Holmes winced in pain and tried not to black out as the blood rolled down his side. He clung to the hook embedded in his shoulder, swinging from the chain like so much meat. He knew he had to stay focused, keep one step ahead of Moriarty...
This was the crucial moment. He put on a mask, letting the pain seep into every pore of his body as he lay beneath the imposing body of his arch enemy, his rival, the only man in London to have ever matched his wit. Keeping as calm as was reasonably possible given the circumstances, he surreptitiously reached into first his own pocket, then the professor's. The bearded ginger leaned away from him and gloated to Colonel Moran, none the wiser. Success.
Holmes began to let himself succumb to the wound, confident that Watson would take care of the rest.