Fic: Sinnerman, Prophet, Saint (5/?)
Title: Sinnerman, Prophet, Saint
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Chase/OMC, House/Chase
Summary: The marks of the saints and a past he won’t remember force Chase and House to face religion head on. They won’t get his fellow without a fight!
Spoilers: Up to season 4 Finale.
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own House. I’m not making any money off this story.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Language, Adult Situations, Violence, M/M relationships. Do not read this story if any of these bother you!
A/N: Sorry for the delay. Got a little busy these past weeks. And thanks a bunch for the reviews and comments! I'm glad there are some people enjoying it. :)
Chapter 5: Pain of Body or Soul
Foreman ran to catch up with House who was more than halfway to the room where Cameron was directing nurses and another doctor to help her with the deep, damaging wounds. Silent and still in the middle of the chaos was the patient, who stared up at the ceiling, expression unchanged for several minutes. House left the emergency medicine to Cameron and the other personnel. He was more interested in Chase’s face. It looked as if he was high, or not quite aware of his body. He floated above it all. And House actually pinpointed the moment that awareness returned.
His face tightened into a grimace. His eyes closed. A cry left his lips when something touched the wound in his left arm. It burned and ached terribly. All the way up his forearm he felt the pain of that single wound. He could feel his pulse in his arm pumping blood out of his body. Despite the noise, the people yelling over each other, he could hear the sounds of the scarlet droplets splattering in thin round pools on the floor.
He floated again for a moment, then the pain returned with a vengeance and he barely managed to bite back a scream. Hands fell on him, pushing him down, keeping him from jerking around as they tried to help him. Chase opened his glassy eyes. At a voice’s insistence his head lolled in an uncoordinated fashion to look to his left. A nurse, one he recognized, was speaking to him. Meaningless platitudes only breathed to try and keep him calm through the agony. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“Would somebody give him something for the pain?” House demanded.
“I already did,” Cameron responded without looking.
“Well then give him more,” Foreman instructed.
“I did that too!”
Chase didn’t hear a breath of the snippy conversation. His attention had focussed on one of the people holding him down. The androgynous being’s expression was soft, hopeful and the touch was warm even if the hands were light as air.
Another differently warm touch settled on either side of his face. He slid his eyes up and found another being standing at the head of his bed. Its eyes were dazzling, sparkling with something that might have been tears. Cooling soothing currents flowed over him, prickling his flushed and damp skin. The respite was short. The pain flared and another scream tore out of his throat. It filled the room, echoed in their ears and shook them to their soul.
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---H/C---
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Hours later it was a shaken Cameron who stepped out of the operating theatre. She didn’t usually scrub in for surgeries and she hadn’t been there in a medical capacity this time. She’d been there for support, and now was in need of the same.
House had brought a nearby chair over to the vicinity of the OR exit. Foreman guided Cameron to sit in it. She was pale, shaky and silent.
“I guess it didn’t go well,” House said, not unkindly.
“They…it didn’t help…at all,” Cameron struggled out.
“What? The anaesthetic, or the surgery.”
Cameron swallowed. “Both.” Through the gratefully short surgery Chase had been awake and felt everything as the surgeons tried to repair the damage done to the delicate joint that was the wrist before it was too late. She’d been there hoping to distract Chase, to keep his mind off of what they were doing but her mild presence hadn’t been enough. The anaesthesiologist had been stumped. Chase had not succumb to any of the potent chemicals he’d been given. The decision to go on and do the absolute minimum -ensure enough blood flow to the hand to prevent ischemic damage. It had been the simplest, most difficult surgery for all of them.
Foreman looked to House who was looking at Cameron.
“Cameron,” House addressed.
“What?” she asked dully.
House’s eyes narrowed. He grasped his cane a little below the handle and swung at her face, stopping just short. Both Foreman and Cameron jumped.
“What are you doing?” Foreman demanded. Wasn’t what she’d been through enough?
House wasn’t apologetic. “She wasn’t blinking.” They both looked down at to see the slender brunette was now blinking and looking more like herself than the zombie she had been a few seconds ago.
The OR doors opened again and two surgeons walked out. “We tried but nothing…took.”
House’s blue eyes skipped from one to the other and back. “And for those of us who aren’t familiar with the language of failure, that means what exactly?”
Both the surgeons were too shook up to be offended. “The stitches slipped out no matter what we did, we couldn’t stop the bleeding…we can’t do anything for him and…and he’s had enough. We can try again in a few days. The blood loss isn’t life threatening as long as he’s monitored.” They didn’t mention that he’d be lucky not to lose both his hands if they couldn’t intervene in good time.
“Make sure you alert the psychiatric department, when they take him to recovery.”
Foreman and Cameron were understandably confused.
“He did this to himself,” House enlightened sternly -so much so that Foreman and Cameron didn’t say otherwise though they knew that was untrue. The surgeons didn’t know any better, though they were a touch suspicious. The surgeon who had done the talking nodded, clearly more together than his colleague, and guided the other away, leaving the remaining diagnostics team alone.
“Why did you tell them that?” Cameron asked.
Foreman squeezed her shoulder and glared up at House. “Because a person on suicide watch can’t be discharged no matter what they say. This is just another power play for him.”
“Even worse, it’s just another medical mystery,” House sneered. His retreat from the area was met with relief from both Cameron and Foreman who had enough to deal with, without House making it worse.
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---H/C---
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The clock was reading nine twenty-six when Dr. James Wilson looked at it again.
He’d been in the hospital for an hour, sitting at his desk for twenty minutes. It would have been a normal day but for the exception of one person. Sometimes he went many hours at the hospital without seeing House. However, he should have seen House by now because House almost always consulted with him when there was something twisting his mind into knots. Whatever was going on with Chase was likely doing that.
He hadn’t been allowed to see Chase. He’d pulled the situation out of the remaining two diagnostics fellows and immediately Wilson knew that House would be agonizing over it. He’d even written ‘STIGMATA’ on the white board, and it didn’t take a genius or House’s best friend to know that House would not leave this case with that diagnosis. Wilson remembered House’s rant back when the young evangelical healer had been a patient of his. He remembered how House scoffed at the idea of a miracle, how he’d searched until he’d found an explanation. No doubt he would do the same thing in this case. Filling in the holes he’d called it.
Eventually his path did cross with his House’s. Wilson was leaving an examination room after completing a consult, House was just stepping out of the elevator.
“Where have you been?” Wilson asked. It was now past ten.
“Library,” House answered, which explained the stack of books under his left arm.
Wilson kept step next to him as House returned to his office, saying as they went, “This isn’t quite the time to be feeding your literature habit. I figured you’d be interrogating Chase, trying to get him to denounce his faith or something.”
“Faith has nothing to do with this.”
“What if it does?”
“It doesn’t,” House assured with condescending surety as he dumped the books on his desk. “And if it did, it would be more of an issue for you God-fearing types.”
“Or proof for you disbelievers,” Wilson countered without an ounce of insult. His faith was a tricky thing, as it was for many people. He was modern man. A man of science, a man of facts, and yet at the edge of his mind, sometimes at its forefront, there was his personal God. Perhaps not the one discussed in scriptures or prophesized by followers, just a being that was out there. He supposed, like House had once told him, he might merely be lonely, even when he’d had both a wife and a mistress.
Without further comment Wilson departed, House allowing him to do so though his eyes followed his friend’s progression until he was out of sight. It didn’t take a second of thought to have him abandoning the books he’d spent some time scouring the Princeton University libraries for. He’d get to them eventually. He wanted to check on Chase.
His arrival at the ICU step down ward wasn’t met with the usually moans and groans of the ICU staff. There was already someone there causing the eye-rolls and aggravation that House thought were his trademarks. He would not have expected Foreman to be the one causing them. He was always quite polite with the patients and staff. Cameron was the one to speak her mind (or worse her heart) even when the person didn’t want the advice. Chase was the one most likely to speak without thinking or putting any tact into his words. Foreman, the guy from the bad neighbourhood, was almost painfully polite. If it weren’t for his clear disdain for the very members of the upper echelon that he now so well emulated, House might have thought that Foreman had had been raised in mansion, or a convent.
“He doesn’t need to be tied up,” Foreman said too reasonably. House smirked and watched the face of the nurse in front of Foreman become tinged that much more with annoyance. It was always the condescending tone that did Foreman in, even if he was right, or close to it. He’d seen Cameron and Chase roll their eyes and give Foreman withering looks on more than one occasion. But Foreman was Foreman, and for all of his overweening personality, he was smart and could usually put personal feelings aside for the sake of a patient, even if he did so reluctantly. Strangely, House didn’t see any reluctance here, and Foreman was arguing for Chase’s benefit.
