Intervention

"And sometimes, for some people, knowing some things makes them care." —House to Chase, 1:13, "Cursed."

A couple of days after Aneurism Guy and his son are discharged and House has had time to mull over his personal issues, he decides that while somewhat effective, shoving Chase into that ICU room wasn't the best thing he could possibly have done.

He needs help. He needs the kind of help House can't give him, intensive-therapy kind of help, but after watching him mainline coffee, show every sign of PTSD combined with Catholic guilt and insist he was fine …

House has said that enough to recognize the warning signal.

Kutner's image is too clear in House's head, and his suicide still cuts like personal failure: Nolan would tell him otherwise, but he should have noticed, should have been able to do something before whatever pain put a gun at the younger man's temple got so bad that he had to pull the trigger.

He failed to intervene then. He's not failing now.

He pulls out his cell, punches in Cameron and Chase's shared number. Chase picks up, meaning Cameron probably isn't at home and he won't need to fabricate explanations.

"House?"

"Yeah. Cameron out for a while?"

"Probably." His voice is rough, though it's a tossup whether that's emotion or lack of sleep. Smart money's on both. "You need something?"

"No. But you do." He levers himself off the couch, moves to the closet for his coat, shoves Nolan's card into one pocket and grabs the car keys. "I'll be at your door in about ten minutes."

He makes it in seven.

When Chase answers the door, House makes a quick assessment: he's gotten out of pajamas and into clothes and probably showered yesterday, but his hair is a mess and he's more unshaven than usual.

Personal grooming is near the top of the casualty list when misery and self-loathing set in.

"You don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do. Move." Chase steps aside, and House enters and makes himself at home on the couch. Pats the place beside him. "Sit."

Chase is too tired to argue and drops onto the cushions. Starts to say, "I'm fi—"

"If you're going to lie, at least don't lie badly," House says. "Four years working for me and that's the best you can do?" He tsks, affects a disappointed look. "I taught you better than that."

"Okay then. I'm not fine." There's an intense edge under the resignation, almost anger. "So what? Going to tell me it's all misplaced Catholic guilt and I should get over it?"

"No." He's quiet for a moment, considering what to say; then he meets Chase's gaze. "You're in pain. And having noticed that, I'd rather scrape some rust off my interpersonal skills than ignore it until you do something extremely stupid."

Chase looks away one second too soon.

"Perfect," House mutters. Then, prompting, "Extremely stupid like…?" When he doesn't get an answer right away, he says, "Whatever you did, good chance I've done it or worse. I wasn't mad you killed the guy; you think I'm going to point fingers because you're being self-destructive?"

"No," Chase says at last. "You hate hypocrisy." Staring down at his lap, he says, "I gave confession."

One thing he does have to give the church: the Seal of the Confessional comes in very handy for the penitent in this kind of situation. "I'm guessing that didn't go so well." The priest would probably have made absolution conditional on a confession to the police, and fortunately, Chase isn't far gone enough to want to throw his life away.

"No." A long pause, then, "And then I went and got completely plastered."

"Which was great until it wore off and you wanted to vomit your intestines?"

Chase nods.

"You knew that wasn't going to help," House says. "What, you thought reenacting some childhood trauma would go nicely with the rest of your self-flagellation?"

No answer. House sighs, says, "You don't need absolution. Feel guilty, get therapy, get some perspective and pull yourself together. Don't destroy your life just because an evil man is dead." He meets Chase's gaze. "There are two million people in Africa who would thank you on their knees: in terms of lives saved, you are way, way in the black."

"The numbers don't make what I did less wrong."

"Actually, they kind of do." A pause. "You were doomed to feel like crap no matter what you did. If it hadn't been 'I killed a man' it would have been 'I cured a man who's slaughtering millions of innocent people.'"

"I know."

"You did the right thing." He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out Nolan's card. "Don't tell him I said so, but this guy is helpful. Although you might want to keep some details as hypotheticals."

Chase takes the card, closes his hand around it. "Thanks."

House nods. Debates with himself and finally says, "If you won't get therapy and you need help…" He shrugs. "I get guilt and misery really well by now."

For a moment Chase looks conflicted; then he draws a shuddering breath, moves closer and wraps his arms around House's torso. House lets him hold on for a couple of seconds, then pats one of his shoulders and disentangles himself. Stands.

"Get help, Chase," he says as he heads for the door. "There's a limit to how much this is worth suffering over."

END.