential diagnosis! Three-year old who would like to see four, even if he can't count to it!" That sounded more like House. He still didn't turn to look at them
Cameron read from the file that had been left in the middle of the table. "He's epileptic, House. Injury during birth. Mother sued the hospital, they settled. If you read the patient history you'd know that."
"I wrote the patient history. I do know that," House said as he turned to glare at her. He turned back to the board quickly, the empty chair leaving his mind unsettled. "He and his mother came into the clinic while I was there. You're not a very good spy if you missed it."
"I wasn't spying. I was just-"
"Is everything always about you? What about little Elmo?"
"Elliot."
"Whatever. Go draw some blood." It sounded like a kiss-off. "I'm serious. Go. And get him a chest X-ray, sputum culture, and an MRI of his head."
Foreman stood. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking the kid has pneumonia, anaemia and a head injury. What I'm really suspecting, is that they might have the same source." House went to his office and sat at his computer. Cameron was going to follow but Foreman stepped in her path and shook his head. He didn't want another argument between the two of them. It made working in the department even weirder and more difficult. Usually when those two butted head Foreman and Chase banned together feeling like the only two sane people left. Without him Foreman just wanted to avoid the awkwardness all together. He didn't want to be reminded that one of his favourite white-boys had just been gunned down like a too many people who couldn't find their way out of his neighbourhood. Besides, it was pretty apparent that House didn't want to be comforted, didn't really need it. He'd get over Chase's death. They all would. Eventually things would feel normal again. Cameron just had to give House time.
H
"Leukemia," Foreman announced a few hours later to House who was staring blankly at his computer screen. "Blood tests and smear confirmed anaemia and the white blood cell count is low making him susceptible to infection. He also has a decreased fibrinogen level. Elevated uric acid and lactic dehydrogenase levels also pointed to leukemia."
"What about the MRI?"
Foreman sucked in a wary breath. "They're booked solid until tomorrow morning." He'd tried to sneak their patient in but, with the life threatening disease already diagnosed to be leukemia, his MRI wasn't high-priority. Strangely House seemed to agree.
"Okay," was all he said.
Foreman watched him for a few seconds more then left to book the bone marrow biopsy they'd needed to confirm leukemia. House barely noticed his exit. Not that the screen saver floating by his monitor was that interesting.
He was having trouble letting go. He kept asking questions that couldn't be answered and he was only steps from lashing out at someone. He'd stumbled out of denial and into anger and he'd stalled. He was still in denial he supposed, and definitely angry, unfortunately the man he was angry at was dead and the sniper who'd killed both Chase and Yarrow was still at large though the police informed him two days ago that they had a suspect. Freedman, one of the detectives who'd originally arrested Chase for the Islington murders.
The goon that was still able to talk had been quite forthcoming with Yarrow's plot and the cop that was "on the take". The police now knew that Freedman was Yarrow's inside man. In a misguided attempt to break all ties with the mobster and save his own skin, he'd shot Yarrow, his employer who'd ordered him to shoot Chase on his signal. Freedman had shot Chase anyway, maybe on principle, maybe because he knew too much. Unfortunately for the detective the bullets recovered from the scene matched the type used in the sniper rifle that was missing from the gun locker at the precinct. Crooked cops were hunted almost as hard as cop killers. Chase was going to get justice. So why wasn't it enough?
He couldn't go through the steps of grieving if his mind continued to insist that something wasn't making sense, the same way it was insisting that, despite their current case turning out to be rather routine, there was something that still needed to be addressed. These types of inklings had him ordering his team to dig through medical texts and journals to figure out what they had missed, and he would order them to do that as soon as they came back. Digging through Chase's death however was something else entirely. All he had was a feeling, possibly a mistaken feeling, and nobody to help him.
He didn't realize his phone was ringing right away. Once he did, he quickly answered it.
"What?"
"Uh…I'm looking for Doctor Greg House," said a timid voice, either a female or a fairly young male.
"You've found him."
"Oh! Um, you called three days earlier for any information about the immigration status of Robert N. Chase. I'm afraid there's no applicant by that name…anymore."