Eyes set to take in even the most understated body language House approached.
“He’s on suicide watch. We’re having enough trouble with his wounds already. We can’t risk him making them worse,” the nurse informed.
Foreman sighed in frustration, wanting to put an end to House’s deception but not willing to risk House’s wrath. “He’ll be okay. He won’t hurt himself.”
The nurse walked away, Foreman’s last desperate plea having done nothing to sway her. Foreman sent a long apologetic glance to Chase who didn’t even notice it, his eyes on the ceiling.
“Working off some guilt?”
Foreman managed to hide his startle, turning smoothly to face his superior. “What would I have to be guilty about? You’re the one he has everyone thinking Chase is suicidal.”
“No, I have them thinking he’s an idiot. What kind of doctor can’t off himself properly?”
“How is he supposed to work with these people after this?”
“Not my problem. So why are you here -sceptical of my diagnosis?”
Foreman shot a look around to make sure no one would here the next part of their conversation. Not to worry. House’s arrival only made the ICU nurses less likely to talk to them. The nearest person to them was unconscious. “Even you’re sceptical of your diagnosis. Stigmata? You’ve never accepted anything even remotely spiritual when you consider illnesses.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” House said, undeterred.
After a long stretch, while House waited expectantly Foreman spoke. “He’s a friend-”
“No he’s not,” House immediately denied. “Maybe, you and Cameron are friends, though barely. You and Chase are colleagues.”
“Is this relevant?”
“Yes, because you’re guilt is driving your actions, so I’m wondering what’s driving your guilt.”
Foreman held his posture and his expression under House’s scalding gaze. “It’s not guilt.”
“Right. Let me know when you find an answer that isn’t a load of crap,” House said to Foreman as he passed. He was at Chase’s side with a few quick steps. He put the measly Foreman conundrum out of his mind and focussed on a larger, stranger one.
“Chase,” he called softly. Yes, he could do softly.
Aquamarine eyes snapped to House and he frowned. Chase had a morphine drip and the rate was set pretty high. He shouldn’t be that alert.
“The pain, how bad?”
The blond man swallowed with difficulty, so much so that House thought he might begin to choke. He didn’t and went on to respond in a tight voice. “Bad.”
Chase’s eyes, intense with pain stood out against his waxen complexion. On the pale canvas of skin his incarnadine lips remained partly open and with each rise and fall of his chest distressing cries of pain were held back.
House pressed the upward pointing arrow on the infuser controlling Chase’ morphine drip hoping the higher dose would cross some threshold and begin to help. He waited several seconds but there was no corresponding change in Chase. House examined the ICU captive’s wrists. The dressing wrapping the mysterious wounds would need changing soon. A dark dot of blood was already staining the white bandages, on both the inside and back of the wrist -both wrists too.
Leaning over, House again smelt the wound. He could feel at his back the face Foreman was pulling. Not that it mattered to him. What did matter was that the fragrance of flowers was still emanating from the wounds.
“House, what are you doing?”
Both House and Foreman turned their heads to Cameron, House still bent over with his face near Chase’s wrist. “Examining the patient with all my senses. I’m going to lick him next. You should get your camera. Probably make you a pretty penny on the net.”
Cameron cringed a little but was mostly confused.
“There’s a smell of flowers coming from his wrist,” House explained quickly, straightening.
“We smelt it in the OR but couldn’t tell what it was coming from,” Cameron informed.
House nodded sagely. “So what would cause, wounds for no reason, bleeding that doesn’t clot, and complete insensitivity to morphine and anaesthetics?” House asked his eyes on Chase’s stony and strained face. It was as though he already knew the answer and was simply waiting it out. Did this seminary school dropout believe this was stigmata?
“A coagulopathy,” Cameron suggested.
House’s eyes narrowed in bother. “Thank you, genius. Which one?”
“Hypnotic suggestion has been known to cause people to think wounds into forming on their body,” the neurologist offered.
“Von Willebrand disease,” Cameron suggested, picking a bleeding disorder.
“Explains the bleeding but not the sudden wound formation, or the lack of effect the drugs he’s been given,” Foreman countered.
“It stays,” House decreed, still not looking at Cameron or Foreman. “Foreman, write these down. We’ll cross them off as we go along. I’d tell Cameron to do it but I think it might be sexist, giving her the secretarial job.”
Cameron shook her head minutely but let the comment go. Foreman went to the nurse’s station and found a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote down the two suggestions and added cancer to the list. Leukemia could cause bleeding and clotting problems.
“Could be some sort of skin ulcer…” Cameron said. It was a stretch. House didn’t shoot it down though, so it went on the short list.
Cameron and Foreman began blurting out numerous possible diseases and syndrome that could account for Chase’s strange symptoms. Nothing quite fit everything, forcing Foreman to write the suggestions in columns relating to the symptoms they did explain. Eventually the two physicians exhausted their mental encyclopaedias of medical information. They turned to House who was still staring at Chase.
Foreman glanced at Cameron but she was now staring at House. More accurately she was staring at House’s hand. It was resting half on the soft but firm strap securing Chase to the bed just below his elbow and half on Chase’s forearm. It had been there since House had finished his examination of the injuries. House apparently didn’t notice and Chase was practically delirious with pain, so he didn’t notice either.
Was it a gesture intended to give comfort or convey sympathy? Two things many assumed House to be unable to do, or at least unwilling.
“House?” Foreman’s voice brought the diagnostician’s attention back to them. The hand that had been on Chase fell away, House still not noticing its former location, or perhaps just not self-conscious enough to comment on it.
He nodded and looked at the paper in Foreman’s hand. “We have some place to start. Blood tests.”
“Dermographia,” came a faint and unexpected suggestion. They all looked at Chase who was focused as much as he could at the moment on them. They’d been talking about him as if he hadn’t been there and indeed for a long stretch of minutes he hadn’t been. His mind had drifted into some distant place where the pain was less overwhelming.
“Add it to the list,” House instructed, back in his newly acquired habit of talking to Cameron and Foreman while looking at Chase. He was pleased to see that Chase, despite his experiences, was still willing to give medical science a chance. Only if it failed, as Chase expected it would in this case, would he grudgingly accept the diagnosis given by his faith.
When nothing more was said Foreman left to get the blood vials they would need. Cameron left a moment later to do some research. Perplexingly reluctant to leave Chase’s beside, House stayed for a minute more before forcing himself away.
Back in the conference room Cameron arrived to find they had a guest, one who had a particular interest in the fresh bloodstains on the floor. Cameron paused just inside the doorway and stared for a moment at the man clad all in black. He hadn’t heard her enter. Her eyes widened when the greying man leaned down to smell above one of the fresh bloodstains.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked more loudly than necessary, wanting to shock the weirdo. Said weirdo quickly stood and faced the petite doctor, and revealed himself to be a priest. The white square visible of collar contrasted sharply with the rest of his black ensemble.
“Oh! Excuse me. I was walking by when a scent caught my attention.”
Cameron didn’t comment. She walked further in, disbelievingly eying the priest even though his story was believable given what she had witnessed.
Seeing that she wasn’t going to say anything the clergyman went on. “Could you perhaps tell me, whose blood is this?”
Cameron’s chin raised, her suspicion increasing. She saw the older man’s eyes glance left for only a split second. She followed the likely path of his gaze and it settled on the whiteboard where House’s early, religious diagnosis was still blazed across the barren surface in black marker. Looking back at the Father, Cameron told him the patient was unavailable.
“Are you sure? This might be more an investigation for the Church,” he suggested prudently.
“And what can the Department of God do that the Department of Diagnostics can’t?” A gruff male voice asked from behind the priest.
Unperturbed he threw his response over his shoulder. “Save souls.” The way he said it, it was a suggestion, almost a question that urged House to either agree or disagree. House did neither. He went to the board, avoiding with little extra thought the blood on the carpet, and began writing down the various ideas his team had come up with.
The pastor watched and when House was done he pointed to ‘dermographia’. “This suggestion from a ex-disciple of yours,” House challenged.
“Not ‘ex’, just lost,” was the reply in the same unshakeable calm.
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, eventually.” The Priest gave a benevolent smile that House wanted to smack off his face with his cane. He began for the exit but just before it he looked back at the two doctors (he assumed the tall unshaven man was a doctor). “That scent, lovely isn’t it?” The knowing tone of his voice increased the severity of House’s glare. The black clad man left with a smile.
