[CLOSED TO CHASE] Never met a diagnostic study I couldn't refute.

[c18_h21_no3]

"Patient: Robert Clinton Laird, admitted with headache, stiff neck, cough, vomiting, and... seizures," House began reading, the folder Chase had slapped on his desk sitting cracked open on his thighs, propping his legs up on the glass table. Chase had paged him, telling him there was a case, but this was nothing. Two years here, and his ability to

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[chasemd]

"Meningitis? Really?" Chase asked, eyebrow raised. "Tell me, House. How are you feeling, because I heard you were sharing a drink at the bar last night with said Meningitis case."

He perched against the edge of House's desk. "Unresponsive to both. Fever hasn't dropped below 104 and he seized for four minutes about an hour ago." He slapped another envelope on the desk in front of House. "Blood and urine analysis. Make of it what you like. And can I just make a point that the cough has been evident for approximately two weeks, and the other flu-like symptoms over a week, he has been sleeping with his girlfriend and swapping god knows how much spit and semen, and she is perfectly healthy."

[c18_h21_no3]

Damn.

House reluctantly picked up the folder, thumbing through the numbered pages. "Low glucose, slightly elevated protein count, and as of... two hours ago, there was no blood in his urine."

"Mesothelioma," he suggested. "Exposure to asbestos from all the buildings Jarhead decided to blow up. Slap a purple sticker on it and give it to Wilson."

[chasemd]

Chase folded his arms and just stared House out for a good few lingering moments. "No." He held House's gaze evenly. "Not until you give me good clinical evidence why we should immediately jump to cancer before you even suggest doing something like ordering a chest x-ray. He might not be peeing blood, but he was puking it. He might have just bitten the inside of his lip, but his gut could be riddled with tumours too. What are you going to do to rule out Meningitis?"

[c18_h21_no3]

House pressed his lips together, lifting his chin and giving Chase a long stare. Rob did buy him that nice bottle of Scotch, and the guy wasn't a total shit, he was willing to admit. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, rolling through the numbers.

"Go do your x-ray. You don't need me to order anything for you. You're the one in charge here," he pointed out. Not wanting to openly admit Chase was probably right... again... he decided a differential couldn't hurt too bad. Better than sitting around getting drunk all day, at least. He'd page a few of them, if only to get Chase to shut the hell up about it.

"Do your x-ray, and meet back up here in an hour."