Legends say that as long as the ravens hold vigil at the Tower, the Crown and therefore England will stand. Some attribute the legend to the time of Charles II, others to Victorian fancy but it doesn't matter when the legend originated. The ravens remain. Pampered as long as they behave properly; Brigantia has been at the Tower longer than any other raven. Truth be told, Brigantia has been around longer than the Tower and much longer than London.

Perching on top of a cautionary sign at the edge of the lawn, she contemplates the never-ending parade of tourists. Boredom has her pecking at the sign, "Caution Ravens May Bite". She's not in a good mood, the day has been dreadful. Some woman had cooed at her in a voice reserved for small children and moronic canines, a particularly evil child had attempted to pluck one of her tail feathers and then there was the matter of the Yeoman.

Eying the Yeoman Warders with an air of hostility, she launches herself into the air and flutters to the lawn. The Yeomen were planning to clip the flight feathers on her left wing in order to keep her at the Tower and that simply would not do. The oldest raven at the Tower, the one that had always been there, had plans.

oOoOoOo

Molly Hooper is exhausted. On the surface, it wouldn't look like there would be much pressure associated with being a pathologist. Things are static for the most part; the job lacks an immediacy, an urgency that other medical professionals have to face day in and day out. The dead make no demands.

The dead may not but Scotland Yard and relatives certainly do. Governmental cuts had removed two of her interns; she was drowning in paperwork and there was no end of it in sight.

Shrugging out of her lab coat, she struggled into her thick wool pea coat and shuffled out of the morgue. Fatigue dogged her steps and she shivered as she was enveloped in the cool evening air. Tired as she was, she failed to hear the sounds of wings above her. She scarcely noticed the impact as those same wings drove her to the ground. The last thing she was aware of was the gleam of a raven's eye.

Molly sat bolt upright, one hand reaching up to touch her head as the other did a random sweep over her body as if preparing to catalog injuries. As her hands swept over her torso; she noted, to her shock, that she was lying prone on her bed. She blinked furiously, she had no idea how she'd gotten home. There was no sense at all that any time had passed between when she'd been struck and when she'd awoken. Fingers flitted across her brow tentatively as she searched for signs of head trauma.

A sound, very much like the fluttering of wings, drew her attention to the battered Queen Anne chair that served as a catch-all for clothing and books. "My apologies," she heard a hoarse feminine voice say, "That was my doing."

Molly scrambled back against the headboard, fumbling for the lamp. With a click, the room was flooded with light and the woman in the chair flinched away from it. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my flat?" Molly squeaked.

Blue eyes, so pale that they almost seemed white, stared at her for a moment before the petite woman in the chair laughed. It was a harsh bark of laughter and when those eyes focused on Molly again, there was a fierce cunning in them. "I'm in your flat because I returned you here," the woman said with a smile. "I could hardly leave you lying on the pavement, could I? As for me, that's complicated."

"You expect me to believe you carried me here?"

"Carry, no. Suffice that I brought you home, after a fashion," her head chalked to the side, as if listening for something or someone, "I wish we had time to chat, truly I do. There's much about you that I like, Molly Hooper. I've always had an admiration for a woman who's willing to embrace the messy bits in life." She paused, glancing out the window and staring down at the street. A small dainty hand made a casual gesture of disdain, "I require your assistance. I suspect one of my keepers will be here soon, so I'll be brief."

Afterwards, Molly would say that the woman stood but the reality was she flowed from the seat and there was no visible transition between woman and raven. For the first time in her life, Molly Hooper found herself feeling faint. "We've no time for that!" she heard that hoarse voice croak and there was a sharp sudden pain between her eyes.

Seated on the bed as if it was a throne and she belonged on it, the raven studied Molly for a moment, "There are limits on what I can do and reasons for it that I have no time to go into. Those limits force me to act through people. Some are quite ordinary and others are extraordinary. You are one of my people, Molly."

"I'm a pathologist."

The raven nodded, pale eyes focused with pinpoint accuracy on her face, "Yes, as I said 'messy bits'." She stood, moved to the end of the bed, "I can move the world with a long enough lever. I need one simple thing of you."

"What is it?"

If a raven could be said to laugh, this one did as it hopped across the bed to the window, "When he asks you for the eyeballs, say yes."

Notes: I have no idea if I'm going to continue this, this was an oddity that struck during my work day.