Posting up on the roof would, in fact, mitigate the possibility of losing track of them escaping out of either exit.

Still, there's a split second of absolute exhaustion and irritation (helpfully underlined by that "Fuck!") that meets it—an absurd wave of pure annoyance that briefly drowns out fears both rational and animal. They're both tired. John can't have much left in him. His leg feels both like it belongs to another person and like it's being stripped for a tannery rack. All the hairs at the back of his neck have come up, and maybe they die clumsily in a back alley in Rialto.

But here is the falchion sword still bare in his hand, dark with a Crow's blood. That seems like the more logical end point toward which to argue.

The clash happens quickly. Is defined by a scrape of boots and a clatter of metal as sword meets knife and the former leverages hard against the latter. Only the Crow is small and quick and spry and Flint is none of those things. A second short murderous blade blooms in the her offhand for emphasis, slashing out and under with the intent to eviscerate.

(Later, he'll find the long gouge carved across his belt.)