[ctg]

It's not that it's a heavy block, but your messages seem to be a bit arrogant. You didn't care to read the sticky subjects and now you're asking for people to comment on it. Maybe some of these people are hesitating on this effort, but here we go.

The streets were ghostly quiet, surprisingly lonely, and disturbingly distraught. Only litter stirred there, shifting uneasily in the wind, while the sky was as pale and mild as a newborn.

It was cold, too.

You create a beautiful image, but then you slap dash a line that break whole narrative. In your shoes I would remove it.

The wind was only the tiniest of breaths, as though the voice of its bearer had weakened, but for some reason it had chosen to be icy and piercing today. There was no snow to admire, thought the doctor bitterly, as he fumbled with the frozen key between numb fingers. All around him dark buildings sprouted as dominant as any mountains, sporting leering, shiny faces. Many of them were skyscrapers. He always hated how they stared down at him angrily with a myriad of glittering windows. Each one could hide a face, a witness. Not that he was doing anything wrong of course; he just liked to be secretive. Finally, the key found its place as it turned perfectly in the lock with a subtle creak and Doctor Crombie entered the building at last.

It's one heavy paragraph, which I would break in three or four smaller ones. I would start with the thoughts and use them in italics, while focusing on making them sound like first person monologue.

This particular building was much like all the others around it. A gargantuan great block, like a dark tower, was embedded deep in the ground and it was filled with thousands of office-like rooms. Some offices were minuscule, others occupying entire floors. The doctor’s room, was at the very top of the building, and counted as one of the largest there. Luckily for the doctor, there was an elevator.

This was always the way, thought the doctor. He held his briefcase tightly; he was always enthusiastic, but he was weary too. He was always here, before a single soul stirred, ascending in the elevator to meet patients’ needs. His patients were strange, unpredictable folk, and even he had never counted their numbers. It was because of these patients that he had not got much sleep as of late, what with all the forwarding of appointments, which was rather deteriorating on a man of sixty-eight. Soon, he was in his room, placing his briefcase on the table and tearing his gloves off. He adjusted the light. After he set the windows, he gathered a pen, a paintbrush, and a piece of paper. Then he was fixing the chair, a velvet recliner where the last patient had rested, and he was all but ready.

He looked once around the room, for atmosphere was everything in this sort of job, and then, content with it, he sat down on his leather chair and opened his logbook. Doctor Crombie was a rather tall man, and it left an impression on most people. His eyes were deep set and dark, ringed by withered creases, and his skin was like papyrus, emphasizing the dusty plain grey of his hair. Mostly, it was his voice that would be remembered. The doctor had been gifted with a powerful and soothing voice that seemed to shake the very air. It was reassuring, like a gentle giant, but always in control. With a voice like that, coupled with his vast intellect, the doctor could have gone far, but he was content in his work. No one could replace him, and he was quite certain that without him the patients would be rather 'different', which meant the world would be 'different’ for neither better nor worse.

This is a bit heavy and you steer between telling and showing, carefully avoiding to info dump the readers. Don't know on should congratulate you or tell you off.

The pages of his logbook crackled like dead leaves as he turned them, and Crombie wondered, certainly not for the first time, if his work had any impact on his well being, his opinion, and his sanity. He flashed a lonesome and quite rare smirk. Yes, that would be ironic; perhaps the cure imbues the curse. Thoughtfully, he arrived at the present day’s page, and took a while gazing at it.

Date: September 15, 2005
Room: Six
Time: 1:30 pm. --Moved forward to 5:20 pm.
Duration: Three hours plus.
Patient: Mr. Jack Leer.
Session no: Twelve
Notes:
-Item confiscated 06/05/05, considered detrimental to patient in several ways.
-Tread carefully, use subtlety, eye contact.
-Amber, book, painting, cat, jellybeans, weapons, Loki?
-Paintbrush?
-Remove dangerous and/or provocative objects.

