Thanks to Arty Diane for suggesting I continue this story. In my usual fashion the first chapter will be the longest, the rest will be infuriatingly short. :)


The administrative building for St. Bart's hospital was located in the heart of the city; a goodly distance away from St. Bart's itself. It took some finding to locate, but eventually it revealed itself to be an inconspicuously large and dull building squeezed in-between a similarly uninteresting law office and a coffee house with startling red bricks; a vibrant dwarf among giants.

John Watson craned his neck upwards and gaped at the incredible height of the massive gray monument to health sciences. The tip of the building disappeared into the clouds which hung out of the sky like a great fat belly, and occasionally spattered small, annoying driblets of rain down upon the faces unassuming Londoners, such as the unassuming Londoner who happened to be foolishly looking up when the cloud happened to drop its load. John blinked and sputtered as a slight rivulet of rain ran up his nose. He dropped his head and shook his face, sending the water on its way into his collar, and the rest of it he wiped off with his hand, which he wiped off on his pants.

Sherlock Holmes glanced once up and down the length of the building and sneered. The height was fine, and he wouldn't have minded getting to stretch his nervous, itchy wings, but the wet, pregnant clouds would get his coat damp. If his coat got damp, he would need to dry it before it began to smell like mildew, which would be a hassle.

Oh, and also, flying during daylight hours was still illegal. Which was a real pain since the person they had come to see was on the top floor, a two minute flight, or a fifteen minute queue by elevator.

He snarled briefly at John about the state of the weather and the world, and then angrily stalked into the building, ensuring anyone around knew solely by his body language he was far from pleased to be there. His wings entombed his head in a great downy tent, which kept his hair and shoulders perfectly dry as he crossed the street in great, grumpy strides. John scampered after.

Once inside Sherlock took great personal relish in shaking out his great feathery wings as a dog might, making them tremble marvelously quickly and vibrating the droplets to the surface, where they were shaken off the silken feathers with a few quick jerks, and splattered all over John and one unfortunate man in a black hat who happened to be walking in just after them, his umbrella already folded under his arm.

"Excuse me!" He said angrily, glaring from the winged man to John, as though he was unsure whether or not John was just an innocent bystander, or another victim. He finally gave John a look that said: control your friend, to which John shrugged, as if to say: If only I could.

The man made to storm away into the offices, but slipped on the slickened tile floors and staggered, devoid of his frustrated dignity, away. His shoes made faint squealing noises as he stepped.

The interior of the building was much, much cheerier than the exterior. It emitted a warm, cheery glow form the dull orange lanterns that seemed to be wielded into the wall and bounced merrily off of gilded fixtures. Lush, fertile plants sat contentedly in heavy clay pots and waved their leaves happily as people bustled by. In fact, the only thing that seemed less than hospitable was the people. Every person who passed through the room in the thirty seconds or so it took them to look around and dry off seemed haggard, half-starved, gaunt and most importantly, rushed. Their wan, pale faces seemed haunted, their footsteps stalked. It was as though the fear of death was baring down on their backs, and it was all they could manage to hold on to their leather bound portfolios and keep from breaking out into a dead run.

Only the receptionist seemed to be in tuned with the environment, so much so she seemed part of the fixtures. She seemed to glow just as brightly as the strange lights nestled in her shiny leather chair behind the great, towering stone wall which was her desk, twiddling absently with the petals of a silk flower that sat dully on her desk. She swiveled in her plush chair, talking on the phone animatedly with someone, smiling every few seconds as though the person on the other line could see her. She looked up, mouthed 'hold on' and stopped smiling.

"Sirs?" She waved at Sherlock and John frustrated "Could you please dry off before entering the lobby?"

"No need, all dry," Sherlock said with a small smile, carefully stepping over the sheen left by his puddle and flicking his wings pointedly, sending stray raindrops flying in almost every direction. John blinked away the liquid projectiles, which invariably landed almost entirely on him and followed his friend into the elevator, where he mashed the correct button quickly before anybody could join them.

"Why must you always do this?" John complained wiping his friend's cast-offs from his face with a great sweep of his hand.

"Apologies, I'll remember to warn you next time." Sherlock said, the corners of his lips still twitching upwards.

John smiled darkly. "No you won't."

Sherlock shrugged.