"Yes," Watson grunted, trying to stay focused, trying not to bleed on anything irreplaceable, trying not to think about that darling, so wonderful and so misplaced in this terrible moment. His instincts were still running high; he glanced at the windows, wondering if their attacker had a clear shot from wherever he might be hiding.

He lifted the handkerchief up from his arm, frowning at it. The bleeding was definitely slowing; he had been very, very lucky, and the shot hadn't grazed anything essential. He saw no exit wound, either; the bullet was probably still in his arm, and would have to come out.

"Damn him, this was my best coat," he growled, perhaps irrationally. "Cloths. I'll need cloths, too."