Holmes's back bristles with fear, his muscles tensing at being exposed like this; if their gunman is still there, he could easily take them out now, no matter the shelter the doorway provides. As Holmes looks back at the house, a dark, murderous need for revenge steals through him. Some blackguard shot his Watson, and if Holmes could -- if Watson didn't need him -- Holmes would charge into that building and tear that man apart. Very nearly in the literal sense.

"He's had his chance already," Holmes replies tensely, turning back to Watson, and all the murderous need for revenge melts away to be replaced with something much sicker, much more desperate, because there's quite a lot of blood under Watson's hand now. Holmes doesn't shy away from blood, but the sight of Watson's makes him sick with too many emotions to sort them all out. He tugs out his handkerchief and passes it to Watson before pulling open the door for them; he has to resist the urge to shove Watson through it and drag him up the stairs.

"Is it very serious? Should I call for Mrs. Hudson?" he asks lowly, urgently.