That last comment of Scott's provokes an incongruous little smile out of Sherlock, one that didn't show itself when Scott complimented his playing in Pedestrian Plaza and didn't show itself when Scott, in fact, hauled his ass off a cliff. As if Taxon needed any more proof that interacting with Sherlock Holmes is like playing a game of Mao for the first time. "Far be it from me to be a bad influence on Mr. St. John," he remarks with a little puff of tobacco smoke that winds itself into Scott's personal space -- not on purpose, but he's not really trying not to, either. "I wouldn't presume to diagnose you."

He squints at the buzzer like it might tell him more about Mick St. John than previously known, which in truth, it has: what sort of vampire goes bustling out into the sun at the first sign of a man in trouble? A medic. It would figure. "You can see for yourself if you think Mr. Summers's condition is serious. But I can certify that he can walk. Let us in and we'll go upstairs."