Having come rather too close to the bullet herself, and bearing in mind what Holmes was trying to invite her to when it happened, Mies is more than willing to go with him when he runs.

But as he opens the outside door at the bottom of her stairwell, there's another shot. He folds back against the wall, one outstretched arm taking her with him, but there's no shattering glass, no round lodged in the doorframe. Instead there is a scream nine or ten feet to the left, and then the usual noises of running and panic and concern for somebody lying on the floor.

The messenger skates up and opens the door, nodding them out. "All clear now."

"Angel Odbody!" Mies snaps, just like a schoolteacher, "If you've had anything to do with this carnage, I'll-"

"She can't help it," Holmes interrupts. "It's her job, isn't it, Morrissey?" Mies eyes him, reading old meanings and unsure what to do with them. But the messenger is overwhelmed, brimming with joy at having finally been named and understood. She is utterly still for a moment, wordless, barely breathing. Then it all breaks from her in a screech that turns into laughter and then turns into her circling the crowd that has gathered on the street and crowing, "Panic on the streets of London, panic on the streets of Birmingham-"

This continues in the background and Mies says, "I'm going to presume I've missed something with you two."

"Presume. I presume you know more about why Moran just shot a civilian than I do."

While the crowd are looking at the body or the messenger, she puts her hand through his arm and turns them away, heads down, walking fast. "I haven't spoken to him, so I can't be sure, but Sebastian's always talked about a game he wanted to play. Jim thought it was a good idea, but too big, too obvious. It wasn't right for us. But for this? Yeah. Yeah, this is that, I'd bet money. He always wanted to do it to the Prime Minister..."

"The game, Danielle, what's the game?"

"He's going to hunt you. He's going to take a shot at you. If he gets you, that's well and good. If you dodge him, he'll kill a civilian in the area and move on. I'd say you've got at least an hour between attacks where you can try to hide or escape."

"So that's why he couldn't do the Prime Minister..."

"Why?"

"Too much public sympathy."

Streets away, they start to hear sirens. It's no use. Moran was already long gone when they started walking, and with the messenger dancing and shouting nobody could have seen him go. She skids coming out of a side street, looking left and right for them. Mies waves a hand, shooing her. But she approaches, long slow strides, keeping her eyes down like Alice before the Queen. "I know, I'm too recognizable, but I just want to know where to find you."

Mies looks up and shrugs. "Your play, gorgeous. How do you want to do it?"

He has to think. Moran's peculiar gambit leaves him no room for manoeuvre. Choosing a heavily populated area and somewhere Moran will find him easily gives him the opportunity to set up some sort of trap, or at least increases the chances of Moran being seen or stopped, limiting his movement. But it also gives him better choice of a secondary victim. Choosing somewhere isolated greatly lessens his own chances of survival.

"Have you got your Oyster card?"

Waterloo Station, down on the platforms. They're too late for the evening jams, but this is still the busiest station in London. Here, Moran won't be able to assemble a rifle, never mind fire it. For one, the echo of the shot would be deafening for all involved and leave him vulnerable. He wouldn't chance it. Mies was unimpressed. Tried telling him that her Sebastian would never settle for stalemate, never concede, that this wouldn't stop him, but Holmes isn't listening. He's watching the crowd, the trains, the stairwells; Moran is distinctive, and anyway he won't want to hide. Mies is using his back as a leaning post, watching a blind violinist busking. Holmes feels her smile. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You know what?"

"Don't reminisce about the good old days? The few there were between sessions of us being mortal enemies, that is. I'll be honest with you, gorgeous, I've never let anybody play for me again, since you. All this, you and me, standing out from the crowd, intrigue, danger, good art... It triggered a few good memories, that's all."

"I know exactly what it triggered, and I'm telling you not to. And to stop using the word triggered, both of us..."

"Well, we took a pretty good shot at things back then, didn't we?" He almost can't help himself, almost laughs. But the draft of a train just leaving brings him her perfume, and the scents beneath it. A muddy, sweaty smell and the tang of a familiar aftershave... which never suited him and Holmes tried to tell him that, as best he could, by pouring a measure down the sink each morning so that it would go too fast but... Suddenly she's not so funny anymore. Mies heaves a sigh, stands off him. "What's keeping the Angel? She couldn't have taken that different a route."