The fingers rubbing across his forehead paused. "Anymore? Is it normal for applications to just disappear? You can't have that many to go through that it would get lost. Most people don't bother with you guys these days."
"Sir, we process more than-"
"I don't care! What about the file."
"The application is gone and all the relating material has been sealed. The only reason I noticed is because somebody had been working on that case number a week ago and it's logged into the system."
House sat back in his chair and stared up at his ceiling. "So how does a file that was there a week ago, vanish?"
"…I don't know."
House held back his comment of 'you don't know much do you?' and instead just thanked the person. "Wait! One last thing."
"Yes?"
"I have to ask or this is going to be bothering me all day. Are you a boy or a girl?" There was silence and then the phone went dead. He stared at the receiver with mock outrage and dropped it back to its base. "Baby. Just wanted to know if you were XX or X…Y…." he trialed off. His head tilted slowly up from its drooped position as understanding descended in a deluge.
Cameron entered the office a few seconds after the epiphany to find her boss rifling through the array of papers he'd stuffed in this bottom drawer, the "Search for Chase (or at least his body)" papers. He threw them onto his desk and began flipping through them, haphazardly discarding the ones he wasn't interested in.
"House what are you doing?" Cameron ventured, stepping forward.
House glanced up briefly. "Oh, good. It's you. Get a DNA test on that kid, Elmo or Eddie or whatever."
"Why?" she asked with a dubious drawl, her eyes on the papers scattered over and slipping off the desk.
"Because he has an extra chromosome and a missing gene."
"House, he's dead!"
The blue eyes and the mature face tilted towards her. "Elliot?" That was sudden.
The brunette shook her head and corrected him. "Chase." House's blue eyes took in the sincere regret and the sorrow. "He's gone."
"You're right," he quickly agreed, leaving Cameron to frown in confusion and watch as he gathered up a few papers. Documents tucked under his left arm he grabbed his cane with his right hand and hurried to the exit.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere."
Cameron jumped into his path halting him. "What about the patient?"
House pressed his lips into thin line. Cameron read the discontent in his expression and knew that she was pushing, so it was with relief that she watched him head down the hall to three-year old Elliot's room. She followed him in, taking the paper and his cane when he roughly shoved them at her.
"Hey there, Elliot," he greeted, ignoring the woman seated in a chair next to the bed. "You ever see that movie?" House sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the covers down. He began to examine the boy as he spoke. "It was about those fish, clown fish, you know the orange and white ones. One of them had a gimpy fin and he gets captured by the Aussie doctor, not a blond though, and then his dad has to go find him." House made his way up the child's leg to the junction of this abdomen and thigh.
"Finding Nemo!" the exclamation was followed by a coughing fit.
"It's his favourite movie," the mother said rubbing her son's back as he tried to catch his breath. When the episode ended he was going to fall back to the bed but House kept him up and raised this shirt to look at his back.
"House, what are you looking for?"
"Those."
Cameron manoeuvred her way to the bedside to take a look without dropping the objects held precariously in her grasp. Along little Elliot's lower back lines of slate-grey horizontal marks streaked his skin.
"Hyperpigmentation along the Blaschko lines. Stage three of incontinentia pigmenti," House announced. He took the papers and his cane from Dr. Cameron. She barely noticed as she went to look more closely at the marks.
"Bloch-Sulzberger Syndrome? That's rare, even rarer in males," she told House who was already making his exit.
"I know. That's why you need to do a gene marker and find NEMO. When you don't find him you can confirm IP."
"IP is X-linked. He only has one X-chromosome, without the NEMO gene he wouldn't have been born."
"That's why you should check both his X's."
She opened her mouth to say he was an idiot since only women have two sets of X chromosomes but then she recalled. "Klinefleter. He has a 47,XXY chromosomal constitution." She looked back at the little boy who hadn't understood anything past Finding Nemo. "And one of his X's is missing the NEMO gene."
"Explains everything; the eye problems," he gestured to the thick glasses sitting on the table, "the cavities, the developmental problems, the seizures…"
"And acute mylogenous leukemia is often found with IP."
"Fill Mom in and get a better history." He left the room.
