Chapter 14: Aftermath I
The conference room at eight AM smells like burnt coffee and competition.
House stands at the whiteboard, marker in hand, looking far too energetic for someone who probably didn't sleep.
"Post-case review. Foreman, start."
Foreman stands, professional as always. "Systematic approach to differential diagnosis. Started with most common causes—epilepsy, tumor, infection. Narrowed based on test results. MRI showed abnormality, guided biopsy location. Bloodwork suggested inflammatory process. Eventually arrived at parasitic infection through evidence gathering."
"Boring but accurate." House looks at Cameron. "Your turn."
Cameron's approach is different. Softer. "Patient care throughout was compassionate. Rebecca was terrified, and we maintained her dignity while investigating aggressively. When we found the diagnosis, we explained it clearly without judgment. She understands her treatment and prognosis."
"Touching. Now the interesting part." House's attention locks onto me. "Chase. Explain your travel deduction."
Everyone's watching. This is a test.
I stand, keep my voice level. "Patient's seizure suggested environmental exposure. When we searched her home, I checked locations where people typically keep mementos—bedroom closet, nightstands. Found travel photos and receipts from Mexico, dated six months prior. Timeline matched the incubation period for neurocysticercosis. Street food consumption in endemic area provided exposure vector."
"You catalogued her entire bedroom in five minutes." House's tone is neutral, but his eyes are calculating. "Every photo location, every receipt, every detail."
"Yes."
"That's not normal."
"I work fast."
"Nobody works that fast without practice or photographic memory. Which is it?"
Trap. Don't overcommit to either answer.
"Pattern recognition. I spent four years in emergency medicine seeing fifty patients per shift. You learn to process visual information quickly or you miss critical details. This was just applying the same skill to a different environment."
House stares at me for a long moment. Then turns to the whiteboard. "Fine. Moving on."
But I know he's not satisfied. That answer bought me time, not resolution.
The debrief continues for another hour. House picks apart our approaches, finds flaws in our reasoning, points out tests we should have ordered sooner. Standard teaching method—break down what happened so we learn for next time.
When it's done, Foreman and Cameron head to their desks. I'm gathering my notes when House speaks again.
"Chase. Stay."
Of course.
I sit back down. House closes the conference room door—never a good sign.
"You're good at this." He leans against the table. "Really good. First major case and you contributed more than most fellows do in their first month."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment. That was an observation." He spins his cane between his fingers. "I hire fellows who are either broken and brilliant, or desperate and teachable. You don't fit either category."
"Maybe I'm just competent."
"Competent doctors don't notice tissue inflammation during surgery that neurosurgeons almost miss. Competent doctors don't read body language well enough to identify specific lies. Competent doctors don't process visual information faster than people with actual eidetic memory."
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral. "What's your point?"
"My point is you're hiding something. I don't know what. But I will figure it out." He stands. "Until then, keep doing good work. Just know I'm watching."
He leaves me in the empty conference room, heart racing, mind spinning.
He knows. Not what, but that there's something.
And House never stops digging.
I escape to the cafeteria at lunch, needing space to think.
The place is packed—nurses, residents, attendings, all grabbing food between crises. I find a table in the corner, pull out my sandwich, and try to decompress.
"Mind if I sit?"
Cameron stands there with a tray, looking uncertain. Like she's not sure if the invitation will be welcome.
"Go ahead."
She sits across from me, arranges her salad and water with careful precision. We eat in silence for a minute. Then:
"You're not what I expected." Her voice is quiet. Almost hesitant.
"What did you expect?"
"House hires broken people or sycophants. People who are desperate to prove themselves or hiding from something." She looks up. "You seem... neither?"
I take a bite of sandwich, buying time to formulate an answer. "Give it time. Maybe I'm just better at hiding it."
"Are you? Broken, I mean."
Careful. She's testing. Looking for damage she can fix.
"Everyone's broken in some way. I've just had time to tape the pieces back together." I meet her eyes. "What about you? Why are you here?"
She hesitates. "I want to learn from the best. House is brilliant, even if he's difficult."
No ringing. Truth, mostly. But there's something else underneath—something she's not saying.
"That's the public answer," I say gently. "What's the real one?"
She sets down her fork. Studies me like she's trying to decide if I'm safe to talk to.
