The answer didn't present itself until mid-November, when Cameron dumped his morning deliveries onto his desk. It wasn't until he realized she was still standing there that he looked up. She was glaring at him.
"I thought you two had stopped this stupid game," she said, and turned on her heel. He watched her go and let his gaze drift down to the stack of mail.
There was a postcard on top.
He looked at it for a long moment, feeling an odd apprehension in his throat. He reached for it, slowly, and picked it up.
Whitewashed houses on a terraced mountainside, leading down to an impossibly blue ocean. Even though he knew it was just a photograph on a flat piece of cardboard, a sense of utter peace permeated the scene. Something stirred in his chest, and he turned the card over.
The familiar handwriting, still the messy scrawl wandering over the surface of the card. No salutation this time.
House persuaded Cuddy to give us both time off (told her my conference trip too stressful); came to Santorini so he can practice Greek. That's MY House, of course. Don't know how any of this happened & don't pretend to understand. All I can say is you seem an awful lot like my House, so I'll end this with ... Love, Wilson.
House looked at the stamp in the upper right corner. A ship with eyes, sailing over a tranquil sea. The Argos, off to discover new worlds, new adventures.
He found himself having to rub his own eyes, warding off a sudden moisture. Allergies ... hay fever acting up again. Reaching for his cane, he pulled himself out of his chair and headed for the office next door, shouting "Hey! Wilson! You'll never guess what I just got!"
And that should have been the end. But it wasn't.
The long Thanksgiving weekend had arrived, and House was leaving early. Wilson had promised to cook a real Thanksgiving dinner if House supplied the ingredients, and he wanted to get a head start at the store.
Chase had brought the mail that day, and House simply swept it into his backpack to look at later. With Wilson's grocery list and cane in one hand and his motorcycle helmet in the other, he was out the door before any new patients could distract him.
The store was busy but manageable; he'd left early enough to miss the real beginning of the holiday rush. At the checkout, the stockboy carefully packed the groceries into a sturdy cardboard box; he followed a limping House out to the bike in the "handicapped" parking spot and tied it securely to the back of the seat.
At home he carried the box into the kitchen, balancing it on one hip. It was heavy; he grunted with the effort, and when he finally set it on the kitchen table, his suddenly freed left arm seemed to float up of its own accord. He put the cold items in the refrigerator -- a small fresh turkey, a bag of fresh cranberries for sauce, a few six-packs of beer. The last hadn't actually been on the list, but House figured it was meant to be. Deciding laziness was the better part of teasing Wilson, he left the rest of the items on the kitchen counter; if Wilson bitched, he'd tell him that if he was going to cook he'd need them close by.
Suddenly tired from the excursion, he limped back into the den and sat down on the sofa. Leaning forward to unkink the muscles in his lower back, he dry-swallowed a Vicodin and reached for his backpack, emptying the day's mail onto the coffeetable.
Junk mail, medical journals, a bank statement, National Geographic, a cellphone bill ... a postcard. It landed, photo-side up, on top of the new issue of The Lancet, and House stared at it, hypnotized.
He recognized the photograph immediately. It was Princeton University.
For a long time, he simply sat, gazing into space as the room slowly darkened and the shadows gathered. It was dusk before he finally leaned forward and picked up the postcard, and even then, he waited before turning it over.
Handwriting, in bold black strokes across the back of the card. His handwriting.
He took a deep breath and began to read.
Dr. House, I presume! Or should I say: myself, I presume! Couldn't find Einstein stamp so Twilight Zone guy will do. More appropriate anyway, hope you know who he is. Hell, hope you know who Einstein is. Doesn't matter because I don't know how this works or if this will reach you. Wish we could meet but universe(s) wd probably explode. Anyway, thanks. For everything. House.
P.S. Take care of your Wilson. They're one-of-a-kind.
House held the postcard in his hand, gently touching one finger to the stamp. Rod Serling was looking away to one side, as if seeing something in the distance. The postmark appeared odd, and he brought the card closer to his eyes. It took him a moment to notice the difference -- "Princeton, NN," instead of "Princeton, NJ." He glanced at the photo description; it was bilingual, the English sentences followed by a Dutch translation. Chartered in 1746 as the College of New Netherlands, Princeton simultaneously strives to be one of the leading research universities --
He stopped reading, and sat for a moment longer. At last he rose, still holding the card, and limped slowly into his bedroom. Lowering himself painfully to the floor, he used his cane to pull his old wooden chest out from under the bed. He brushed the dust off the lid and opened it, barely glancing at the contents. He laid the last postcard inside, on top of the others, and closed it again, shoving the box back under the bed.
On the way back into the den, he paused for a second, certain he had seen someone sitting at his piano, but it was only the shadows in the corner.
He turned on the lights and sat back down on the sofa, looking at his watch. 6:45. Wilson would be here soon. He settled back to wait for his friend.
The End