London, again, and this is little Odd's moment of truth, her pudding-proving, her defining moment, aching hour, as it were. This, in short, is where she finds out if she lives to see another dawn, and considering this day's not long started, that could be a long, long death for my darling Desdemona.

'I live next door to a dead man,' she said, in her initial invitation. And I hope she does. Because I'd like to get the jump on Big Bendy, of course, that's all. I do hope Odd was right. Hope she gets to scamper off into the daylight glow and live out her bizarre little life in peace and yes, perhaps, someday we'll meet again, but not for a very, very long time. When I stop being so fecking irritated with her, then we can meet again. Do coffee or something. Someday we'll look back on this and laugh. If she's right, that is.

But I'll tell you, my friends, it's not looking good for her. I'm scaling up decent places to display her corpse in my head already. And you know, you all know, I'm a glass-half-full kind of a fella; I wouldn't be doing that if I didn't have good cause.

But when we got into this taxi, the address she gave, the name of the street, was the one just round the corner from mine.

Now, either that's one brassy big balls-out move from an absent friend of mine, or Odd needs to not look so blithely happy in the seat next to me.

"I'm going to want to balance you over a sharp rock and pile church doors on your belly, aren't I, sweetheart?"

She pulls that grim little smile in over her teeth, considering, and nods gently. "Yeah. More than likely." She hears me swearing, slumping against the window, but doesn't turn round. "Look, just bear in mind, at least now you're up and about, yeah? Couldn't say that this time yesterday."

"Didn't want to either..."

"Don't sulk, Uncle Jim."

"I'm not your uncle anymore."

"…Aw. Well, listen, if you do get into an uncontrollable rage and batter my face in early, my next suggestion, after bacon sandwiches, was going to be to look at what you actually know about the death? Probably Molly Hooper first, and then to try and find Watson. I know you haven't been keeping tabs and you really should have, but-"

"How do you know all thi-… Wait, early? What do you mean if I bash your face in 'early', what's that all about?"

Odd looks round, not at me but out the window, then leans forward in her seat to stop the cab.

It's a dark, stinking little entry, down into the mews behind the houses. That's where she stands in her sparkly wraparound shoes and my parka, throws open her arms and says, "Home sweet home."

Then she tells a story which could be true or false, and I will pass onto you the bits that I can hear over the blaring car horn of my own soul-crushing disgust. I mean, with me as well as her. I've listened to this shit…

"I used to sleep in that entry. And then this one day this big tall gent and his little mate come along and walk right past me, and then the tall one comes back. Good-looking, y'know, and a bit posh on it and I'm thinking, oh, love, your time has come! He's one of these proper Bruce Wayne philanthropic society types, he's going to save you and turn you into a My Fair Lady. Well, he never. For the best, I suppose; give a girl a fish…

"He gave me fifty quid instead. And he points up, just like I'm pointing up now, at this window and he says, 'Do you know the man who lives there?' And no, no, I didn't, but I did know he was giving me fifty quid, so I said I did. And him, this gent, this oddly alluring gent with the nice scarf, he says to me that there was money to be made from knowing all about the man in that flat."

I have to lean down behind her, in order to follow exactly the line of her pointing, to make absolutely sure that this is what I think it is.

And I'm right, y'know, she's pointing up at the back window of my flat.

"You spied on me for Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, yes and no."

"You spied on me. For Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes, a little bit but-" The weird, convulsive way my hands claw out towards her throat, she has no trouble stopping them. Brave as the crackhead I pretended she was, just grabs my wrists and eases them away. "But I wasn't always as good as I am now. I was hanging out in the mews that afternoon watching for you, and you came out. And I'm watching, trying not to be conspicuous, but-"

"Oh, there it is, right there. Never try to blend in, there's no surer way to stick out."

"Which is, I think, why that was the first day in the years I'd been bunking down there, that you ever so much as looked at me. Anyway, turned out you were only going to the shop. But on your way back, you looked at me again, and I think I pissed you off-"

"More than likely."

