Chapter 25: Case 3 - Clarity
Day 42. Professor Hayes remembers my name.
It's a small thing—greeting me in the hallway with "Good morning, Dr. Chase" instead of the vague nod he'd been giving everyone. But it's the first concrete sign that the chelation therapy is working.
"How are you feeling?" I check his chart—copper levels dropping steadily, liver enzymes improving.
"Like fog is lifting." He taps his temple. "I remembered the quadratic formula this morning. Haven't thought about basic algebra in thirty years, but there it was. Just... there."
Linda's with him, looking ten years younger than she did three days ago. Hope does that to people.
"The cognitive improvements should continue as the copper clears your system. It won't be linear—some days better than others—but the trend should be positive."
"When can I go back to teaching?"
"Let's focus on recovery first. But..." I review his labs again. "If this continues, maybe a month or two. Light schedule at first."
He grins. Actually grins. "I have lecture notes to rewrite. Can't teach quantum mechanics with notes that say 'remember to explain Schrödinger' without actually explaining Schrödinger."
I leave them planning his return to academia, documenting his progress in the chart. Three days of treatment, measurable improvement. The case is resolving exactly as predicted.
Copper toxicity. Treatable. Reversible.
Another life saved through systematic investigation and ethical persuasion.
Day 43. Professor Hayes recognizes a colleague who visits.
The colleague—another physics professor, Dr. Chen—looks shocked when Hayes launches into a technical discussion about some research paper. They talk for twenty minutes about quantum entanglement or superposition or something equally incomprehensible to me.
Dr. Chen leaves looking dazed. "Three weeks ago, Martin couldn't remember his own office number. Now he's critiquing my methodology."
"The brain is remarkably resilient when you remove the thing poisoning it," I say.
House appears from nowhere, trademark limp and cynicism. "Touching reunion. Very Hallmark. How's our self-poisoning professor?"
"Improving rapidly. Memory returning, executive function stabilizing, personality baseline restoring."
"So Chase was right. Again." House says it like an accusation. "That's three for three. Starting to seem less like luck and more like something else."
Here we go.
"It's pattern recognition combined with thorough investigation. You know, the job you hired me to do."
"I hired you to follow orders and look pretty doing it. You've exceeded expectations. That's suspicious."
"Or it's called being good at medicine."
House stares at me, calculating. Then he limps away without another word.
He's building his case. Piece by piece.
Day 45. Professor Hayes asks to see me specifically.
I find him in his room, dressed in actual clothes instead of a hospital gown, sitting in the chair by the window reading a journal article.
"Dr. Chase. Thank you for coming."
"How can I help?"
He sets the journal aside. "I wanted to ask you something. That first day, when I told House I'd accepted my diagnosis. You said I was lying. How did you know?"
Because the lie detection told me. Because I hear every deliberate falsehood like a bell in my skull.
"Body language. Micro-expressions. The way you gripped your wife's hand when you said 'acceptance.' The trembling in your voice that didn't match the calm in your words." I sit in the chair across from him. "People who've genuinely accepted death have a different quality. Peaceful. Resolved. You were performing acceptance while drowning in terror."
"I was terrified," he admits. "Thought I was going the same way as my father. Alzheimer's destroyed him over seven years. By the end, he didn't know who I was, couldn't feed himself, couldn't... exist as a person anymore." He pauses. "I told myself I'd rather die than live like that. Convinced myself it was dignity and choice. But really, I was just scared."
"Fear of losing yourself is rational. Using that fear to make medical decisions while pretending it's philosophical acceptance—that's where it becomes a problem."
"You saw through it immediately. Called me on it." He smiles. "You're a scientist who researches everything. Why would you accept decline without exhausting every option?" That's what you said. And you were right. I was fighting—just the wrong battle."
"Now you're fighting the right one. And winning."
"Because you found those supplements. Recognized the pattern. Convinced me to consent to treatment." He extends his hand. "Thank you. For not letting me give up on the wrong diagnosis."
I shake his hand. "Just doing my job."
"No. You did more than that. You saw me. Not just the symptoms, but the person underneath." He releases my hand. "That's rare in medicine. Don't lose it."
I won't. Can't afford to.
Discharge day comes on Day 46.
The team assembles to review the case—final labs, discharge instructions, follow-up protocol. Professor Hayes is going home with ongoing chelation therapy, monthly monitoring, strict supplement restrictions, and a dietitian-designed meal plan.