“Make sure they keep members of organized and unorganized religions away from Chase,” House said going back to the board.
“How am I supposed to do that? Leave a standing order?”
“I don’t care how you do it. Just don’t let priest, nun, padre, Imam, rabbi, not even a choir boy near him.”
Cameron wanted to tell him he was being paranoid but she couldn’t. Even in her, the one who didn’t prescribe to any organized religion, there was a wariness of them. Not of what some almighty being might do, but rather what the man, whoever he might be, could do when something concerned or endangered his belief. Ironically, neither House nor Cameron truly feared almighty beings, only some of their followers.
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Despite attempts to keep the situation quiet, chatty nurses would always be chatty nurses, and thus news of Chase’s condition began to circulate. In moments of lucidity Chase heard the low murmurs of people discussing him and noticed the looks he was given, sometimes as they passed by his bed or more often, from across the way. He was unconcerned. The restraints just below his elbows were what really bothered him. They prevented any escape. He couldn’t even get up to go to the washroom without a large, male nurse or orderly going with him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. There was always the bed pan or catheter but he’d refused.
It was all House’s fault. Damn that man!
Self inflicted wound?
How the hell would he be able to stab himself in the wrist with one hand and then use that injured limb to stab his other wrist? Did that make any sense? The ceiling didn’t have any answers on it, so Chase could only assume that it was everyone else who had lost their mind and not him. Or maybe House was really that scary.
However he’d been imprisoned in this situation, it didn’t change the fact that with each passing moment his hope was dwindling. He’d always hoped that there was a reason behind all this. He believed that if anyone could find it, House could. Now going on sixteen hours since the beginning of this in the conference room, Chase felt his faith in a scientific explanation fading. He wasn’t thrilled with what that left behind.
All these past hours he’d been floating, drifting. He’d seen things, seen people that he knew it was impossible for him to see, yet he knew that tomorrow the newspaper would show him just how true these bizarre visions were. And to make things even stranger, when his mind went on these sojourns without his body actually leaving the hospital, he was beginning to feel another presence or something next to him. Yet every time he turned there was only darkness, or sky, or ocean, or more people, or the bed in the ward next to him. It was all quite disconcerting, so when his colleagues had come by only to get more samples from him and had not a smidgen of good news to share, his spirits had sunk that much lower. There was no solution in sight.
Wilson was at his side.
Chase stared up at the brown-haired doctor and could not remember the man walking in or approaching him. Still, a blink, and there he was. Maybe the morphine was finally having an effect, even if it was only to make him a little loopy.
“How you holding up?” Wilson asked softly.
Chase blinked slowly in response. He didn’t have the energy to speak at the moment. When the pain from his wrists waxed it took most of his strength to keep from screaming or crying. He also hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. He wasn’t hungry but it was probably contributing to his weakness.
“Hang in there. They’ll figure something out. And you know House; he won’t stop until he has an answer.” Chase noted the Wilson described House’s obstinacy as a good thing. The oncologist did know House the best of anyone Chase was knew of (except perhaps Mrs. Warner) so Chase felt inclined to trust Wilson’s judgement in regards to House’s personality. Still, inclination or not, Chase was tired of being poked and prodded and discussed even if he couldn’t hear what they were saying about him. He wanted to go. He gathered the strength and told Wilson as much.
Wilson didn’t look surprised at the request, though his expression clearly conveyed that he thought the decision was lacking in wisdom. “That’s not a good idea.” His tone was so reasonable it was hard not to agree. “Your…injuries haven’t even clotted yet,” Wilson said with a glance down at the recently-changed dressing. He gave no voice of his own internal debate. He held onto his small piece of evidence, not yet willing to share it, perhaps not ever. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he waited for the tests, scans and medical textbooks to be exhausted. “Just wait a little while longer.”
Chase shook his head. “Please. I have a friend. House probably told you about him.”
Oh, yes -the friend. Wilson’s eyebrows raised in a brief admittance of his state of knowledge regarding that “friend”.
“He’s around somewhere. He’ll help. Please.”
Wilson didn’t give it any thought. He was already shaking his head. “You need to be here, Chase,” Wilson said comfortingly. It wasn’t what Chase wanted to hear. He would have shaken off the hand that was laid gently on his shoulder but his didn’t want to risk aggravating his torn flesh. And the touch was also somewhat welcome as it was the first bit of normal human contact he’d had since he’d been brought there. The nurses were efficient and quiet when they went about tending to him. Cameron and Foreman were distant, awkward, and preoccupied with the mystery. House hadn’t come back at all, and before Wilson it had been his touch on Chase’s arm that provided the only recent memory of comforting contact.
“Hang in there,” Wilson reiterated and gave a gentle squeeze. Chase watched him exit then turned his eyes back to the ceiling. Before he knew it he was drifting again.
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In the conference room three tired doctors sat at the table. Half-eaten and now cold containers of take-out food were strewn all over. House picked up a wrapper that was on the x-ray film. He leaned back in his chair while balling up the refuse. He eyed the garbage next to the counter with the coffee maker and then threw his garbage ball. Cameron’s head turned to follow the arc of the projectile, perhaps only because it had come so close to her head. The balled-up wrapper hit the metal rim of the garbage but bounced away. Cameron, usually the one to complain if somebody left even a used coffee mug in the sink, didn’t do more than blink at the miss or at the mess of other pieces of garbage littering the floor around the bin. House’s aim had been off in the last few hours. Even Foreman had missed a couple, though not nearly as many as House. The silent competition between House and Foreman had proceeded uncommented until House had missed a few in a row and Foreman continued with his streak.
“Well you people are good a basketball. It’s been a while since I played,” House made his excuse, to which Foreman just smirked and shook his head.
Currently Foreman barely had the presence of mind to even notice that House was missing, and pretty badly too. The darkness outside was trying to lull him into sleep. It was just approaching two and he was drained. They’d had tough cases before. They’d pulled all-nighters looking for obscure clues in the lab work to tell them the cause of the strange symptoms. Really the situation wasn’t unfamiliar. It was the consistent lack of progress that was wearing them down so quickly.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Cameron mumbled, tossing away a set of lab results in irritation. “All the clotting factors are normal, but he’s not clotting.” That was the riddle on which Cameron had focussed. She ignored the issue of the morphine not working, ignored the sudden appearance of the wounds, ignored anything that didn’t help. Usually House would be scolding her about ignoring symptoms. He wasn’t. He was doing the same.
The whiteboard silently mocked them. They’d written down all the symptoms on one side and all the possible diagnoses on the other. The diagnosis side was nearly empty. The symptoms side was full, even without the soft, personality symptoms that House had noticed recently. He also excluded the precognition incident. House was half-afraid that if he told Cameron and Foreman about it, they would give up and chalk this whole thing up to some sort of mystical force. Even with ‘STIGMATA’ written across the top of the board and the unusual symptoms, there was still nothing that strictly indicated this was anything but a difficult case. House didn’t want to risk giving them that evidence. Because in isolation most of the symptoms had an explanation. Together they made no sense.
“How can the blood from the wound have two blood types but the blood from his veins has only his?” Foreman asked. For the moment this was the puzzle on which his mind was stuck. Unlike Cameron who was being oddly consistent, Foreman was looking at each mystery and moving on when his frustration grew to too great.
“How can you two still be here when I told you to leave hours ago?” House asked eying his fingers. Weird how at times like this, those digits became so interesting.
“You want us to just go?” Cameron said.
House looked to her. “I don’t really care, since neither of you are being particularly useful today. What I’m a little curious to hear is why you’re both suddenly showing so much loyalty to Chase.”
“It’s not loyalty. He’s our patient.”
House wasn’t going to accept Foreman’s explanation. “We’ve gone home before when patients were still without a diagnosis. What’s so different this time? Don’t say the mystery. That’s my excuse.” House glanced back and forth at them. They didn’t seem at all moved by the inquiry. Their eyes remained wherever they’d been fixed before.
“He’s our friend-”
“Ennnhh!” House made a loud, obnoxious buzzing sound. “I’m sorry, that’s the wrong answer. Thanks for playing. Contestant number two?” Pretending he was holding a microphone House held out his fist to Foreman. Foreman remained silent. The buzzing noise came quickly again. “Oooh! Contestant number two ran out of time.”
“Can we please just get back to the case?” Exasperation a fatigue weighed down Foreman and his voice.
“Eager to write an article on the explanation of stigmata, Foreman? Are you really that eager to undermine the beliefs of millions?”
