The power of suggestion was a deadly thing. After his
infuriating conversation with House, Chase had spent the afternoon almost doubled over with a crippling stomach ache, sweating and he was
sure he could feel his skin falling off and hair falling out. The mere thought something might be wrong with him was almost enough to make him wet his pants. If it wasn't for the fact House was such an arsehole, he probably would've stormed right over there and demanded the results. But he didn't want to give House that satisfaction. At least, he tried hard not to. It was eating him up and while he became more and more convinced he was dying and more sure weird symptoms were exhibiting throughout his body, he made a concerted effort to continue working as if nothing was wrong.
He'd found out that House had apparently stolen a vial of his blood (likely when he'd been sick and sleeping that day at his apartment) when a collegue in pathology asked if he was feeling okay. After giving the guy a completely strange look, Chase soon gleaned the doctor had seen Chase's blood path in the lab and concluded the Aussie was sick. Despite fierce interrogation, the guy admitted he had no results, only the blood test order slip from House. That was when Chase, stuck in the OR about to scrub up for a surgery, had gone online to abuse House.
It hadn't worked and now Chase had just about reached the end of his tether. He hadn't made it through the surgery when he nearly passed out in the heat of the lights. Fucking House.
He burst into his ex-boss' office and stormed over to the desk, practically throwing a clipboard in House's direction. "I'm not signing it!" he snapped. "I'm not sick and I'm not dying and you can kiss my arse!"
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