Hi readers of House fanfiction...I've decided to write one and this is my first House fic btw. I got hooked after watching Mistake so not long ago, my sense of characterization sucks and I don't understand a thing about medicine so please correct me if I'm wrong about something. Also this is unbetaed and I'm frankly not that good at English the subject and the language...
Before Iforget I don't own House,it's characters, it's plot, etc. They all belong to the makers of House MD except maybe a few OC's that I have in here and this plot! Okay...maybe not true but a girl can dream can't she?
I don't think this will turn up any pairings at all and there is a poor attempt at a casefile...I have no idea where this story is going so bare with me.
I hope you like this first chapterand please review!
Shadowed Guilt: Chapter One Duty Bound
The screaming sirens penetrated the silent darkness of the night, the flashing red and yellow lights lit the streets and caused any car that was still out driving to pull over to the curve as the red ambulance shot pass. The young, blonde-haired Austrailian doctor had just fallen into bed, his own bed that he hadn't seen very much of over the last few weeks, and was dreaming happily of warm beaches and the soothing sun of the magical and sunny land called Austrailia before his phone gave an irratating and insistent ring. Dr Robert Chase rolled over and buried his head in his pillow, but he couldn't stand the ringing piercing into his skull, he could already feel a headache coming on. Chase felt tempted to smash the offending object against the wall, he felt tempted but he couldn't do it, so instead he went for the less stress releaving alternative.
His arm felt heavy as he felt around for the receiver of his phone and shivered at the touch of cold air outside his warm, cocoon of blankets. Chase felt something smooth and cool, he immediately lifted it up and was rewarded with soothing silence. However according to Newton's Third Law, was it Newton's Third Law? Chase couldn't remember through the sleep induced haze, but some law stated that for every action there was a reaction. The ringing phone had caused him to pick up the receiver, his motion of picking up the receiver had provoked the need of the other person on the other side to produce a very colourful litany of words. Chase groaned, the only person he knew that used that much swearing was House.
Chase imagined the scruffy doctor, kicking back with his both his legs (injured and normal) resting crossed comfortably on a table some feet away from where he was seated on a squishy armchair. A shot of scotch in one hand and the phone in the other, all the while enjoying waking Chase up at an ungodly hour. Chase tentatively held the phone closer to his ear, "...you get your ass back here before Cuddy decides to smother me with her luscious breasts. Then you'll really have a problem, who'll save all the patients from dieing from the disease called stupidity?" House took a breath.
"I'll be there, in..." Chase stared at the digital alarm clock, the red numbers swam blearily before his eyes finally they settled into something he could decipher, "Ten minutes."
He quickly hung up so he couldn't hear House badger him any farther, groaning loudly he heaved himself out of bed only to trip over a pile of books and crash to the floor. He laid there for a good minute or two before nearly drifting off again. However a thought screamed into his mind, 'Somebody is dieing! And they need your help!' That one thought had him bolting up from his tangled position on the floor and heading for a cold shower at a dead run.
Dashing up the stone steps, partially awake, Chase entered. His dark blonde hair was dishevelled and there were bags under those tired sea coloured eyes, it made him look slightly mad. Luckily the nurses and doctors milling around the reception desk was use to the sight of him popping up looking like some demented killer and didn't restrain him in the psychiatric ward, they nearly did one time. Damn House and his twisted sense of humour. Chase pinched the bridge of his nose and dashed towards the diagonostic conference room, there House was waiting looking grumpy and tired. As Chase watched House popped a small white pill into his mouth, "Well." House said swallowing it whole, "Get your lazy ass down to the ER and help Wilson settle the patient in."
Chase frowned looking utterly confused, "Dr Wilson is helping on this case?"
"Duh." House said, sipping out of his red coffee mug, he made a face, "What the hell is this?" he got up slowly, painfully and dumped it into the sink, "It's a cancer patient who just went down for the count. I told him I'd get you onto this. Now go. Shoo! Leave me be with my misery."
Chase slunk out of the conference room, if he had been a dog, his tail would probably be between his legs. He quickly exchanged his black coat for a light blue labcoat before hurrying down to the ER. He didn't know what to think about working with Wilson, ever since the whole Vogler mess, he had avoided Wilson as much as possible. Him being House's best friend and giving Chase disapproving glances everytime he saw him. Funny how he could be scared by such a little thing, he already felt guilty enough and was still waiting to be fired, but no House had to make him pay for what he had done by making him do grunt work.
A strong wave of antiseptic, urine, feces, and vomit reached his sensitvie nose. After all these years of working in the ICU, the OR, and the ER, you'd think Chase would've gotten use to the smell, but no, everytime he smelled it he just wanted to empty his stomach. He steeled himself and walked on, peeking behind curtains until he finally found Wilson behind one tapping his foot and staring off into space. Chase quietly slipped through and found his way blocked by one of the ER's gurney's, he found his eyes unwillingly drawn to the patient lying on it. The man's eyes were closed and he was hooked up to ventilator, a whistling sound came out everytime the man breathed. Chase immediately knew that that man had lung cancer and the machine was breathing for him. "About time." Wilson said dragging Chase's mind back to the subject at hand.
"Sorry." he smiled fakely, "Got held up."
