Abby wouldn't let Number Seven drive himself home. She was probably right. He'd been drinking all afternoon and then blown up. He was in no state to drive anywhere but he refused to let the protection team in to watch him sleep. He needed time alone.

The building had once been an elegant Georgian townhouse. SIS bought it and three others like it back when property in London was still cheap. It was divided up into flats for field officers and assorted others. Partly because they liked to keep an eye on people like him and partly because so few London landlords could pass a background check.

Seven wanted to charge up the stairs to his flat on the second floor with his usual speed. His ribs would not let him. So he trudged. Slowly. That meant the door of Flat B, Number Two's flat, was in his field of vision for far too long.

The door reproached him. Her flat was angry at him because she wouldn't be coming home. He ignored it. He was well aware that the stab of guilt was internal.

His flat, Flat D, overlooked the Methodist church next door. At some point in the building's history it had picked up a bad case of overwrought late-Victorian decoration. He'd painted most of it plain white because it was the only way he could stand to look at it when he was hungover. There had been some wallpaper there too but that was hiding behind the book cases and he could no longer remember what it had looked like.

The flat was familiar but it wasn't home. It couldn't be home. It belonged to the legend and not to the man. It came with the codename and the number. He felt far more at home in his lock up garage but this wasn't a good time to go there. The Boss would definitely get twitchy if she didn't know where he was.

His funeral suit was in a lab somewhere as evidence. Probably for the best because he never wanted to look at it again. He stripped off the track suit that usually stayed in his locker at the SIS gym and checked the damage in the bathroom mirror.

The bruising was impressive and there was more of it than he'd hoped. He'd been expecting the discolouration on his side where he knew there were cracked ribs but there was more spreading onto his back. That was going to hurt in the morning. His knees and elbows were scraped and bloody. He didn't remember doing that. Must have been when he was trying to get to his feet after the blast.

His reflection looked back at him even more mournfully than usual. There was no sense putting it off.

Seven showered. He tried to convince himself that the hot water was washing away the pain and the stink of death but what it mainly did was sting. He shaved. The steam had softened his stubble and his hands weren't shaking and there was no guarantee that he'd be able to say the same in the morning.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and went in search of something to help him sleep. He found a mostly full bottle of vodka and poured a shot. Down in one the way his old friend Valentin did it because you're not supposed to enjoy the taste. It's medicine. You drink it like medicine.

The words tends to self medicate with alcohol drifted through his mind from somewhere. The voice sounded like the Boss reading from one of the many psychological reports that she kept asking for and then complaining about.

He poured another shot and took it to the bedroom. There was an untidy stack of books on the bedside table. Something Number Two would always tease him about. How could someone read as much as him and still know so little pop culture?

The book on top of the stack was Byron: Life and Legend but he was not in the mood for that. Reading it made him want to punch Byron and he was angry enough already. Underneath that was Beowulf in the Old English and that was perfect. Trying to translate that in his head should knock him right out. And if that didn't get him then hopefully the vodka would.

He drank the shot, opened the book and waited for sleep to take him.

#

The silence was deafening. The hum had worn off and now all that was left was the dampening effect of two ruptured eardrums.

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It was almost a relief. He could just refuse to come in. He could stay in the flat and read in silence. Declare that he wasn't fit. He could do that. That was an option. He couldn't get into much trouble for it. Certainly less trouble than he was going to get in while he avenged One and Two.

Or he could glue his eardrums back together, put his hearing aids in and get back in the saddle.

He put the tiny earbuds in and inspected himself in the mirror. It was hard to be completely sure from this angle but they seemed well concealed to him. He knocked on the wall and he could hear the sound clearly. It wasn't as good as letting his ears heal naturally but it was fast and it was good enough.

The bruises had spread since the night before. At this rate half his torso would be purple. His chin wasn't too stubbly. A good thing since, as expected, his hands were shaking a little.

Two paracetamol* and two ibuprofen so he'd be able to get his shirt on. Washed down with coffee to keep him awake while the Boss talked. Scrambled eggs and toast on top so the rest of it would stay down.

Time to go and face the Boss. It couldn't possibly be the best use of his time but she had all the information he needed and she was sure to sit on it until he presented himself for a good shouting at. He wondered if she'd notice if he switched the hearing aids off.

#

Emma Smith, the Boss, was not happy. She was very rarely happy but today she was particularly, especially, loudly and personally not happy.

'No. I don't know where it came from,' said Number Seven.

'I found it,' said Number Four, 'I don't know why you're having a go at him.'

The Boss glared at Abby, standing by the window looking out over the Thames, as if expecting her to interject. It wasn't lost on Number Seven that Abby was standing in such a way that the Boss couldn't see her face. He wondered if they'd fallen out. Perhaps the Boss had tried to play the 'personally involved' card on Abby?

The Boss gave up waiting for Abby to add something. 'Because if someone is going to precipitate a bombing in a building as secure as the Special Forces Club it's probably going to be him. Ex girlfriend? Jealous husband? Angry parent? Son with Oedipal issues? What do you think?'

'I think it would be a huge coincidence that I piss someone off that much right after someone else killed Number One. I don't believe in coincidences and neither do you. You're just looking for someone to blame,' said Number Seven.

'You're probably right,' said the Boss.

Out of the corner of his eye Seven saw Number Four's shoulders sag slightly as she relaxed. He didn't relax. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

'We're going to have to call in specialist help,' said the Boss and there went the other shoe.

'What?' If Four’s voice had been any sharper it would have cut the very air.

'This is supernatural. This is not our area of expertise.'

That explained Abby's apparent discomfort then.

'It was a grenade and a dart and someone good with knives. There's nothing supernatural about that,' said Number Seven.

'You need to read the forensic reports on Number One and the young man,' said Abby.

'Neither of them were drugged,' said the Boss. 'Someone got Number One into bed with a stranger then cut the stranger up without waking Number One. Then this hypothetical master assassin waited for Number One to wake up instead of killing him in his sleep. Then killed him at close quarters. With a knife.'

'All the blood from the scene came from either Number One or the young man,' said Abby. 'There wasn't a single drop of blood from the killer.'

'Tell me,' said the Boss, 'could either of you have killed him in a stand up fight without taking a single wound?'

'Ok. That is pretty weird,' said Number Four.

'The grenade. Appeared from nowhere. Do we think that Number Two would have missed something that size? Do we really think she would have skimped on the security sweep just because it was the Special Forces Club? I've seen her run sweeps before using the ladies room here,' said the Boss.

So they had noticed that then.

'So we have a grenade that just materialised under the table and a dart thrown by someone during an explosion who somehow escaped in the seconds before the building fell in,' said the Boss.

'We escaped,' said Number Four.

'Did you see anyone else escape? I only ask because none of the CCTV cameras picked them up so a description would be handy.'

'Specialists?' said Number Seven. 'Where are you going to find anyone that specialises in apparently semi-corporeal assassins?'

'Department Y,' said the Boss.

Number Seven stood up. 'I'm sure you'll do whatever you think best. I'm going to see how the others are. I'll be in the Medical Unit when you decide what we're doing.'

Number Four caught up with him as he reached his car. 'I'm coming with you. I'm not hanging around waiting for that bunch of weirdos.'