Sorry this took so long. Comments/criticisms welcome :)
Sawyer's muscle itched for some sort of movement, numbness ate at his legs; he'd been sat motionless for hours now, sunlight had long since disappeared. Not having bothered to light a fire, he was completely surrounded in darkness. If he were to wave his hand in front of his face, he wouldn't be able to see it. But he could see her, she was etched into his mind, filling his senses; the softness of her breath, echoed by the crashing of the waves against the shore; the heat of her skin against his, the only warmth in a freezing night; the smell of her blood, a metallic tang in the air.
It had taken him a while to work up the confidence to sew her up. He wasn't really a sewing man, his experience with it limited to stabbing whoever sat next to him in his high school home tech class with a needle. But he had a sewing kit, scrounged from someone's suitcase and kept for no other reason than because it might be useful to trade. He had stared at the different coloured threads, wondering at which one he should choose, and then being disgusted at the thought of that actually being important. With a wry smile, he had gone for a pink thread, knowing that if she was conscious she'd get her back up at him for presuming that because she was a girl she would like pink. He didn't let his mind consider that she wasn't conscious, and that was why he had to choose a thread, instead concentrating on the impossible task of threading the needle. With his eyesight the way it was and with the dwindling light, this took him long enough that he had gone through his complete repertoire of curses by the time it was threaded. But that was the easy part, the hard part was pushing a needle through her flesh. Removing the bullet had been difficult, but it had been quick, not something that Sawyer had to think about. But pinching her skin together and forcing a needle into it, the bruised and damaged tinge of red and black seeming to darken as he did, cut into him. It was a slow, careful movement, and this gave him time to reflect upon how injured she actually was, and how likely it was that she wouldn't survive the night. He'd been stitched up enough himself to recognise what he had to do, and he crisscrossed the thread across the wound, pulling it together, feeling a stab of pain each time he forced the needle through her.
That was hours ago, but it still haunted him more than anything else. She was his chance at a new life, and trying to patch her up was just further evidence to his twisted mind that he wasn't going to have that life. Once he had finished, he had sat there studying her, taking in every detail of her, the luxury of time and privacy a new thing to him. Whilst he had seen her every day for almost two months, whilst he thought he knew her, looking at her now, he could see there was so much he didn't know. Even when he thought he had taken her all in, the light would change the way shadows fell across her face, illuminating her in a new way. This was not something that Sawyer would ever do, never before had he simply watched a woman for no other purpose than simply because he enjoyed it. But it was something he was doing, something he had spent all day doing, and continued to do even though he could no longer see her. If he took his eyes off her, it would be like giving up on her. If he took his eyes off her, she would die, he knew that. He needed to hold her here, keep her with him, and the only way he could do that was with his eyes.
By the time the grey light of early morning began to invade his aching eyes, he'd managed to convince himself completely that he was all that was keeping her alive. His obsession with a woman he barely knew, a woman who was dying in front of him, was only shattered when she started to convulse. Forced back into the harsh reality that faced him, he ran a hand through his hair. It came back covered with flakes of dry blood, her blood, and he forced himself into action. Without a second glance, he turned away from her, forcing his eyes from her fragile form, and left to get water and antibiotics, hoping against hope that he hadn't left her to die, that his abandonment of her hadn't killed her. Because the only thing that he was sure of was that he couldn't do this alone.