Note: This is the chapter which I researched like mad for (like days and weeks, people) but still feel that it's inadequate. Still, I hope you enjoy it anyway. :)

Chapter 5

Just mere minutes after Chase was stabilised and hooked up to a ventilator (and after House had gotten back from his “session” with Cuddy), Cameron and Foreman sat in the office, still as statues, while House wrote on the white board:

Memory loss

Confusion

Euphoria

Sudden onset of fever
Chills

Profuse sweating

Coughing

Dyspnea

Pulmonary edema

House circled the last word, tossed the marker pen unceremoniously on the table and demanded loudly: “Differential diagnosis! So, what causes all this plus pulmonary oedema?"

“A wide variety of respiratory pathogens,” said Cameron, her voice tinged with frustration.

“Well, then, humour me. You're the immunologist - narrow it down!” House snapped.

"What about anaphylaxis?" Foreman volunteered.

"He doesn't have any known allergies," Cameron said quickly. “And it doesn't explain the memory loss, or euphoria.”

"You memorised his medical history? How sweet!" House remarked with fake joy.

“I'm talking about the antibiotics you gave him,” Foreman replied, looking pointedly at Cameron. “Maybe he's allergic to them.”

House shook his head. "There was no swelling in his throat when I intubated him. And he had breathing difficulties way before this episode. Any better ideas, Sherlock?”

“Pulmonary oedema could be indicative of a heart problem – like mitral stenosis," countered Cameron.

"Aren't we reaching here? It doesn't explain the sudden onset of fever or the euphoria or the memory loss," Foreman said.

Cameron sighed in frustration and rubbed her forehead tiredly. "Memory loss and euphoria ... could be indicative of something neurological.”

“But his symptoms are also classic for massive infection - septicimia,” Foreman said. Then he threw his hands up in frustration. “Neurological symptoms with symptoms of an infection – a brain infection.”

“Oh wow, the neurologist thinks it's a brain infection. Original,” House remarked.

Foreman threw him a glare which House expertly ignored.

“Cameron. Get the chest x-ray results and have some blood drawn for some blood work. We need to know whether its cardiac pulmonary oedema or non-cardiogenic oedema," House instructed. “Foreman – go to that bar Chase was talking about. Find out what the hell he's been doing those missing hours.”

“What, we're not going to do an MRI?” Foreman asked in shock.

“He's still convinced that Chase took drugs,” Cameron said, her hard gaze still on House.

"In case you weren't awake, Cameron, your boyfriend was high this morning. And the strong, sexy smell of whiskey? Not the latest hot cologne from Madison Avenue," House said sardonically.

“You still suspect drug toxicity after all this?” Foreman asked, disbelief tinging his words. “We have already ruled out fluoxotine. I gave a call to Chase's doctor, remember? A doctor Chase was told to see on Stacy's insistence after that malpractice suit. The doctor prescribed the fluxotine to Chase months ago, incidentally, the time after his father died. Chase didn't even bother taking the medication – it was barely touched.”

"What, is this Save Chase's Reputation Day?” House asked in mock amazement.

Foreman's expression hardened. "I don't get where you're going with this whole drug problem thing. Chase may be a kiss-ass, but he's not stupid enough to kill his career by being careless. Unlike certain people," Foreman said, pointedly looking at House.

House threw him an unreadable look. “Now, you believe him? Gee, make up your mind already,” he said sarcastically.

“Besides, he already told you that he didn't do any drugs,” Cameron said indignantly.

House gave them a sardonic grin. “So, both of you have decided that drugs couldn't be involved because you know the guy so well. Wow! I'm touched. Now, let me refresh your memory on the no.1 rule in medicine: Everybody lies. Especially doctors. Now do the tox screen,” he said; his voice had taken on a hard, impatient edge.

The two tossed him a frustrated glare and then marched out of the room.

OooOOoOoo

He was a neurologist who graduated at the top of his class. So, what was he doing in a seedy bar asking a waitress about his friends' nocturnal activities?

The waitress, Susan, looked puzzled at first, then her eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh yeah, soda guy,” she said, grinning widely.

He frowned. “Soda guy?”

“Yup. He's one weird guy. Cute and sweet, but just different, you know? He drank nothing but soda the entire night,” she smiled as she wiped the table top, as if recounting a fond memory. When she completed her task, she caught Foreman's disappointed and chagrined look.

Chase was telling the truth all the while, he thought.

“What's the matter? Don't like his choice of poison?” she teased.

“No ...” he sighed. “The man, Dr Chase? He's sick and we need to find out what he was up to the past few hours before 7am in the morning.”

“What, he can't remember?” she asked, a frown of concern etched on her forehead.

He shook his head.

“Is he okay? Why is he sick? I mean, he was all right when he came in last night. A bit banged up but-”

“He is in the ICU, and we need to know what he's been up to, what he drank and ate while he was here. Or who he was with,” he repeated, this time with stronger emphasis. His mind caught on to the possibility of a highly contagious disease – the thought of an infectious disease sent shivers down his spine, but he hope it does not come down to that.