"We should get an MRI of his kidneys too," Cameron said after him, recalling that tumours in the kidney may also present with IP.
"Go nuts!"
"Where are you going?"
He didn't respond. As much as she wanted to chase after him she knew she had to attend to the patient and his mother who was looking pretty scared after all that Doc-speak. She smiled reassuringly at her. IP wasn't life threatening. Its diagnosis just meant they knew what to expect and could provide better supportive therapy. The survival rate for this type of blood cancer was also pretty good.
"Elliot's going to be okay."
H
"House, where are you?" Wilson's voice asked evenly over the phone. Despite the tone House knew the man was probably trying to fight off one hell of a headache and loosing.
"At the airport, about to board a plane to Nebraska."
Silence.
"Nebraska. You're kidding right?"
"I never kid." He handed the attendant his boarding pass.
"You just thought you'd take a vacation?"
"Sure."
Wilson shook his head and gave Cuddy who was listening in on his half of the conversation a helpless look. "Do what you have to do. Then come back. Okay?"
House wasn't sure if Wilson just thought he was crazy or if he really hoped that he might just find what he was looking for. Maybe they were both just was crazy enough to hope.
"Yeah, okay." He was going to hang up but then… "Wilson! How does a dead man fall off the face of the earth?"
"…I suppose he would roll…"
H
Omaha, Nebraska. Population of about 400,000 and home of the Omaha Bolt, Nut and Screw Building. House assumed the building wasn't as lame as it sounded otherwise they wouldn't have named it a landmark. The brochure told him it was also the home of the Omaha Royals, the Heartland of America Park, and some breath-taking sunsets. He didn't care for any of it and he chucked the brochure in the nearest garbage once he disembarked. All he needed to find was the Saint Joseph Medical Centre because somebody with a gunshot wound to the chest would need specialized care. Intensivist taking care of intensivist. That was almost funny.
The city was what he expected, clean, quiet, boring. Not that Princeton was a hub of major entertainment since it was mostly just the university crowd. He hailed a cab and ordered it to take him to the medical centre. The driver, being the friendly guy that he was, tried to strike up a conversation and Greg ignored him. The bearded driver gave the thin older man a glare through his rear-view mirror but didn't speak again. The rest of the forty minute ride from the Omaha Eppley Airfield to the hospital was made in silence. The physician paid the fair leaving a moderate tip for the driver and they parted ways without further comment.
Once the cab was out of his sight it was out of his mind, replaced with the churning, unsettling and exciting prospect of finding what he was looking for; his supposedly dead fellow. House entered the hospital, its sterile smell like so many other hospitals. Somewhere in this maze of rooms and corridors, mixed into the throngs of patients, nurses, doctors and hospital staff, was his Aussie. This was where his search had led him. All the clues fit together with this theory, and the final answer said that it was Saint Joseph, in Omaha, with the Witness Protection Program.
He made it to the Critical Care floor without problem. Security in hospitals wasn't nearly as tight as people liked to think it was, and nobody ever paid attention to the old guy with the cane.
He went straight to the nurse's station from the elevator. Now was the time to put his theory to the test.
"Excuse me," he began in his most charming and somewhat befuddled voice. The slightly podgy woman her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail smiled up at him. "I was hoping you could help me."
"Sure. What can I do for you?" Her cheerful voice seemed somewhat out of place to the disguised grump that faced her. He hoped to take advantage of her good cheer and sympathetic heart. He limped to the side entrance to the desk and the nurse's area behind it to give the woman a clear view of his cane.
"I'm looking for a friend of mine. The information I got was kind of sketchy. He has a chest wound. They said he was shot but…I just want to make sure he's okay."
"Oh, of course. What's his name?"
House smiled gratefully at her and flicked his eyes up at the whiteboard mounted on the wall that marked the patients and which nurse was attending them. Doctor's might make the decisions but nurses were the many cogs that ran the medical system, so he would get to Chase through them.
"Randall Collins," was the name he quickly picked from the list. All his searching said that most people kept their initials when the entered the protection program. "Mister Collins."