“House, enough,” Cameron snapped. They were all tired and cranky. Neither she nor Foreman was in the mood to take House’s abuse. Maybe they should have left when he told them to.
House took mild amounts of pity on them. “Go home. I’m not kidding.” With the help of the table House stood. With the help of his cane he left. Cameron watched him go drearily. For several seconds after, both she and Foreman remained at the table.
Foreman opened his mouth to say something but must have thought better of it because he just got up, took his things and left. Cameron waited a few minutes before doing the same.
As House made his journey to the ICU, unwilling to call it a night. Chase had suddenly become far too interesting for him to sleep soundly. He was sure there were things about Foreman and Cameron he didn’t know either. Thing was he didn’t really care to know. Maybe it was just timing. Maybe it was the imminent threat that Chase was just going to vanish. This Mayes character had shown up and earlier Chase had gone to Cuddy and demanded to be let out of his contract. House had gotten half an earful over the offence Cuddy presumed he’d committed to pushed Chase to quit. It would have been a complete earful but she’d allowed him to get back to the case at hand.
The main light in the small ward was still on when House arrived. The lights over the patients’ beds had been turned off to allow them to sleep even if Chase, unlike the other two, was not taking advantage of the opportunity. He looked down on the pale face. He turned on the light above the bed with the switch on the wall and immediately the harsh white lighting filled the small area between the two curtains separating the beds. The light reflected off Chase’s pallid skin. The nurses’ notes said nothing about a fever. House guessed that it was a parasympathetic response to the pain, cold sweat. To confirm he laid his hand, palm down, on the young man’s head. It was warm, but not feverish. Since his hand was already there and because he knew that if he could Chase would have brushed his hair back from his forehead, House did it for him.
“Chase,” House called gently as he removed his hand from the man’s head. Chase’s eyes shifted to him a moment before House was going to address him again. House skipped the inquiry into his state. He could tell just by looking at his face that the pain was on its upswing. “I need a better history -a complete history.” Even as he said it House knew he was fishing for more information about Chase. He wasn’t anywhere near believing that what was happening to Chase was anything other than an unusual presentation of some illness or disorder. He was actually leaning towards hypnotic suggestion -mind over body. Maybe he should have had Foreman stick around.
“You’ve given up,” Chase said weakly.
House shook his head. “No. Just need different information for a new hypothesis.” Chase waited for the question. “Has this happened before?”
It was a more complex question than House knew. It took Chase several seconds to come up with an accurate answer. “Sort of.”
That actually didn’t sound very accurate at all so he went on to elaborate; though doing so would take more energy than Chase thought he had available. “Before it was…it was just pain, no blood.”
House didn’t frown at this revelation but he wasn’t pleased either. “Things that should have been made known earlier.” Chase just looked at him and House imagined the shrug Chase wanted to give but couldn’t. “What about all that stuff last night?”
“What stuff?” Chase actually looked confused. That in addition to the intense discomfort already written on his face made the whole look upsetting. He didn’t know what House was referring to and House took that as a bad sign. He really should have kept Foreman around.
“Last night your friend, Warren, drugged you and…” How was he to describe the disturbing episode?
Chase remembered the feeling of the drug overtaking him. He remembered Warren’s apology and he remembered a nightmare. After that he’d awoken in the hospital with Foreman at his side.
“You have a tattoo on your back,” House suddenly announced, giving up on the details of the night before and focussing on the smaller simpler things. “When did you get it?”
“…fourteen.” He pursed his lips to keep from saying more and also to keep from moaning aloud. A flare of agony made him shiver.
House watched, outwardly undisturbed. When he thought Chase might be able to speak again he went on. “Last night Mayes, said something; a prayer or a spell.”
“…he didn’t…do this…” Such an accusation hurt him to hear, even if he wouldn’t believe it.
“Why did you leave the seminary?”
Chase’s eyes began to drift shut. He pushed out the answer, the short version. “They asked me to serve and obey Him…I couldn’t.” And then House was as good as alone, Chase having fallen into an unnaturally abrupt sleep. Maybe the pain or the morphine had finally kicked his brain into unconsciousness. Upon inspection his watch indicated the time was two fifty-eight. House always kept his watch running slow, two minutes slow. Thus the actually time was three am on the dot. A chill poured down his spine.
House glanced around. Nothing sinister seemed to be happening. The nurse’s shift change had already passed. So Chase fell asleep. It wasn’t something to be suspicious about. House tried to wake him.
“Chase, wake up.” He gently shook him. When there was no response he shook him harder. Still there was nothing. House left for a moment to find a needle then he returned to stick Chase in the toe with is. Chase flinched, tugging his foot away from the uncomfortable stimulus. Still, he didn’t wake. Mind racing trying to determine what kind of state Chase was in House disposed of the syringe in the receptacle. His next test was by far the most gruesome of all. He grabbed Chase’s nearest wrist. He hesitated a moment, then squeezed.
His efforts were rewarded with a grunt and a pinched expression on the damp face, but he didn’t wake. Housed eased his grip, finally letting go. He looked at his hand, at the smear of fragrant, crimson blood across his palm and fingers.
Chase seemed resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. Whatever prior experiences he might have had, likely led to his acceptance. House wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. When had he ever?
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The next day House was in a bad mood, having spent an achy night in the lounge chair in his office and then being woken by Wilson that morning. That in itself would not have accounted for such a terrible mood. It was the conversation he’d been thrust into, when his brain was still half lost in sleep, that really soured him.
Wilson had argued for the opposition! Not something he’d never done before. Wilson had always sort of been House’s conscience since House’s own was as conniving as the man himself. The difference here was that the opposition was religion, faith, God. Wilson knew how he felt about those.
After chasing his friend out of his sight he’d found Cameron and Foreman in the conference room going over the results of the EEG that House had done that night. He’d sworn he’d fallen asleep with those in his hand.
“He’s asleep,” Foreman had said with all the certainty due a neurologist who was looking at the EEG of a sleeping person.
“Then why won’t he wake up?” House had posed. He hadn’t expected an answer. He’d gotten his coffee, which tasted terrible, then headed back to his office. He’d pushed over the insufferable whiteboard on his way, the sound of it crashing to the carpet and hitting something on its way down momentarily lifting his weary spirit.
So overall it was a poor way to begin a day that only went downhill from then on. The loosing struggle against Chase’s unknown ailment left House as the worst choice of company. He pulled down the mood of anybody he came in contact with, Foreman and Cameron most of all. They in turn, ruined the moods of those they came in contact with and the cycle continued until half the hospital staff was snapping at each other. It also might have been the miserable weather outside. It was hard to say which had more of an effect -House on the rampage, or cold rain, dark clouds, and frigid wind.
By noon the sky had cleared and House was ready to throw a fit; and he did when Cuddy tried to reprimand him for his poor behaviour. That’s how he earned the four hours of extra clinic duty for the next week, which he would never end up doing. By two o’clock the diagnostics department was about ready to combust with the tempers and egos scraping against each other. The last straw was when a bouquet of flowers in a vase was delivered. Cameron brusquely signed for them and the delivery man escaped, chased out by the silent and angry stares.
Leaning against the glass wall House spoke first. “Who are they from?” He wanted to know who thought he could be consoled by some stupid plants, so that he knew who to strike first.
Cameron read the card aloud. “‘These are the usual culprits for the smell you’re probably becoming quite confused about. Jasminum Officinale. Semper Fidelis, Father Alex DeMarco.’” Cameron flipped the small card over checking that there was nothing more written on the other side. She only found the logo for a local flower shop. She glanced at House who was looking even more annoyed than he had been all day, and then back to the plant.
The stems of delicate ferns had been trimmed by the florist to create a layered background of rich green below the canopy of white, five-lobed blossoms floating on top. It was a lovely little arrangement, and when she did move to smell the flowers, they had the same sweet scent as the blood from Chase’s wrist. She was about to say as much when the vase of flowers was snatched, literally, from under her nose. Cameron and Foreman watched with trepidation as House walked into his office then out to the balcony. Just as they realized what he was going to do, he did it.
One hard throw sent the light blue vase with the delicate flowers sailing into the air. It landed in the parking lot, shattering on the hood of a black car. Most of the flowers had fallen out during the flight and drifted to the ground after the wind let them go.
House shook off the water that had sloshed onto his arm from the vase. He returned to the conference room, to the wide-eyed stares of his employees.
“What?”