"I was married. He died. Cancer." Her voice is flat, clinical. Covering pain. "I became an immunologist because I couldn't save him. Thought if I understood the immune system better, I could help others. Then I found House. Thought maybe he could teach me to think differently. See things I'm missing."
"That's a good reason."
"Is it? Or am I just trying to fix broken things because I couldn't fix him?"
There it is. Her attraction to damage. To broken people who need saving.
"I don't think you're trying to fix broken things." I lean back. "I think you're trying to understand why things break. That's different."
She blinks. Like that distinction never occurred to her. "Maybe."
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. Then she asks, "Do you ever miss Australia?"
"Sometimes. The weather. The beaches. The way people talk." All true for original Chase. "But I needed to leave. Wanted something different from what was expected."
"Your father's a surgeon, right? House mentioned that."
"Was. He's dead now." The words come easier than they should. Chase's memories making them real. "We weren't close. He wanted me to be like him. I wanted to be anything else."
Cameron's expression softens. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was complicated, but it's over." I finish my sandwich. "What about your family?"
"Small. Quiet. They didn't understand why I married someone so sick, or why I went into medicine after." She picks at her salad. "They wanted me to move on. Be normal. I wanted to understand."
"Understanding isn't the same as closure."
"No. But maybe it's enough."
We talk for another twenty minutes. About medicine, about why we chose this impossible profession, about the weight of watching people suffer. It's easy. Natural. Like talking to someone who actually gets it.
When lunch ends, Cameron gathers her tray. "This was nice. We should do it again sometime."
"I'd like that."
She smiles—genuine, warm—and leaves. I watch her go, processing the interaction.
She's interested. Not romantically yet, but professionally. Personally. Actually seeing me as a person instead of just another colleague.
Progress. But also complexity. She's drawn to broken things, and I need to prove I'm not broken enough to be a project.
I head back to diagnostics, mind still turning over the day's events.
House is suspicious and actively investigating. Cameron is starting to notice me. Foreman's building professional respect. Wilson's warned me twice about House's destructive curiosity.
First case is done, but the real challenge is just beginning.
That evening, I'm packing up to leave when Wilson appears in the doorway.
"Got a minute?"
"Sure." I set down my bag.
He comes in, closes the door. "House's office. He was talking about you."
My stomach drops. "What'd he say?"
"That you're 'wrong.' His word, not mine." Wilson leans against the wall. "Said your answers are right but your methods don't make sense. That you observe things you shouldn't have time to notice. Either photographic memory or something else."
"What do you think?"
Wilson shrugs. "I think House sees patterns everywhere, even when there aren't any. But I also think he's usually right eventually." He meets my eyes. "Are you hiding something?"
Everyone's asking variations of this question today.
"Everyone hides something. That's what House says."
"True. But there's hiding normal things—embarrassing past, family drama, personal failures—and hiding things that matter. House is trying to figure out which category you fall into."
"And if he decides it matters?"
"Then he'll dig until he finds it. And what he finds either destroys you or makes you stronger." Wilson pushes off the wall. "Just be careful. House is brilliant, but he's also vindictive. If you're hiding something that could hurt the team, he won't forgive it."
He leaves, and I'm alone in the darkening office.
Three warnings in one day. Three different people telling me House is coming.
And I can't tell any of them the truth.
I grab my bag and head to the parking lot. The November air is cold, sharp. Princeton is lit up with streetlights and distant traffic.
Somewhere in this town, Gregory House is probably popping Vicodin and thinking about me. Trying to solve the puzzle of why I don't quite fit.
And I'm driving home, knowing that every day I work here, every case I contribute to, every time I do something even slightly unusual, I'm adding fuel to his investigation.
First case complete. Patient saved. Team functional.
But House is suspicious. Cameron's interested. Wilson's concerned.
Balance required. Between competence and impossibility. Between helping and hiding.
Can I maintain it?
Have to. No other choice.
I pull into my apartment complex, park, sit in the car for a long moment.
Tomorrow brings new cases. New chances to help or expose myself. New tests from House.
But tonight, I'm just tired.
The transmigrator pretending to be Robert Chase, pretending to be a normal doctor, pretending everything is under control.
One case down. The rest of my life to go.
Hope I'm good enough.
I grab my bag and head inside, already planning tomorrow's survival strategy.
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