The nurse led him down the corridor to a room with walls. It was strange being in a hospital that didn't have glass everywhere. PPTH had a much more open feel, though privacy was often lacking. He followed the woman in the scrub bottoms and flower patterned top into the room. There were two patients in there, separated with a small curtain hanging from the ceiling. The one nearest the door was a middle-eastern woman. She looked tired and bored. Her eyes slid slowly from the ceiling to House, managing to catch his eyes just before the curtain blocked their view of each other.
"Here he is. He's doing better. People just have to be more careful when they're hunting," she cheerfully admonished. "You can stay for a few minutes but he needs his rest."
House nodded and the she left with a gentle pat on his arm as she passed. House waited until she was gone before examining Mr. Collins. He had the oxygen tubes up his nose and wires from the electrodes stuck to his chest to monitor his heart rhythm. It was strong and steady. Barring any complications, Collins would be fine.
House leaned against the wall and stared at the man lying asleep in front of him. He reached into his pocket and popped the cap off his little plastic bottle to retrieve one of the white pills. He flicked the pill into the air and deftly caught it in his mouth. After swallowing the tablet he sighed and walked close enough to look down at the patient.
"You, Mr. Collins, are going to live a long life –so long as you shot walking into bullets." He dropped his cane so that the rubber tip at the bottom contacted the floor with a tap. "Too bad you're not who I was looking for." The dark haired man with tanned skin wasn't awake to respond. House walked away, leaving the stranger and the other woman alone.
"Is everything okay?" the nurse that had directed him to the room of Mr. Collins asked when she saw House exit looking somewhat uneasy.
"I'm fine." He didn't even look at the woman when he responded, or when he walked away. The grip on his cane was tight, his gait more jagged and uneven than usual. This was it. His theory had been wrong. Chase was gone, either dead or hidden so well, so quickly that House couldn't find him. Maybe, it was time he gave up. He'd lost again, lost Chase, and Chase had lost most of all.
House stopped in the middle of the corridor. He'd already the passed the bank of elevators. He didn't really know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to walk, had to get away, clear his head. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand, trying to get his thoughts together. Suddenly his cane was knocked from his hand.
"Sorry."
House looked down to see a man in a wheelchair.
"I don't quite have the hang of this thing yet." His legs looked weak and thin even hidden by his sweatpants. Looks like the poor guy had some sort of muscular dystrophy.
"Don't worry about it."
The man gave him an apologetic smile and wheeled himself off struggling to control the trajectory of the device that was supposed to make his life easier. House watched him go, wondering briefly at the patient history but eventually the allure of that mystery dissipated and he was bereft again. He sighed silently letting his shoulders slump as he collected the energy to limp over to the doorway where his cane had skid.
With a gait that was even painful to watch, he went to retrieve his third leg. He was reaching down to pick up the piece of wood when he froze, his entire body tense with disbelief and shock.
H
"What is it?" Cuddy asked as an excited and astounded Dr. Wilson barged in to her office. She was in a meeting with another department head.
Wilson didn't even apologize for the interruption. He walked past the two who were seated on the couch examining a set of documents, and went to her computer.
"I told him the camera-phone was a juvenile toy," Wilson said absently as he logged in to his email account and opened a message.
"Sounds like something House would like," she said, exasperated that even with her most problematic physician away, she couldn't get any peace.
"He told me it would come in handy one day." He stepped away from the computer and gestured to the image in the window he'd opened. "He was thinking more along the lines of blackmail material but…but this…this…"
Cuddy got up to see what had Wilson stammering like an idiot. The image left her speechless as well.
It was a fairly close up shot, House smiling with his face near to an unconscious or sleeping Robert Chase. Judging from the odd angle and the off-center set of the picture House took it himself.
"He was right," Cuddy said in amazement. "Chase is alive."
H
End Chapter 14
I thought about leaving this chapter at the part where they all thought Chase was dead, but I thought it was too short a chapter. Then I was revising and a few pages were added making this chapter longer than expected but I didn't want to take anything out. Anyway, just a little more to go. Thanks for sticking with the story:)
Next chapter probably out Thursday. I need to do some major revisions so it's going to take a little longer than usual. I think there are only two chapters left. I think.
Sagga…