"Because you took a dozen eggs out of the bag, and a century out of your wallet and you pointed to a Merc across the street, which turned out to belong to an MP, and you said-"

"I want two of those eggs on every fucking window…" I remember. I don't remember why. I remember I watched from the window upstairs and fucking pissed myself laughing, but there was a reason and I don't remember. "That was you?"

"And I said to myself, how, in good conscience, can I turn on that man? This is while I was running from a minder and a dog, but I meant it, and I still do. I used your hundred and his fifty for a change of clothes and a cheap room and I never looked back."

Yeah, okay. All seems fair enough. Makes perfect sense, when you think about it. Put it all together and there's no holes there at all, now, are there? That's a very beautiful story of a young lady who's loyalty was better bought with fun and games (and fifty quid more), than with vicious self-interest. That's two fingers up to you, my (apparently) attractive, well-scarfed mucker, and no mistake about it!

Nah.

Question time, Odbody.

"So when did he get the chance to teach you all about inductive and deductive reasoning then, oh moon of my delight?"

"When I went round to tell him about all the strange deliveries going into the flat."

"…What deliveries? I never get deliveries, I don't even get my post to the flat."

"I know. But he didn't."

Fucking hell, she played Sherlock Holmes. The way she tells it, she didn't take the money off him, but took lessons instead. The money she managed with pickpocketing and short-cons round town which, the more he taught her, got better and better.

Oh, but don't think for a second she wasn't spying on me. She tells me that outright. She used to climb to my window like fucking Heathcliff to keep an eye. It's just that none of it ever found its way to Sherlock. Whatever she learned, she kept for herself.

Our devoted disciple.

At the feet of both masters and serving neither.

She learned how to put a disguise together, how to walk in anywhere, how to spot the weak points and analyse the signs, what clues meant something and which were useless to her. Best of both worlds. She treated my window like a fecking instructional video and followed me out in the world for her practical lessons. I mean, she followed him too, but that's beside the point, she followed me. She knows names. People I've dealt with, knows where I met them or who I sent and how I did it.

She stand there telling me all this and she knows, she must know, that all she's doing is making her own murder all the more imperative.

"How long has all this been going on!"

"Since just after Beijing." Aw, Jesus. This is a heart attack. This is actually what a heart attack feels like; this is all black and red round the sides of my eyes and down my left arm and everything, this is actually a heart attack. Odd steps in to hold me up. "He knew you were looking into him, so he looked into you."

"He didn't know where I lived, Odd, you're lying to me."

"You knew where he lived."

"So did the whole fucking country! Amateur bastard lets his clients in at the front door!"

"Not to sound like one of those bloody believers but… he's Sherlock Holmes, Uncle Jim."

…Fair point well made. "If I said the name Yusuf Shikra to you?"

"The bombmaker?"

"…Then you didn't tell him about that."

"No. 'Course not, don't be stupid."

"You covered up for me. Why?"

"Same reason I didn't tell you he was keeping tabs. I learn more by watching than by cutting it all off midflow. Never hear of the golden goose?"

I'm still having that heart attack, by the way, thanks for asking. It's a bit better now, like, but I could still be dying. Jesus, you're a callous shower of bastards, aren't you? At least Odd gets me to check how many fingers she's holding up. What are you lot doing about it, hm? Just sitting there, chewing your gum, thinking about another bag of Doritos, maybe changing your underwear sometime this century, watching me very possibly dying while my vision splits and wiggles. Watching! Like I'm a QI marathon on Dave. Does that make you feel intelligent, you wankers?

Watching!

How much can you learn by watching?

"…Say I was going to give you another day to live – four, love, four fingers – what would you suggest we do with it?"

"Terrorize your ex."

"Then we need to change. Let's get inside. You can use a key this time, Odd, love, won't that be fun and different?"

"Not really. I stole your spare from the superintendant about three months ago."

…Die screaming, bitch. "You know how to work the grill, I assume. You can put the bacon on." And should I refrain from slamming your head inside the thing and leaving a rather alluring blackened griddle pattern on your precious lily cheek, you may count yourself, my dear, amongst the angels, for you are blessed.

You must have learned how to play at being one of those, yes?