Not caring at all how it looked, House threw open the door to Wilson's office and stalked in. The door swung back, slamming hard against the wall, and the office's occupant flinched in his chair, startled.

"Care to explain?" House asked grimly.

"I ... what? Explain what?"

"You know what," House snarled, and tossed three postcards onto Wilson's desk. "Three weeks ago, you said this must be some elaborate joke. I'll ask now: what kind of joke is this? Because whatever it is, it's not funny anymore."

Wilson put down his pen and leaned back, eying House warily. He picked up the cards and glanced at each one, then started inspecting them in earnest.

He'd seen the first one, from South Africa, so he discarded it immediately. He read the second, from Spain, and his eyebrows rose. Then he looked at the third, and his mouth fell open.

An exterior photo of ancient stone walls. A printed identification across the top of the card. The Great Charles University, Prague. Blue sky. Students and tourists milling about in the university square. He turned the postcard over. More printing, a description in tourist-speak. Since 1348, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV -- Wilson stopped reading. A Czech stamp, with a pair of odd-looking ... fox? cubs. He glanced up at House. Blue eyes glared into his. Wilson looked back down at the card.

Blue ink from a gel-tip pen -- the type he favored. What appeared to be his own handwriting, looping across the left side of the card. He read the message, a feeling of deep dread and trepidation growing as he did so.

House -- Prague is amazing! Went to Josefov (old Jewish Quarter) yesterday and thought I saw my grandmother, but it turned out to be the Golem. Still wishing you were with me. Why won't you answer my calls? Love, Wilson.

With hands that shook only slightly, he checked the postmarks of all three cards. Six weeks, five weeks ... three weeks.

He carefully put the cards back down on the desktop and leaned back in his chair.

"There ... must be some explanation," he said.

"The explanation is that this joke has gone far enough," House said. "How'd you manage it? You have friends in these countries? Professional colleagues? People willing to go along? Don't get me wrong -- this is original and interesting on some level, but it's old now. So how'd you do it? I really want to know." The last words were spoken in House's own trademark sarcasm, made all the more biting by its soft tone.

Wilson's head was spinning as he stared at the three cards. The truth was the only option. He looked at House, and the honesty and hurt in his dark eyes was obvious.

"If this is a joke," he said, his voice low and intense, "it's not mine."

House just looked at him. He gathered up the cards with one rough sweep of his hand, then eased himself up out of the chair and limped out.

Back in his own office, House started to throw the postcards in the wastebasket. He hesitated. Why was he pissed off? Was it because he couldn't solve this puzzle without Wilson, and Wilson wasn't playing? Was it because this joke topped every possible stunt he himself had ever pulled in his entire life? Was it because every card ended with "Love, --"?

Stop, he thought. Don't go there. He sighed, and instead of throwing the cards away, slipped them into a file folder. He'd think about this later. Later was good.

And that was where matters stood until the next week, when the fourth postcard put everything in a strange new light, and raised many more questions than it answered.

tbc