A few days later...
Bartholomew adjusted his glasses and scanned the deserted street. Far off, at a distant corner, he saw a formless unmoving lump upon the asphalt. He started to walk briskly towards this unknown object. When he had walked a few hundred yards he saw it more clearly, and gasped. At once he quickened his pace to a swift run. Having reached his goal, he fell to his knees and shook the lump vigorously.
"HOPE! HOPE! CAN YOU HEAR ME, HOPE?"
Hope lay unconscious upon the ground, his throat covered in a vicious purplish bruise. Desperate and fraught with fear, Bartholomew put his ear to his son's mouth to ascertain that he was breathing. After a few seconds, he took out his phone and called Snow to see if he was up for a double malt whiskey at the nearest pub. His son was breathing, there was nothing more for him to do here.
Disclaimer (yes post-story): This is BY NO MEANS what you should do in a situation like this, ever. Call an ambulance, don't call Snow and ask if he wants to drink alcohol. Also, I don't own the characters, though I've given them completely different personalities due to having no idea what I'm doing.