End Chapter 5
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- - - H/C - - -
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Cast and Characters
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Chase/OMC, House/Chase
Summary: The marks of the saints and a past he won’t remember force Chase and House to face religion head on. They won’t get his fellow without a fight!
Spoilers: Up to season 4 Finale.
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own House. I’m not making any money off this story.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Language, Adult Situations, Violence, M/M relationships. Do not read this story if any of these bother you!
A/N: Sorry for the delay. Got a little busy these past weeks. And thanks a bunch for the reviews and comments! I'm glad there are some people enjoying it. :)
Chapter 5: Pain of Body or Soul
Foreman ran to catch up with House who was more than halfway to the room where Cameron was directing nurses and another doctor to help her with the deep, damaging wounds. Silent and still in the middle of the chaos was the patient, who stared up at the ceiling, expression unchanged for several minutes. House left the emergency medicine to Cameron and the other personnel. He was more interested in Chase’s face. It looked as if he was high, or not quite aware of his body. He floated above it all. And House actually pinpointed the moment that awareness returned.
His face tightened into a grimace. His eyes closed. A cry left his lips when something touched the wound in his left arm. It burned and ached terribly. All the way up his forearm he felt the pain of that single wound. He could feel his pulse in his arm pumping blood out of his body. Despite the noise, the people yelling over each other, he could hear the sounds of the scarlet droplets splattering in thin round pools on the floor.
He floated again for a moment, then the pain returned with a vengeance and he barely managed to bite back a scream. Hands fell on him, pushing him down, keeping him from jerking around as they tried to help him. Chase opened his glassy eyes. At a voice’s insistence his head lolled in an uncoordinated fashion to look to his left. A nurse, one he recognized, was speaking to him. Meaningless platitudes only breathed to try and keep him calm through the agony. It wasn’t nearly enough.
“Would somebody give him something for the pain?” House demanded.
“I already did,” Cameron responded without looking.
“Well then give him more,” Foreman instructed.
“I did that too!”
Chase didn’t hear a breath of the snippy conversation. His attention had focussed on one of the people holding him down. The androgynous being’s expression was soft, hopeful and the touch was warm even if the hands were light as air.
Another differently warm touch settled on either side of his face. He slid his eyes up and found another being standing at the head of his bed. Its eyes were dazzling, sparkling with something that might have been tears. Cooling soothing currents flowed over him, prickling his flushed and damp skin. The respite was short. The pain flared and another scream tore out of his throat. It filled the room, echoed in their ears and shook them to their soul.
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Hours later it was a shaken Cameron who stepped out of the operating theatre. She didn’t usually scrub in for surgeries and she hadn’t been there in a medical capacity this time. She’d been there for support, and now was in need of the same.
House had brought a nearby chair over to the vicinity of the OR exit. Foreman guided Cameron to sit in it. She was pale, shaky and silent.
“I guess it didn’t go well,” House said, not unkindly.
“They…it didn’t help…at all,” Cameron struggled out.
“What? The anaesthetic, or the surgery.”
Cameron swallowed. “Both.” Through the gratefully short surgery Chase had been awake and felt everything as the surgeons tried to repair the damage done to the delicate joint that was the wrist before it was too late. She’d been there hoping to distract Chase, to keep his mind off of what they were doing but her mild presence hadn’t been enough. The anaesthesiologist had been stumped. Chase had not succumb to any of the potent chemicals he’d been given. The decision to go on and do the absolute minimum -ensure enough blood flow to the hand to prevent ischemic damage. It had been the simplest, most difficult surgery for all of them.
Foreman looked to House who was looking at Cameron.
“Cameron,” House addressed.
“What?” she asked dully.
House’s eyes narrowed. He grasped his cane a little below the handle and swung at her face, stopping just short. Both Foreman and Cameron jumped.
“What are you doing?” Foreman demanded. Wasn’t what she’d been through enough?
House wasn’t apologetic. “She wasn’t blinking.” They both looked down at to see the slender brunette was now blinking and looking more like herself than the zombie she had been a few seconds ago.
The OR doors opened again and two surgeons walked out. “We tried but nothing…took.”
House’s blue eyes skipped from one to the other and back. “And for those of us who aren’t familiar with the language of failure, that means what exactly?”
Both the surgeons were too shook up to be offended. “The stitches slipped out no matter what we did, we couldn’t stop the bleeding…we can’t do anything for him and…and he’s had enough. We can try again in a few days. The blood loss isn’t life threatening as long as he’s monitored.” They didn’t mention that he’d be lucky not to lose both his hands if they couldn’t intervene in good time.
“Make sure you alert the psychiatric department, when they take him to recovery.”
Foreman and Cameron were understandably confused.
“He did this to himself,” House enlightened sternly -so much so that Foreman and Cameron didn’t say otherwise though they knew that was untrue. The surgeons didn’t know any better, though they were a touch suspicious. The surgeon who had done the talking nodded, clearly more together than his colleague, and guided the other away, leaving the remaining diagnostics team alone.
“Why did you tell them that?” Cameron asked.
Foreman squeezed her shoulder and glared up at House. “Because a person on suicide watch can’t be discharged no matter what they say. This is just another power play for him.”
“Even worse, it’s just another medical mystery,” House sneered. His retreat from the area was met with relief from both Cameron and Foreman who had enough to deal with, without House making it worse.
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The clock was reading nine twenty-six when Dr. James Wilson looked at it again.
He’d been in the hospital for an hour, sitting at his desk for twenty minutes. It would have been a normal day but for the exception of one person. Sometimes he went many hours at the hospital without seeing House. However, he should have seen House by now because House almost always consulted with him when there was something twisting his mind into knots. Whatever was going on with Chase was likely doing that.
He hadn’t been allowed to see Chase. He’d pulled the situation out of the remaining two diagnostics fellows and immediately Wilson knew that House would be agonizing over it. He’d even written ‘STIGMATA’ on the white board, and it didn’t take a genius or House’s best friend to know that House would not leave this case with that diagnosis. Wilson remembered House’s rant back when the young evangelical healer had been a patient of his. He remembered how House scoffed at the idea of a miracle, how he’d searched until he’d found an explanation. No doubt he would do the same thing in this case. Filling in the holes he’d called it.
Eventually his path did cross with his House’s. Wilson was leaving an examination room after completing a consult, House was just stepping out of the elevator.
“Where have you been?” Wilson asked. It was now past ten.
“Library,” House answered, which explained the stack of books under his left arm.
Wilson kept step next to him as House returned to his office, saying as they went, “This isn’t quite the time to be feeding your literature habit. I figured you’d be interrogating Chase, trying to get him to denounce his faith or something.”
“Faith has nothing to do with this.”
“What if it does?”
“It doesn’t,” House assured with condescending surety as he dumped the books on his desk. “And if it did, it would be more of an issue for you God-fearing types.”
“Or proof for you disbelievers,” Wilson countered without an ounce of insult. His faith was a tricky thing, as it was for many people. He was modern man. A man of science, a man of facts, and yet at the edge of his mind, sometimes at its forefront, there was his personal God. Perhaps not the one discussed in scriptures or prophesized by followers, just a being that was out there. He supposed, like House had once told him, he might merely be lonely, even when he’d had both a wife and a mistress.
Without further comment Wilson departed, House allowing him to do so though his eyes followed his friend’s progression until he was out of sight. It didn’t take a second of thought to have him abandoning the books he’d spent some time scouring the Princeton University libraries for. He’d get to them eventually. He wanted to check on Chase.
His arrival at the ICU step down ward wasn’t met with the usually moans and groans of the ICU staff. There was already someone there causing the eye-rolls and aggravation that House thought were his trademarks. He would not have expected Foreman to be the one causing them. He was always quite polite with the patients and staff. Cameron was the one to speak her mind (or worse her heart) even when the person didn’t want the advice. Chase was the one most likely to speak without thinking or putting any tact into his words. Foreman, the guy from the bad neighbourhood, was almost painfully polite. If it weren’t for his clear disdain for the very members of the upper echelon that he now so well emulated, House might have thought that Foreman had had been raised in mansion, or a convent.
“He doesn’t need to be tied up,” Foreman said too reasonably. House smirked and watched the face of the nurse in front of Foreman become tinged that much more with annoyance. It was always the condescending tone that did Foreman in, even if he was right, or close to it. He’d seen Cameron and Chase roll their eyes and give Foreman withering looks on more than one occasion. But Foreman was Foreman, and for all of his overweening personality, he was smart and could usually put personal feelings aside for the sake of a patient, even if he did so reluctantly. Strangely, House didn’t see any reluctance here, and Foreman was arguing for Chase’s benefit.