“He was here until 3am. With that guy,” she said vaguely.

“What guy?”

“Um, some overly-familiar guy. I just served him one drink and he treated me like he known me all my life. Creepy dude,” she said.

“So, what were they doing?”

“Drinking. Chase with his soda, the guy with his whiskey.”

“Nothing peculiar happened during the whole time?”

She frowned then said: “You know, come to think of it, there was something weird for a while.”

“Now, let's try something stronger, shall we?” the man asked. He began pouring himself something from the flask. Even from where he sat, Chase could smell the strong scent of whiskey.

Chase stared at the silver flask then shook his head.

“No, thanks.” He looked away pointedly.

“Huh. You really don't drink, do ya? What are ya, some kind of ex-alcoholic? If you are, you sure are in the wrong place, dude.”

Chase lips thinned into a bitter line. “Call this my way of reminding myself of the past.” Then he frowned and shook his head. He gave a short laugh. Then began laughing in earnest.

The stranger smiled. “Something funny?”

“No. I was just thinking ...” he took a deep breath and looked as if he had a hard time stopping his laugh. “I was just thinking that I'm an idiot, you know? Sticking around House like some kind of crybaby.”

“You need to complete what you need to do.”

Chase looked at him curiously. “You know a lot about me. About House.” He smiled at that. Then burst out laughing.

“And you're ... happy,” the stranger said, a big, satisfied smile on his face.

“God, yes. I have no idea what the hell I was upset about. You know, I need more soda,” he slurred.

He got up – too quickly – and ended up bumping into a guy who was approaching the bar. The man cursed as he lost grip of his glass and its contents – which ended up on Chase's shirt.

“Look where the hell you're goin, pal! And you're gonna pay for that refill!” the man growled.

Chase shook his head as if to clear his head and then gestured vaguely to Susan. “Yeah, it's on me.”

Susan frowned. “Hey, you okay there?”

Chase looked back at her and blinked heavily. “I'm fine. Just ... tired I guess. Gotta go home now.”

She watched him as he weaved his way through the crowd unsteadily, but she didn't think much of it. It was, after all, 3am, and the sugar high must be doing him in by now.

“If I didn't know better, I thought he was drunk,” said Susan, giving Foreman an amused look. “Drunk on soda, now that's something new I've got to-”

“Are you sure he didn't drink anything but soda that night?” he asked, his voice taut.

She frowned at the interruption, but shrugged. “Well, yeah. I was the only waitress on that night. Like I said, it was a slow night.”

“Did Chase leave his drink alone?”

Susan looked really puzzled now. “He might have. I mean, there was just me so I couldn't watch every drink, you know? And he was here for a long time, so he must've had a toilet break during that time.”

“And the man? He left with Chase after that?”

“Yeah, around 3am,” she paused. “What's this about?” she asked with a heavy frown.

“A possible diagnosis,” Foreman muttered, more to himself.

OoooOoOoo

Cameron took Chase's medical chart with numb fingers. She studied the numbers and charts; his O2 levels were rapidly decreasing, something Cameron didn't have to look at the charts to know. She threw a furtive glance at the bed. The nurse was adjusting Chase's blankets – he had just been given a sponge bath – and the nurse, Miranda, was it? - was giving Chase a forlorn look.

“He's going to be okay, isn't he?” Miranda said, her voice a whisper.

Cameron frowned. She didn't know what to say. Saying “of course he will be” seemed like such a blatant lie. So, instead of answering her, she asked Miranda a question.

“Did he wake up at all?”

“I think he tried. I gave him a bath just now and he moved a little, but that's about it.”

Cameron looked at Chase lying limply in bed – now raised so that he was almost sitting up – hooked to the ventilator. The only movement he made was the mechanical rise and fall of his chest as the ventilator did his work.

“Dr Cameron?”

That snapped her out of her daze. “Yes?” she asked, closing his file.

“Who do we call? His family, I mean,” she said.

“I ... I will handle that. Thanks for your concern, Miranda,” she answered awkwardly. To tell the truth, the thought had not even occurred to her until Miranda brought it up.

Miranda gave her a vague shrug, saying that the nurse's were all concerned for Chase, which surprised Cameron. Chase kept to himself so much that he didn't appear to have friends.

Her thoughts went back to the report of his condition – it had only gotten worse after his respiratory arrest. He was sweating so much that the nurse had to change his gown, and his fever had risen another notch to 104. The antibiotics were obviously not working. House had prescribed diuretics for the pulmonary oedema, and had placed him on an IV to replace the lost fluids from his heavy sweating.

She almost longed for the restless movements of Chase's anxiety-ridden sleep; at least, anything to indicate that Chase was in there somewhere. Closing her eyes, she told herself that she had to be back to the lab to conduct some tests.

ooOooOooOoo

House told himself that he had better things to do than to watch a man in a near coma breathing through a tube. He told himself that General Hospital, which is showing now on the small portable television resting on his knees, was far more interesting. Yet, here he was, with his feet up on Chase's bed watching the man hanging on to life.