House presents the case resolution with his usual theatrical flair. "Patient presented with presumed Alzheimer's. Team correctly identified copper toxicity through environmental investigation—" He points at me. "—Chase found the supplements, recognized the overdose pattern, connected timeline to symptom onset. Treatment with chelation therapy resulted in rapid cognitive improvement. Patient discharged with full expected recovery."
Professor Hayes and Linda are there for the final consultation. He shakes everyone's hand, thanks the team collectively.
Then he turns to me. "Dr. Chase found the answer. The rest of you ran the tests and confirmed it. But he's the one who actually saved me."
"Team effort," I deflect. "House ordered the investigation. Cameron helped search the office. Foreman confirmed the labs. Everyone contributed."
House snorts. "Chase found your poison cabinet. I just ran the tests and took credit. That's how medicine works."
Cameron's watching the interaction. I can feel her gaze, assessing, measuring something.
Linda hugs me—unexpected and fierce. "Thank you for giving me my husband back."
Then they're gone, walking out of the hospital with hope instead of despair.
The team disperses. House to his office. Foreman to another case. I'm documenting discharge notes when Cameron approaches.
"Break room. Five minutes."
Here it comes.
The break room is empty at 2 PM. Coffee stale, vending machine humming, fluorescent lights buzzing with institutional ambivalence.
Cameron pours two cups of the terrible coffee, hands me one.
"You see things others don't," she says without preamble.
"Everyone sees. Most don't look—or don't want to admit what they're seeing."
"No. This is different. House sees through cynicism and cruelty. He assumes everyone's lying and works backward from there. You..." She pauses, searching for words. "You observe. You pay attention to what people are actually saying, doing, hiding. And you do it with compassion instead of judgment."
"Just seems like basic human decency."
"It's not. It's rare. Especially in this field." She sets her coffee down, meets my eyes. "That coffee we had last week. Would you want to do that again?"
The question hangs in the air. No professional pretense this time. No "debriefing the case" excuse.
This is personal. Intentional.
"I'd like that," I say. Measured. Honest.
"Friday? After shift?"
"Friday works."
She smiles. "Good."
Then she leaves, taking her terrible coffee with her.
I sit alone in the break room, staring at my own terrible coffee, processing what just happened.
Cameron asked me out. Again. More directly.
The relationship is progressing. Authentically.
Which means more to lose if everything collapses.
The headache pulses behind my eyes—lie detection active all day, every small deception from patients and staff adding up.
But the pain feels distant. Secondary.
Friday. Coffee. Cameron.
One thing going right in the chaos.
House's office has a window overlooking the lobby.
I don't notice him watching until I'm leaving the break room and catch his silhouette against the glass. He's standing there, cane in hand, staring down at where Cameron and I just were.
Wilson's with him. Even from this distance, I can see them talking.
Great. House is analyzing this now too.
I head to the clinic, push the interaction out of my mind, focus on the work.
Twenty patients in four hours. Sore throat, sprained ankle, medication refill, pregnancy scare, actual pregnancy, suspicious mole, anxiety attack masquerading as heart attack, heart attack masquerading as anxiety attack.
Every lie triggers the ringing. Every deception, every white lie, every patient minimizing symptoms or exaggerating pain.
By the end of the shift, my head feels like it's splitting open.
But the patients are helped. The diagnoses are accurate. The work is done.
The price of truth. Always the price.
I clock out, head home, document the day in my coded notebook.
Case 3: Professor Hayes - RESOLVED
Copper toxicity from self-medication. Systematic environmental investigation led to supplement discovery. Ethical intervention convinced patient to consent. Treatment successful, full recovery expected.
Contribution: Environmental deduction + lie detection for patient persuasion.
Relationship Status: Cameron - ADVANCING
Second coffee scheduled. Direct invitation, personal intent clear. Building foundation for actual relationship, not professional mentorship or casual friendship.
House Status: ESCALATING THREAT
Three successful cases attracting intense scrutiny. House building evidence file. Needs to appear more fallible without actually failing patients.
Current Challenge: Balance.
Stay brilliant enough to be valuable. Stay mysterious enough to be interesting. Stay human enough to be believable.
Walking the knife's edge.
Tomorrow brings new tests. New pressure. New chances to slip.
Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
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