Eyes set to take in even the most understated body language House approached.
“He’s on suicide watch. We’re having enough trouble with his wounds already. We can’t risk him making them worse,” the nurse informed.
Foreman sighed in frustration, wanting to put an end to House’s deception but not willing to risk House’s wrath. “He’ll be okay. He won’t hurt himself.”
The nurse walked away, Foreman’s last desperate plea having done nothing to sway her. Foreman sent a long apologetic glance to Chase who didn’t even notice it, his eyes on the ceiling.
“Working off some guilt?”
Foreman managed to hide his startle, turning smoothly to face his superior. “What would I have to be guilty about? You’re the one he has everyone thinking Chase is suicidal.”
“No, I have them thinking he’s an idiot. What kind of doctor can’t off himself properly?”
“How is he supposed to work with these people after this?”
“Not my problem. So why are you here -sceptical of my diagnosis?”
Foreman shot a look around to make sure no one would here the next part of their conversation. Not to worry. House’s arrival only made the ICU nurses less likely to talk to them. The nearest person to them was unconscious. “Even you’re sceptical of your diagnosis. Stigmata? You’ve never accepted anything even remotely spiritual when you consider illnesses.”
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” House said, undeterred.
After a long stretch, while House waited expectantly Foreman spoke. “He’s a friend-”
“No he’s not,” House immediately denied. “Maybe, you and Cameron are friends, though barely. You and Chase are colleagues.”
“Is this relevant?”
“Yes, because you’re guilt is driving your actions, so I’m wondering what’s driving your guilt.”
Foreman held his posture and his expression under House’s scalding gaze. “It’s not guilt.”
“Right. Let me know when you find an answer that isn’t a load of crap,” House said to Foreman as he passed. He was at Chase’s side with a few quick steps. He put the measly Foreman conundrum out of his mind and focussed on a larger, stranger one.
“Chase,” he called softly. Yes, he could do softly.
Aquamarine eyes snapped to House and he frowned. Chase had a morphine drip and the rate was set pretty high. He shouldn’t be that alert.
“The pain, how bad?”
The blond man swallowed with difficulty, so much so that House thought he might begin to choke. He didn’t and went on to respond in a tight voice. “Bad.”
Chase’s eyes, intense with pain stood out against his waxen complexion. On the pale canvas of skin his incarnadine lips remained partly open and with each rise and fall of his chest distressing cries of pain were held back.
House pressed the upward pointing arrow on the infuser controlling Chase’ morphine drip hoping the higher dose would cross some threshold and begin to help. He waited several seconds but there was no corresponding change in Chase. House examined the ICU captive’s wrists. The dressing wrapping the mysterious wounds would need changing soon. A dark dot of blood was already staining the white bandages, on both the inside and back of the wrist -both wrists too.
Leaning over, House again smelt the wound. He could feel at his back the face Foreman was pulling. Not that it mattered to him. What did matter was that the fragrance of flowers was still emanating from the wounds.
“House, what are you doing?”
Both House and Foreman turned their heads to Cameron, House still bent over with his face near Chase’s wrist. “Examining the patient with all my senses. I’m going to lick him next. You should get your camera. Probably make you a pretty penny on the net.”
Cameron cringed a little but was mostly confused.
“There’s a smell of flowers coming from his wrist,” House explained quickly, straightening.
“We smelt it in the OR but couldn’t tell what it was coming from,” Cameron informed.
House nodded sagely. “So what would cause, wounds for no reason, bleeding that doesn’t clot, and complete insensitivity to morphine and anaesthetics?” House asked his eyes on Chase’s stony and strained face. It was as though he already knew the answer and was simply waiting it out. Did this seminary school dropout believe this was stigmata?
“A coagulopathy,” Cameron suggested.
House’s eyes narrowed in bother. “Thank you, genius. Which one?”
“Hypnotic suggestion has been known to cause people to think wounds into forming on their body,” the neurologist offered.
“Von Willebrand disease,” Cameron suggested, picking a bleeding disorder.
“Explains the bleeding but not the sudden wound formation, or the lack of effect the drugs he’s been given,” Foreman countered.
“It stays,” House decreed, still not looking at Cameron or Foreman. “Foreman, write these down. We’ll cross them off as we go along. I’d tell Cameron to do it but I think it might be sexist, giving her the secretarial job.”
Cameron shook her head minutely but let the comment go. Foreman went to the nurse’s station and found a piece of paper and a pen. He wrote down the two suggestions and added cancer to the list. Leukemia could cause bleeding and clotting problems.
“Could be some sort of skin ulcer…” Cameron said. It was a stretch. House didn’t shoot it down though, so it went on the short list.
Cameron and Foreman began blurting out numerous possible diseases and syndrome that could account for Chase’s strange symptoms. Nothing quite fit everything, forcing Foreman to write the suggestions in columns relating to the symptoms they did explain. Eventually the two physicians exhausted their mental encyclopaedias of medical information. They turned to House who was still staring at Chase.
Foreman glanced at Cameron but she was now staring at House. More accurately she was staring at House’s hand. It was resting half on the soft but firm strap securing Chase to the bed just below his elbow and half on Chase’s forearm. It had been there since House had finished his examination of the injuries. House apparently didn’t notice and Chase was practically delirious with pain, so he didn’t notice either.
Was it a gesture intended to give comfort or convey sympathy? Two things many assumed House to be unable to do, or at least unwilling.
“House?” Foreman’s voice brought the diagnostician’s attention back to them. The hand that had been on Chase fell away, House still not noticing its former location, or perhaps just not self-conscious enough to comment on it.
He nodded and looked at the paper in Foreman’s hand. “We have some place to start. Blood tests.”
“Dermographia,” came a faint and unexpected suggestion. They all looked at Chase who was focused as much as he could at the moment on them. They’d been talking about him as if he hadn’t been there and indeed for a long stretch of minutes he hadn’t been. His mind had drifted into some distant place where the pain was less overwhelming.
“Add it to the list,” House instructed, back in his newly acquired habit of talking to Cameron and Foreman while looking at Chase. He was pleased to see that Chase, despite his experiences, was still willing to give medical science a chance. Only if it failed, as Chase expected it would in this case, would he grudgingly accept the diagnosis given by his faith.
When nothing more was said Foreman left to get the blood vials they would need. Cameron left a moment later to do some research. Perplexingly reluctant to leave Chase’s beside, House stayed for a minute more before forcing himself away.
Back in the conference room Cameron arrived to find they had a guest, one who had a particular interest in the fresh bloodstains on the floor. Cameron paused just inside the doorway and stared for a moment at the man clad all in black. He hadn’t heard her enter. Her eyes widened when the greying man leaned down to smell above one of the fresh bloodstains.
“Can I help you with something?” she asked more loudly than necessary, wanting to shock the weirdo. Said weirdo quickly stood and faced the petite doctor, and revealed himself to be a priest. The white square visible of collar contrasted sharply with the rest of his black ensemble.
“Oh! Excuse me. I was walking by when a scent caught my attention.”
Cameron didn’t comment. She walked further in, disbelievingly eying the priest even though his story was believable given what she had witnessed.
Seeing that she wasn’t going to say anything the clergyman went on. “Could you perhaps tell me, whose blood is this?”
Cameron’s chin raised, her suspicion increasing. She saw the older man’s eyes glance left for only a split second. She followed the likely path of his gaze and it settled on the whiteboard where House’s early, religious diagnosis was still blazed across the barren surface in black marker. Looking back at the Father, Cameron told him the patient was unavailable.
“Are you sure? This might be more an investigation for the Church,” he suggested prudently.
“And what can the Department of God do that the Department of Diagnostics can’t?” A gruff male voice asked from behind the priest.
Unperturbed he threw his response over his shoulder. “Save souls.” The way he said it, it was a suggestion, almost a question that urged House to either agree or disagree. House did neither. He went to the board, avoiding with little extra thought the blood on the carpet, and began writing down the various ideas his team had come up with.
The pastor watched and when House was done he pointed to ‘dermographia’. “This suggestion from a ex-disciple of yours,” House challenged.
“Not ‘ex’, just lost,” was the reply in the same unshakeable calm.
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, eventually.” The Priest gave a benevolent smile that House wanted to smack off his face with his cane. He began for the exit but just before it he looked back at the two doctors (he assumed the tall unshaven man was a doctor). “That scent, lovely isn’t it?” The knowing tone of his voice increased the severity of House’s glare. The black clad man left with a smile.