'In what?' Chase questioned himself, 'In traffic? Yeah, like there would be rush hour at 3 in the morning.'
However Wilson dismissed his lame excuse with a wave of his hand, he picked up the patients chart and flipped through it, "Nigel Holt, 45 years old. His lung cancer got a hold of him once and for all. Both lungs are not functioning properly, his only hope is for someone to replace both his lungs." Wilson looked at Chase over the file, "Are you okay? You look kind of...pale."
Chase just smiled, "It's nothing, I'm fine." he scoffed to himself, 'Yeah right.'
"Anyways." Wilson said looking back down at the file, "We have yet to find the whereabouts of his family. We can't do anything until they get here and this guy is not up to giving his own medical opinion."
"Okay." Chase nodded and sighed gustiliy, "I'll take him down to ICU and settle him in."
"I appreciate this, Chase." Wilson said before leaving the ER in a hurry.
After most doctors were done their rotations in the ER when they were a residents, they would try to avoid it as often or as much as possible. One reason was probably the fact that this was the unsanitized, gory, death room in the whole hospitals. Sometimes the patients just died waiting to be looked at and it was the doctors and nurses job to ship them down to the morgue, although some doctors did prefer the morgue to the ER. Bright lights flashed everywhere, people were always in a hurry, patients just falling over dead. Yeah, Chase could see why most doctors avoided it as much as possible. But he being an intensivist was use to this kind of thing or so he thought.
Chase glanced behind him at the patient, it was better to call the patients 'patient' so you wouldn't be on a personal level on them when they went to a better life, one of the hands resting on the white bed sheet was twitching. Chase leaned closer to exam it and he caught a strong whiff of something that brought him forcefully back to a memory of his childhood, it was not exactly a very pleasant one.
A little boy of maybe only eleven asked to the cold, damp air of the enormous house he had just walked in. His normally pressed school uniform was now soaked due to the torrents of rain dumping itself on the earth. The boy smoothed back a lank of hair that was dangling in front of his face, he let his wet knapsack drop heavily to the floor, his books were probably soaked beyond recognition by now. He trudged forward, leaving watery footprints behind him even though he had already toed off his sopping shoes. Biting his lip he made his way slowly up the stairs and headed down the bare hallway to his mother's room.
He gently pushed the door open, the door hinges squeaked nontheless. Gulping slightly, he peered in. She had once been beautiful, her honey coloured hair had hung in wavy curls instead of lanky clumps down her back. Her perfect pale skin was now crisscrossed with broken blood veins, the little boy had came to know them as the veins of a chronic drinker. Her normally blue eyes were now blurry and bloodshot. One perfect hand, grasped the neck of a bottle. More alcohol.
And the smell, it was absolutely horrid. The bitter, sour stench of alcohol permeated through the room. Under it's cover were the usual stink of vomit, urine, feces and other not so pleasant things. The little boy ran to his mother and shook her, "Mum?"
Fear coursed through his veins, turning them to ice as his mother didn't respond. Desperation filled him as he called his estranged father, the very one who had left him and his mom in this giant dump not a year before. The little boy waited as the phone rang and rang, finally someone picked up, "Dad?"
A purr came through the line, "Sorry honey." a female voice sighed into his ear, "But your father is engaged in...activites that he can't take time from." the sound of laughter came through, "Try again some time later." the line went dead.
Robert just stood there staring at the phone...
Chase wrenched his thoughts back to the present, stuck out his head from behind the curtain and hailed a couple of nurses to help him with getting the patient to ICU.
Three weeks later and the patient wasn't getting better, in fact he got worse day after day. His blood type was so rare that only a couple people in the world had it and they weren't going to die soon for a sick man. Like most people, the patient's lung cancer was self-induced by smoking about 30 cigarettes a day since he was 20. Chase watched his health deteriorate and so did the man's friends. Once Mr Holt had slipped into a coma, his son (who was all the way across seas striking up a business deal) had sent a signed DNR. It nearly killed Chase to stand by and do nothing, Cameron was already badgering him to go against the signed DNR. However signed paperwork was signed paperwork and he was bound to it.
He found himself standing in the corner of the tiny, white hospital room. Glancing anywhere but the clock and the patient, his eyes landed on a fly buzzing lazily on the white ceiling. Chase's only thought were, 'It shouldn't be up there. This is a hospital and this is suppose to be a bug free room.'
Chase's watch ticked loudly in the silence, or was it only him hearing things? The machines had been turned off earlier and now the raspy, choking gasps were all that the patient did that indicated he was still alive. The monitors had been turned off, the anesthesia administered about roughly half an hour ago. Why wasn't the old man dieing? Suddenly, finally the patient's breath hitched and he was choking on his own saliva while desperately still trying to get a breath in. Chase closed his eyes as the man slowly choked to death, finally the terrible noise stopped. Chase cleared his throat, "Time of death." he checked his watch, "4:25 am..."
He bowed his head and left, he leaned against the sliding glass door for a moment, his stomach was in a turmoil and his breath was coming in short, choppy gasps. He finally found his cool, unshakable, doctor exterior and walked on. Although he did make a stop to the men's room and gave up the stale coffee he had ingested earlier in the day, before going and signing the death certificate, that was his duty. He could not stray from it.