"She had to find Moran," he tells her simply. "Tell him where we are."

"Oh, alright. No. What?"

"That's her job. She has to play all sides equally, keep the game fair."

"Oh, so we're on display here, rather than hiding."

"I'm sure you're more than used to hanging out your wares."

"I'm sure you're going to get slapped if you keep on, and if I get shot dead-"

"What? What will you do when you've been shot dead?"

"Well, you're haunting me, aren't you?" Damn her. She keeps up. Always got an answer, always planning, always ready to run or to fight and knowing the time for either. Damn her for it. Damn her for making him smile when he doesn't want to, for drawing him in on stupid jokes when there's no time for them. For everything that ever happened between them, and this last and greatest slight, her sordid, petty little affair as Maya Darcy. Damn her for the good times, because without that she's just another black piece to be taken without thought or remorse, and for making that history too important to ignore.

Damn her for leaving him thinking of all this when another train is pulling in.

The first thing he knows is that someone has darted past him, and has thrown down a ragged looking rose at his feet. Mies, he thinks, must have heard the turn of a roller skate, because she wheels around. They both look instinctively after the messenger, if only for a millisecond, but that's all Moran needs. He flows off the train with the rest of the crowd, not with a rifle but with a handgun. The grip is white enamel, elaborately painted with a martyred saint all full of arrows. A special occasion gun.

Holmes feels the muzzle press in beneath his ribs and sidesteps before Moran can pull the trigger. All heart, all adrenaline, he tries to get behind the hitter, get an arm across his throat. But Moran is cold and aware. And he's patient; Holmes has dodged him now. "Another time," he mutters, ducks the arm and continues on with the crowd. There is the back of a head in front of him. He brings up the gun and puts a bullet through it before he sees anymore than that.

It's a man this time. He sees that as he steps over the falling body. Last one was a woman, black, shopping bags. This one looks like business. That's good. Mix it up, keep it random. He doesn't want anybody taking him for some basic hood or extremist or serial killer. Christ forefend they call him a vigilante. He'll do the first journo tells him he's doing good.

But yeah, anyway, he waves at Danielle, edges blood off his shoe on the first step and moves on.

Again, the chaos around the corpse gives them time to regroup. "So since that poor bastard's dead," Mies says softly, "can I presume you're alright?"

"Fine." A few more deep breaths and he'll be totally back to normal. Not shaking at all. Not smelling smoke off her hair and fighting a serious nicotine craving. Not having trouble gathering his thoughts. "Danielle, you know him. Where's the last place he'd look? I need time to think this through."

She knows something. It's all over her face that she knows something, but she doesn't want to tell it. What she says in the end is a cheap substitute. "You could try my place. Bluff him out, hope he thinks it's too obvious."

"For God's sake, what are you really thinking?"

"I know," the third voice pipes up. The girl has got her shawl down around her waist. 'I don't want to go on the Tube,' she told Moran, 'and people thinking it's a hijab. I'll draw attention to you.' She's still got her skates on and her dwindling bouquet of roses and gyp, but her headscarf would have drawn attention. Nonetheless, "I know what she's thinking."

"Don't do it, Odbody," Mies says. Not a warning, just asking.

"If you ask me I have to tell you, Detective. You know that."

"Where then? One of you be straight with me and tell me where."

The messenger takes off. Holmes is right at her heels. Mies lingers a second, calls out, "Just wait," but he doesn't want to. And when he keeps going, ultimately she goes with him.

He follows the girl as she weaves the crowds, taking him quickly to the next platform. Jubilee line. A train just pulling in and spewing passengers who are finished with it, but it will be leaving soon. Five stops down the Jubilee line from Waterloo. He knows it exactly. It takes thirteen minutes and twelve seconds in optimal circumstances. Five stops from Waterloo. Baker Street.

The messenger takes his hand in both of hers and hops up on pointe to speak in his ear. "It's alright. It's locked up. Hudson isn't there anymore. She still owns it, but she's not there and there's nobody in it. It's alright."

"Or," Mies cuts in, just caught up, "we hit one of Jim's old safehouses out in the suburbs, lock up in a lockup until you're ready to-"

But he takes that first step forward, still holding the messenger's hand, towards the train.