“Make sure they keep members of organized and unorganized religions away from Chase,” House said going back to the board.
“How am I supposed to do that? Leave a standing order?”
“I don’t care how you do it. Just don’t let priest, nun, padre, Imam, rabbi, not even a choir boy near him.”
Cameron wanted to tell him he was being paranoid but she couldn’t. Even in her, the one who didn’t prescribe to any organized religion, there was a wariness of them. Not of what some almighty being might do, but rather what the man, whoever he might be, could do when something concerned or endangered his belief. Ironically, neither House nor Cameron truly feared almighty beings, only some of their followers.
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Despite attempts to keep the situation quiet, chatty nurses would always be chatty nurses, and thus news of Chase’s condition began to circulate. In moments of lucidity Chase heard the low murmurs of people discussing him and noticed the looks he was given, sometimes as they passed by his bed or more often, from across the way. He was unconcerned. The restraints just below his elbows were what really bothered him. They prevented any escape. He couldn’t even get up to go to the washroom without a large, male nurse or orderly going with him to make sure he didn’t hurt himself. There was always the bed pan or catheter but he’d refused.
It was all House’s fault. Damn that man!
Self inflicted wound?
How the hell would he be able to stab himself in the wrist with one hand and then use that injured limb to stab his other wrist? Did that make any sense? The ceiling didn’t have any answers on it, so Chase could only assume that it was everyone else who had lost their mind and not him. Or maybe House was really that scary.
However he’d been imprisoned in this situation, it didn’t change the fact that with each passing moment his hope was dwindling. He’d always hoped that there was a reason behind all this. He believed that if anyone could find it, House could. Now going on sixteen hours since the beginning of this in the conference room, Chase felt his faith in a scientific explanation fading. He wasn’t thrilled with what that left behind.
All these past hours he’d been floating, drifting. He’d seen things, seen people that he knew it was impossible for him to see, yet he knew that tomorrow the newspaper would show him just how true these bizarre visions were. And to make things even stranger, when his mind went on these sojourns without his body actually leaving the hospital, he was beginning to feel another presence or something next to him. Yet every time he turned there was only darkness, or sky, or ocean, or more people, or the bed in the ward next to him. It was all quite disconcerting, so when his colleagues had come by only to get more samples from him and had not a smidgen of good news to share, his spirits had sunk that much lower. There was no solution in sight.
Wilson was at his side.
Chase stared up at the brown-haired doctor and could not remember the man walking in or approaching him. Still, a blink, and there he was. Maybe the morphine was finally having an effect, even if it was only to make him a little loopy.
“How you holding up?” Wilson asked softly.
Chase blinked slowly in response. He didn’t have the energy to speak at the moment. When the pain from his wrists waxed it took most of his strength to keep from screaming or crying. He also hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. He wasn’t hungry but it was probably contributing to his weakness.
“Hang in there. They’ll figure something out. And you know House; he won’t stop until he has an answer.” Chase noted the Wilson described House’s obstinacy as a good thing. The oncologist did know House the best of anyone Chase was knew of (except perhaps Mrs. Warner) so Chase felt inclined to trust Wilson’s judgement in regards to House’s personality. Still, inclination or not, Chase was tired of being poked and prodded and discussed even if he couldn’t hear what they were saying about him. He wanted to go. He gathered the strength and told Wilson as much.
Wilson didn’t look surprised at the request, though his expression clearly conveyed that he thought the decision was lacking in wisdom. “That’s not a good idea.” His tone was so reasonable it was hard not to agree. “Your…injuries haven’t even clotted yet,” Wilson said with a glance down at the recently-changed dressing. He gave no voice of his own internal debate. He held onto his small piece of evidence, not yet willing to share it, perhaps not ever. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, so he waited for the tests, scans and medical textbooks to be exhausted. “Just wait a little while longer.”
Chase shook his head. “Please. I have a friend. House probably told you about him.”
Oh, yes -the friend. Wilson’s eyebrows raised in a brief admittance of his state of knowledge regarding that “friend”.
“He’s around somewhere. He’ll help. Please.”
Wilson didn’t give it any thought. He was already shaking his head. “You need to be here, Chase,” Wilson said comfortingly. It wasn’t what Chase wanted to hear. He would have shaken off the hand that was laid gently on his shoulder but his didn’t want to risk aggravating his torn flesh. And the touch was also somewhat welcome as it was the first bit of normal human contact he’d had since he’d been brought there. The nurses were efficient and quiet when they went about tending to him. Cameron and Foreman were distant, awkward, and preoccupied with the mystery. House hadn’t come back at all, and before Wilson it had been his touch on Chase’s arm that provided the only recent memory of comforting contact.
“Hang in there,” Wilson reiterated and gave a gentle squeeze. Chase watched him exit then turned his eyes back to the ceiling. Before he knew it he was drifting again.
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In the conference room three tired doctors sat at the table. Half-eaten and now cold containers of take-out food were strewn all over. House picked up a wrapper that was on the x-ray film. He leaned back in his chair while balling up the refuse. He eyed the garbage next to the counter with the coffee maker and then threw his garbage ball. Cameron’s head turned to follow the arc of the projectile, perhaps only because it had come so close to her head. The balled-up wrapper hit the metal rim of the garbage but bounced away. Cameron, usually the one to complain if somebody left even a used coffee mug in the sink, didn’t do more than blink at the miss or at the mess of other pieces of garbage littering the floor around the bin. House’s aim had been off in the last few hours. Even Foreman had missed a couple, though not nearly as many as House. The silent competition between House and Foreman had proceeded uncommented until House had missed a few in a row and Foreman continued with his streak.
“Well you people are good a basketball. It’s been a while since I played,” House made his excuse, to which Foreman just smirked and shook his head.
Currently Foreman barely had the presence of mind to even notice that House was missing, and pretty badly too. The darkness outside was trying to lull him into sleep. It was just approaching two and he was drained. They’d had tough cases before. They’d pulled all-nighters looking for obscure clues in the lab work to tell them the cause of the strange symptoms. Really the situation wasn’t unfamiliar. It was the consistent lack of progress that was wearing them down so quickly.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Cameron mumbled, tossing away a set of lab results in irritation. “All the clotting factors are normal, but he’s not clotting.” That was the riddle on which Cameron had focussed. She ignored the issue of the morphine not working, ignored the sudden appearance of the wounds, ignored anything that didn’t help. Usually House would be scolding her about ignoring symptoms. He wasn’t. He was doing the same.
The whiteboard silently mocked them. They’d written down all the symptoms on one side and all the possible diagnoses on the other. The diagnosis side was nearly empty. The symptoms side was full, even without the soft, personality symptoms that House had noticed recently. He also excluded the precognition incident. House was half-afraid that if he told Cameron and Foreman about it, they would give up and chalk this whole thing up to some sort of mystical force. Even with ‘STIGMATA’ written across the top of the board and the unusual symptoms, there was still nothing that strictly indicated this was anything but a difficult case. House didn’t want to risk giving them that evidence. Because in isolation most of the symptoms had an explanation. Together they made no sense.
“How can the blood from the wound have two blood types but the blood from his veins has only his?” Foreman asked. For the moment this was the puzzle on which his mind was stuck. Unlike Cameron who was being oddly consistent, Foreman was looking at each mystery and moving on when his frustration grew to too great.
“How can you two still be here when I told you to leave hours ago?” House asked eying his fingers. Weird how at times like this, those digits became so interesting.
“You want us to just go?” Cameron said.
House looked to her. “I don’t really care, since neither of you are being particularly useful today. What I’m a little curious to hear is why you’re both suddenly showing so much loyalty to Chase.”
“It’s not loyalty. He’s our patient.”
House wasn’t going to accept Foreman’s explanation. “We’ve gone home before when patients were still without a diagnosis. What’s so different this time? Don’t say the mystery. That’s my excuse.” House glanced back and forth at them. They didn’t seem at all moved by the inquiry. Their eyes remained wherever they’d been fixed before.
“He’s our friend-”
“Ennnhh!” House made a loud, obnoxious buzzing sound. “I’m sorry, that’s the wrong answer. Thanks for playing. Contestant number two?” Pretending he was holding a microphone House held out his fist to Foreman. Foreman remained silent. The buzzing noise came quickly again. “Oooh! Contestant number two ran out of time.”
“Can we please just get back to the case?” Exasperation a fatigue weighed down Foreman and his voice.
“Eager to write an article on the explanation of stigmata, Foreman? Are you really that eager to undermine the beliefs of millions?”
