Despite many assurances to the contrary, it was much easier and infinitely more comfortable to go about on one's own. More inconspicuous -- debatable -- especially when one could not bear to part with one's pink-lensed sunglasses. Still, crowds pulled crowds. He faked a Southern accent (easier than some of the middling ones, though he felt silly hearing the thing) to ask for the office of The Kid at reception, leaving bored Britons and Americans on the steps. They would probably be shifted by security soon enough. He didn't mind his security: a man he always forgot existed. The man right now in the waiting room reading Hello! magazine, getting up, gliding ten steps behind. Wonderful, inconspicuous sort.
"Excuse me," the receptionist said to him, but something was mumbled in her ear and the receptionist shifted in surprise. He felt curious eyes on his retreating shoulder. "I didn't know he was Ameri -- " all he heard before he turned the corner almost laughing.
Gregory House, M.D. and a ragged creature moving about inside, long arm looking even longer attached to a cane. He couldn't remember how the man had walked.
He stood outside, very still, with pink lenses and stripes and colours, and waited patiently. He was seen and ignored. This made him smile. He kept standing.