Author's Notes: This is definitely a stranger piece, and it's going to be very interpretational. Which isn't a word. This can be read with a HouseChase slashy relationship going on, or the third season in general, or a working relationship... Take it as you will. It is set after the season finale, probably about thee weeks afterwards, and it's from the PoV of one of House's new ducklings. Have fun with it!

The Patient

You are receiving the same lecture that you’ve gotten for three days in a row, now, and you’re feeling like you’re at the end of your rope. You spent all night running gels in the lab just to knock out a dozen or so of the thousands of infections that it could be, and your boss’s tantrums aren’t doing anything to improve your mood. You miss your old job. You want it back. This wasn’t at all what you had in mind when you applied to work for the famous Gregory House.

He’s beating on the whiteboard—how you hate that whiteboard—with his cane, but not even the resounding smacks are enough to keep you from dozing off. Across from you, Hailey Culler has already fallen asleep and is resting her head on an empty thermos of coffee. You barely remember the first names of your other two colleagues. House has always called them Jensen and Kellerman, and you’ve never bothered to learn anything more about them. You heard rumors that the last two people who started having sex under House’s watch were fired. You tell yourself that you wouldn’t have slept with Kellerman anyways, even though he’s insanely hot and you’re completely enraptured by his British accent.

“And why the hell are you sleeping?” House shouts, and you jump as a cane suddenly slams down in front of your face. Culler doesn’t even twitch and lets out a loud snore, her head slipping down to rest on the table. You cringe and poke her, whispering frantically for her to wake up.

“Huh?” Culler mutters, raising her head slightly even though her eyes are still closed.

“If this girl dies, her parents aren’t going to let us do an autopsy—what else could it be?” House demands, and you wonder for the millionth time if he might be a touch autistic. He probably buys those 500 page books of brain teasers. For fun.

“It could be related to those dead voles that we found—” you start, but House rounds on you.

“No, that wasn’t it,” he says, scowling at you. “Buddha did a necropsy on one, there wasn’t anything out of ordinary.” Buddha is his nickname for Jensen. It’s sort of cute, but you’re hoping that he’s not developing one for you.

“But what if he missed something?” Kellerman asks. “We’re doctors, not vets. It’s entirely possible that Jensen overlooked something.”

Jensen looks rather insulted, but House is delighted. “Thank you for volunteering! You can do that while we brainstorm—go, go! You don’t want to have to go all the way back to the house and look for another dead animal.”

“Still abusing your team, House?” a new voice says suddenly, and you look over to see a blonde man standing in the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding the door open with his foot, and has his arms crossed over his chest. “Thought you said that it was time for a change.”

“I lied,” House says, and it sounds automatic. You blink. House is eyeing the man as if he’s about to pounce, and his shoulders are held tensely. “Why are you here?”

The man doesn’t answer. He uncrosses his arms and steps into the room, glancing at the whiteboard. “You have a new patient?”

“I pick ‘em up here and there,” House replies. “The last one died.”

You stare. The last patient they’d had returned home yesterday, good as new.

“Quite suddenly,” the man says, his eyebrows raising. “I remember.”

You wonder if this is one of House’s old fellows. It would make sense, because then they would be discussing a patient that they’d had together. It makes a lot of sense, actually. You notice that the man is able to banter with House as easily as Dr. Wilson, which you thought was impossible. House isn’t even insulting him.

“Good to hear,” House says, nodding. “It was a screwy patient anyway—always lying.”

“You think so, House?” the man remarks, looking surprised, but his words are becoming strained. “I thought it was a rather straightforward case.”

“Never put any effort into it, Chase,” House says, spitting the last word as if it were poison. His voice is dangerous and his hand flexes on his cane. “It was like they wanted to die in the first place.”

“You never tried,” Chase accuses. “You gave up when it got too hard.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” House says, his words sharp. “You just need someone to blame other than yourself.”

Chase snorts. “And you don’t? You couldn’t handle it so you fired me. Just because—”

“I fired you because of a dead patient,” House says sarcastically, cutting him off. “Yes, that was it.”

“You did,” Chase insists. “Because you’re putting up all this crap about—”

“The patient,” House interrupts, “died because we didn’t put together the symptoms in time. Not because we didn’t care.”

Chase stops and blinks. He shakes his head, face resigned. “Learn it through the autopsy,” he says, his voice now soft.

House nods in agreement, watching Chase thoughtfully.

Chase bites his lip, and then continues. “It makes you wish… that you could bring the patient back to life and do things differently. Because you know what the problem is. You wish you would have thought of it earlier, because then maybe the patient would have lived.”

“But you can’t,” House says evenly. “The patient’s dead—you can’t change that.”

Chase sighs. “I guess not.”

“Was that all?” House asks.

“Yeah. Goodbye, House.”

As you watch Chase leave and see House turn his attention back to the case, you realize that their conversation had absolutely nothing to do with a patient.