“House, enough,” Cameron snapped. They were all tired and cranky. Neither she nor Foreman was in the mood to take House’s abuse. Maybe they should have left when he told them to.
House took mild amounts of pity on them. “Go home. I’m not kidding.” With the help of the table House stood. With the help of his cane he left. Cameron watched him go drearily. For several seconds after, both she and Foreman remained at the table.
Foreman opened his mouth to say something but must have thought better of it because he just got up, took his things and left. Cameron waited a few minutes before doing the same.
As House made his journey to the ICU, unwilling to call it a night. Chase had suddenly become far too interesting for him to sleep soundly. He was sure there were things about Foreman and Cameron he didn’t know either. Thing was he didn’t really care to know. Maybe it was just timing. Maybe it was the imminent threat that Chase was just going to vanish. This Mayes character had shown up and earlier Chase had gone to Cuddy and demanded to be let out of his contract. House had gotten half an earful over the offence Cuddy presumed he’d committed to pushed Chase to quit. It would have been a complete earful but she’d allowed him to get back to the case at hand.
The main light in the small ward was still on when House arrived. The lights over the patients’ beds had been turned off to allow them to sleep even if Chase, unlike the other two, was not taking advantage of the opportunity. He looked down on the pale face. He turned on the light above the bed with the switch on the wall and immediately the harsh white lighting filled the small area between the two curtains separating the beds. The light reflected off Chase’s pallid skin. The nurses’ notes said nothing about a fever. House guessed that it was a parasympathetic response to the pain, cold sweat. To confirm he laid his hand, palm down, on the young man’s head. It was warm, but not feverish. Since his hand was already there and because he knew that if he could Chase would have brushed his hair back from his forehead, House did it for him.
“Chase,” House called gently as he removed his hand from the man’s head. Chase’s eyes shifted to him a moment before House was going to address him again. House skipped the inquiry into his state. He could tell just by looking at his face that the pain was on its upswing. “I need a better history -a complete history.” Even as he said it House knew he was fishing for more information about Chase. He wasn’t anywhere near believing that what was happening to Chase was anything other than an unusual presentation of some illness or disorder. He was actually leaning towards hypnotic suggestion -mind over body. Maybe he should have had Foreman stick around.
“You’ve given up,” Chase said weakly.
House shook his head. “No. Just need different information for a new hypothesis.” Chase waited for the question. “Has this happened before?”
It was a more complex question than House knew. It took Chase several seconds to come up with an accurate answer. “Sort of.”
That actually didn’t sound very accurate at all so he went on to elaborate; though doing so would take more energy than Chase thought he had available. “Before it was…it was just pain, no blood.”
House didn’t frown at this revelation but he wasn’t pleased either. “Things that should have been made known earlier.” Chase just looked at him and House imagined the shrug Chase wanted to give but couldn’t. “What about all that stuff last night?”
“What stuff?” Chase actually looked confused. That in addition to the intense discomfort already written on his face made the whole look upsetting. He didn’t know what House was referring to and House took that as a bad sign. He really should have kept Foreman around.
“Last night your friend, Warren, drugged you and…” How was he to describe the disturbing episode?
Chase remembered the feeling of the drug overtaking him. He remembered Warren’s apology and he remembered a nightmare. After that he’d awoken in the hospital with Foreman at his side.
“You have a tattoo on your back,” House suddenly announced, giving up on the details of the night before and focussing on the smaller simpler things. “When did you get it?”
“…fourteen.” He pursed his lips to keep from saying more and also to keep from moaning aloud. A flare of agony made him shiver.
House watched, outwardly undisturbed. When he thought Chase might be able to speak again he went on. “Last night Mayes, said something; a prayer or a spell.”
“…he didn’t…do this…” Such an accusation hurt him to hear, even if he wouldn’t believe it.
“Why did you leave the seminary?”
Chase’s eyes began to drift shut. He pushed out the answer, the short version. “They asked me to serve and obey Him…I couldn’t.” And then House was as good as alone, Chase having fallen into an unnaturally abrupt sleep. Maybe the pain or the morphine had finally kicked his brain into unconsciousness. Upon inspection his watch indicated the time was two fifty-eight. House always kept his watch running slow, two minutes slow. Thus the actually time was three am on the dot. A chill poured down his spine.
House glanced around. Nothing sinister seemed to be happening. The nurse’s shift change had already passed. So Chase fell asleep. It wasn’t something to be suspicious about. House tried to wake him.
“Chase, wake up.” He gently shook him. When there was no response he shook him harder. Still there was nothing. House left for a moment to find a needle then he returned to stick Chase in the toe with is. Chase flinched, tugging his foot away from the uncomfortable stimulus. Still, he didn’t wake. Mind racing trying to determine what kind of state Chase was in House disposed of the syringe in the receptacle. His next test was by far the most gruesome of all. He grabbed Chase’s nearest wrist. He hesitated a moment, then squeezed.
His efforts were rewarded with a grunt and a pinched expression on the damp face, but he didn’t wake. Housed eased his grip, finally letting go. He looked at his hand, at the smear of fragrant, crimson blood across his palm and fingers.
Chase seemed resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. Whatever prior experiences he might have had, likely led to his acceptance. House wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. When had he ever?
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The next day House was in a bad mood, having spent an achy night in the lounge chair in his office and then being woken by Wilson that morning. That in itself would not have accounted for such a terrible mood. It was the conversation he’d been thrust into, when his brain was still half lost in sleep, that really soured him.
Wilson had argued for the opposition! Not something he’d never done before. Wilson had always sort of been House’s conscience since House’s own was as conniving as the man himself. The difference here was that the opposition was religion, faith, God. Wilson knew how he felt about those.
After chasing his friend out of his sight he’d found Cameron and Foreman in the conference room going over the results of the EEG that House had done that night. He’d sworn he’d fallen asleep with those in his hand.
“He’s asleep,” Foreman had said with all the certainty due a neurologist who was looking at the EEG of a sleeping person.
“Then why won’t he wake up?” House had posed. He hadn’t expected an answer. He’d gotten his coffee, which tasted terrible, then headed back to his office. He’d pushed over the insufferable whiteboard on his way, the sound of it crashing to the carpet and hitting something on its way down momentarily lifting his weary spirit.
So overall it was a poor way to begin a day that only went downhill from then on. The loosing struggle against Chase’s unknown ailment left House as the worst choice of company. He pulled down the mood of anybody he came in contact with, Foreman and Cameron most of all. They in turn, ruined the moods of those they came in contact with and the cycle continued until half the hospital staff was snapping at each other. It also might have been the miserable weather outside. It was hard to say which had more of an effect -House on the rampage, or cold rain, dark clouds, and frigid wind.
By noon the sky had cleared and House was ready to throw a fit; and he did when Cuddy tried to reprimand him for his poor behaviour. That’s how he earned the four hours of extra clinic duty for the next week, which he would never end up doing. By two o’clock the diagnostics department was about ready to combust with the tempers and egos scraping against each other. The last straw was when a bouquet of flowers in a vase was delivered. Cameron brusquely signed for them and the delivery man escaped, chased out by the silent and angry stares.
Leaning against the glass wall House spoke first. “Who are they from?” He wanted to know who thought he could be consoled by some stupid plants, so that he knew who to strike first.
Cameron read the card aloud. “‘These are the usual culprits for the smell you’re probably becoming quite confused about. Jasminum Officinale. Semper Fidelis, Father Alex DeMarco.’” Cameron flipped the small card over checking that there was nothing more written on the other side. She only found the logo for a local flower shop. She glanced at House who was looking even more annoyed than he had been all day, and then back to the plant.
The stems of delicate ferns had been trimmed by the florist to create a layered background of rich green below the canopy of white, five-lobed blossoms floating on top. It was a lovely little arrangement, and when she did move to smell the flowers, they had the same sweet scent as the blood from Chase’s wrist. She was about to say as much when the vase of flowers was snatched, literally, from under her nose. Cameron and Foreman watched with trepidation as House walked into his office then out to the balcony. Just as they realized what he was going to do, he did it.
One hard throw sent the light blue vase with the delicate flowers sailing into the air. It landed in the parking lot, shattering on the hood of a black car. Most of the flowers had fallen out during the flight and drifted to the ground after the wind let them go.
House shook off the water that had sloshed onto his arm from the vase. He returned to the conference room, to the wide-eyed stares of his employees.
“What?”
End Chapter 5
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- - - H/C - - -
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Cast and Characters