Yes, Leer. He was one of his more colourful patients and surely the most fascinating. The doctor was always exactly twenty minutes early, for atmosphere of course, and Jack was always exactly seven minutes late, for, perhaps, the same effect. The doctor sat there pondering silently for a while, mostly in the dark as the only lights were the bright ones in the center of the room. They rested right above the recliner, and, for all their clairvoyance, only illuminated the seat just below them. It gave the rest of the room a sickly glow.

Mr. Leer arrived, and he was greeted at exactly five twenty seven. He quite promptly seated in the velvet chair, and lay back, silent at first. In mere minutes, however, the patient would turn from a quiet, introverted man to a vivaciously outgoing specimen. Doctor Crombie paced around him, taking notes with paper and pen, and occasionally taking up his paintbrush.

Thing is you use quite a lot of narrative voice rather then letting the character narrate it's own story. If this is the beginning of the story then it's fine, but later on you need to focus on the character.

“Well, Mr. Leer. It's been a while. Have we had any....progress?” asked the Doctor, his voice lurking in the air for some time after he spoke. Jack had in fact closed his eyes, and he hastily opened them and looked almost innocently at the doctor.

“None what-so-ever. In fact, it has worsened.”
“Ahh...”
The doctor held back a sigh. He knew exactly what troubled the man, but he wished to be subtle, and so he began to discuss the more generic problems that Mr. Leer suffered from.
“How is your painting then?” he ventured.
“It's changed. Dramatically, in fact, it seems that when my mood changes, the focus also changes, so it's almost like two paintings, on one canvas...”

Jack had a calm, yet strangely smooth way of talking that was often betrayed by his unemotional, tortoise like behavior. He may have seemed unnerved in voice, but his body language and expressions seemed to tell a different tale.
“Is that so? Fascinating,” the doctor drawled, making a quick note, and once more tried to avoid 'that' topic.
“Is the cat eating again?”
“I assume so. It's possibly the only creature alive that can abide me, other than you doctor, but you're quite non-conforming, more of a wraith than a man.”

On saying this, Jack turned and smiled, which under the effect of the light, had quite a startling effect. Jack was one of the youngest of his patients, still in his early twenties, yet still, perhaps, the most troubled. The main problem was that he didn't immediately strike a person as odd. He was a tall, well built person with a perfectly ordinary dress sense, and polite enough mannerisms. The most disarming and indeed misleading feature of Mr. Leer, however, was that he was also, in fact, quite handsome. He had pale delicate features, angled dark hair, and piercing green eyes that seemed to dominate his entire person. He was consistently witty and clever despite his introverted and antisocial nature, and he had a large sum of money and achievements to his name. All things considered, he was a man who had had a considerable amount of luck in the world, and yet, the doctor had rarely encountered a man so wretched, so insecure. This man struggled more to understand himself than he did others.

“The book, Mr.Leer, what of the book?”
“I finished it; actually...I simply can't find it.”
The difficulty with Jack was that he treasured information almost jealously, and it was a dire struggle to get him to part with it. However, there was a topic the doctor could easily speak of which had nothing to do with his much larger, darker problem.
“Are things well with Amber, then?” asked the Doctor, putting all his cunning and guile into his voice.
“Well...”

Good, the only problem that I had was in the beginning of the narrative paragraph. I felt there slightly that your POV was shifting. You could use doctors thought and emotion to make it clearer that you're sticking with the dear old doc.

Jack seemed to float into a dream at the question, choosing to look at the lights rather than the doctor. The lights themselves were an odd feature, weighing heavily in the center of the room. An opening had been made in the ceiling, a sort of cavernous dome that lay above that vital chair, and in it sputtered pale lights. Most were yellow and white colours that cast their brilliance on that particular patient. And, again, most patients reeled from the light, as though trying and failing to avoid it, and so, the doctor often found he had to turn them off beforehand.

But Jack...he seemed to welcome the light, almost as though he was reaching out to it.

Why you're doing the lights in the middle of the character narrative and choose to switch heavily to the narrative voice, which doesn't come from the POV character head? To me this was very jarring and taking focus out from the story itself. But it's your style, so I guess I have to live with it.