The doors swung open, like the curtain before a play and the performance began.
People swung in and out of offices carrying bundles of papers, boxes of papers and occasionally small computers. Four rows of desks stood at formidable attention, placidly standing up to the ebb and flow of people chattering, running and flinging papers from one station to the next. At each desk someone typed furiously away at the old, bulky computers that had been donated to the school towards the dawn of the computer age and never upgraded. The poor typists had to shovel aside the mountains of paper that continuously buried the papers they were working on.
In all, the administrations building of St. Bart's looked more like a stock exchange than any part of a hospital.
In the center of the disaster, a man bounced from desk to desk, dancing his way past people rushing to get from point A to point B, occasionally taking someone by the arm and whispering commands in their ear and then parting in a hurry.
He floated towards the front of the desks and paused, noticing Sherlock and John for the first time, and He stopped drifting and stood, rooted in place. John could see his interest in the rest of his work affairs dissolve before his very eyes, and he stood calm in the face of the massive storm of paper work.
He appeared to have something important to say, perhaps something sinister, or helpful, or something to make him seem more important and omniscient to their investigation. But he cleared his throat, took a look around and said plainly "Can I help you?"
Sherlock stared at him; blatantly stared at him.
The telephone behind him rang, and the man turned on his heels and leapt to answer it.
"Hello? Yes, yes, you have my blessing. No, Andre, And-rey; I don't know how many times I have to school you in French before you get the accent right. Alright, ciao." He hung up.
He looked up and found Sherlock wading through the chaos at him, and instantly as he passed the disaster quelled. People looked up to the man dressed in black with the lustrous wings which still glittered with beads of rain and stopped moving, stopped working, and stopped breathing with awe. It was like the parting of the red sea: people clutched their papers against their breasts like the white foam and the shuffling became the roar of an ocean wave.
One brave woman whispered "Isn't that the Winglock Wonder?" but her voice was lost in the utter stillness of the room. Sherlock demanded tribute, demanded reverie and silence was his constant companion. All eyes were magnetically pulled to the most powerful object in the room, his domineering face perched majestically on the strong regal shoulders quivering with barely masked potential for flight and ascension.
He gazed down upon the man, who had also been struck by something of awe, and asked: "Might there be somewhere we can talk in private?"
Reality regained its hold on the floor; people crept nimbly along behind and in front of him and business continued, at a much slower, reverential pace and with a quiet, worshipful hush.
John toyed with his thumb behind his back nervously. He always felt uncomfortable whenever Sherlock quieted a room, yet he could never tell just how it was done.
The man sputtered, "Certainly, my office is at the corner." And he led Sherlock with unsteady legs through the crowd of slow moving workers.