Chase's condition has gotten remarkably worse in just an hour. His O2 levels have decreased despite the work of the ventilator. The fluid in his lungs had not increased, but neither has it decreased. His mind ran through the possible diseases that he could have, and there were far too many possibilities and too little probable diseases.

If it was any consolation, Chase did make minute movements once in a while, as if he was trying to regain consciousness.

Where the hell were the test results? He fumed inwardly. And where the hell is Foreman? Sure, it's just been half an hour since he charged sulkily out of the hospital on his errand, but what was he doing at the bar – the Macarena?

He didn't turn when he heard the door to the ICU room open.

“House!” Cameron whispered urgently. He saw that her face was taut with confusion and urgency.

“The test results?” he demanded, dropping his legs to the floor.

She nodded, and then cast a concerned look at Chase. House didn't wait for her to ask about Chase's condition. It was obvious to all that Chase was going downhill fast. He marched past Cameron as quickly as his limp would allow and snapped: “Well, what are the results?”

Cameron handed him the X-Ray scans, which he held up to the light to study.

“The chest x-rays indicated bilateral infiltrates, his leukocyte count is very high, about 32,000 per cubic mm and his BNP levels are low-”

“Making a cardiac cause very unlikely,” House announced.

“House. That's not all,” Cameron said, her voice becoming more urgent. “I did the drug test. You were right. There were drugs in his system: gammahydroxybutyrate, to be specific. It explains his feelings of euphoria, the confusion and the memory loss. But pulmonary oedema is not a finding associated with GHB,” she said, confused.

House's mind began to work quickly, and the conclusion he was starting to formulate was so outlandish, so out of there, he wasn't even sure he could voice it yet.

“House!” It was Foreman. The two looked around to see the neurologist running towards them breathlessly.

“I think I know what happened,” he said.

“House was right. He took drugs,” Cameron said for him.

“No. He was given drugs,” Foreman said. “House, I think someone drugged Chase – just what it is-”

“It's GHB,” she replied quickly.

“Explains the loopiness this morning. But it doesn't explain his pulmonary oedema, or the fever,” Foreman replied, confused.

“Unless that was given to him as well,” House said, his voice low.

It was as if someone stopped time for a moment; Cameron and Foreman froze and stared at him in disbelief as they took in what he said. Slowly, realisation dawned on their stunned faces.

“House, that's a crazy theory even for you,” Foreman remarked, but his voice lacked his usual firmness.

“What pathogen can be aerolised?” House demanded, his voice grim, ignoring Foreman's remark.

“House ... it doesn't make sense. Why would anyone want to do this to Chase?” Cameron's voice was shaking.

“I didn't ask for a question!” he barked, his irritation barely disguised. “What pathogen can be aerolised? Come on!”

Foreman shuddered at what House was implying. “Staphylococcal enterotoxin B?” he offered.

“SEB has a more rapid onset. And its symptoms are far less acute. Usually. If he was exposed to significant levels of SEB – and seeing that we're in this situation right now all bets are off - pulmonary oedema may result. Do a nasal swab. We need to rule it out, but we need to quickly rule out a host of other aerolised agents as well.”

“It ... it could be chemical. Phosgene poisoning produces acute respiratory distress syndrome,” Cameron said, her voice shaking.

“Close, but no cigar. There's the mitigating factor of the fever and chills,” House responded. “And in case you're wondering pulmonary anthrax, there is no evidence of mediastinitis in his chest x-ray.” House said. He was walking again, heading determinedly down the corridor.

“I can't believe this is happening,” Cameron said under her breath, which both House and Foreman heard but ignored.

“Q fever,” Foreman said. “Coxiella burnetii can be inhaled as well. And the symptoms fit: sudden onset of high fever, confusion, the chills, sweats, and chest pain.”

And if it is Q Fever, at least the chances of him surviving would be high, thought Cameron. Unless ... unless the virus has been modified somehow. She shuddered at the thought.

House shook his head again “As much as I like him to have Q Fever, considering the alternatives, he developed his symptoms in mere hours, not two weeks. But start him on acetaminophen for the fever, and streptomycin just to cover our bases if it's tularemia, Q-Fever and other nasty respiratory critters. We need to cover all our bases,” he said.

“House ...” Cameron began hesitantly. “What if it is SARS?”

They froze at that suggestion.

“We'd have seen an outbreak by now, at least in the area where Chase lived or at the hospital itself,” House replied.

“But it is possible,” Foreman murmured. “What if the whacko managed to aerolise SARS somehow? Or create a more virulent form of the virus?”

“Then we're all exposed, and on the way to being dead,” House said bluntly.

It was then that Cameron and Foreman realised that they had walked to Cuddy's office.

“Guessing games are unproductive and stupid. Chase has probably been exposed to the agent for over 18 hours. So get your asses moving. And excuse me while I tell Cuddy that we're in the middle of an act of bioterrorism,” he said. With that, he left them alone, stunned at the fact that things have turned from bad to terrifying.