While Gregory House was a suspicious man by nature, he had never been a superstitious man. No avoiding black cats, no giving a wide berth to ladders, no lucky pennies or rabbit's feet. Those were crutches, canes for minds less logical than his. He already had a cane; there was no need for another.
Until now. A fourth postcard lay on his desk, daring him to turn it over and read whatever scribbles were on the other side. Cameron had given him a particularly odd look this time as she had brought in the afternoon mail.
The front of the card showed the Brandenburg Gate; House recognized it immediately. He'd seen it often enough as a military brat in West Berlin. "Herzlich wilkommen in Deutschland!" was the logo above it in black, red, and gold. Yeah, you bet, House thought, springtime for Hitler and all that.
He found himself hesitant to flip the card. Wilson had sworn he didn't know what was going on -- the problem was, he had trouble reading Wilson. His friend had lied to him before, straight-faced and with those brown eyes overflowing with sincerity -- and he hadn't been able to tell.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the card over and quickly scanned the familiar handwriting.
"Shit," he breathed.
Wilson stared at the card, holding it carefully by one corner as if afraid it might bite him.
"You talked to Cameron?"
House nodded. "She thought I was crazy, but what else is new? She doesn't know anything about it -- says she's never spoken to you long distance, much less from Germany."
"Well, she hasn't," Wilson mumbled, and read the scrawled writing on the card for the third time.
House -- Berlin is beautiful but full of ghosts. Many still wearing dosimeters -- they pinned one on me at airport. What's with blocking my email address? Cameron said you're throwing things. Told you I was sorry -- we were drunk & thought I saw something I guess wasn't there. Please don't shut me out. Love, Wilson.
He dropped the card on his desk.
"Heisenberg," he said.
House looked up from where he'd been lightly tapping his cane on the floor. "What?"
Wilson waved his hand at the card. "The stamp. It's Werner Heisenberg."
"Very funny, Wilson," House muttered.
Wilson leaned back in his chair. "House, I've said, it's --"
"Not you. I know." House's gaze was fixed on the card. He picked it back up. "I believe you." Ignoring Wilson's look of relief, he stretched his legs and leaned back in his own chair. "Involving Cameron like this is a non sequitur -- it makes no sense unless this is a real exchange, a real postcard."
The office was silent, the only noise the ambient hum of the hospital corridor outside the closed door.
"And if this is a real postcard, that leaves us with ..." He paused for a long moment, then shook his head. Wilson looked at him, questioning.
"A differential that seems -- impossible." House stood and left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
tbc
