Trying my hands at a 221B... Today's prompt is from Werepanther33 - Candlelight.
I count each weak flutter of Holmes's chest.
Up. And down.
Slowly, and barely visible in the darkness.
It is the only sign that he lives; there is no clever remark, no sharp gaze, no fevered pacing.
He is very still.
"Come on, old friend," I whisper. It echoes off damp stone walls.
The air is cold.
My hands are steady only through years of experience. He is so pale, his face taking on a greyish tinge.
I recognize this look far too well; but I will not let him slip off into the distant beyond. Not yet. He belongs here.
"You are going to live, Holmes," I vow, a tremor entering my voice. "You are far too self-important to die, and I am far too stubborn to let you."
I draw the last clean rag from my plundered medical kit.
The first stitch is always the hardest. I keep the rag pressed firmly, working needle and thread through his skin. It makes a wet, puncturing sound that is deafening in the silence. My fingers come away red.
The space between Holmes's breaths grows, until each time I fear that another will never come.
My head drops, pain growing along with my fear. Surely help will come before it is too late.
The flickering candlelight makes an ocean of his blood.