December 12 prompt is also from Wordwielder: Creativity.
Holmes braced one arm firmly around my shoulders, supporting me as we moved through the night. I kept my gaze fixed on the end of the bridge. We could make it that far.
My own pulse and laboured pants were all I could hear.
No... That wasn't quite true.
I could hear our uneven footsteps against old cobblestone. The whistle of a boat far away. The sound of Holmes's hastily muffled noises of pain. I could even hear a faint strain of music, drifting downstream from the part of town where people still dared to be out of their homes this late.
"Watson?" Holmes asked, his voice high in alarm.
"Yes?" I breathed, trying to balance more of my own weight. The world swam before my eyes.
"You were silent for over six minutes this time," he ground out, holding his free arm loosely against his side. I cringed to think what this would do to his use of it in the future. But all my thoughts felt distant, as if they were making their way to my mind through a long tunnel.
"I am still here." I tried for a smile, but it turned into a grimace.
The smell of blood saturated the air, obscuring all else.
"Indeed."
All at once, the ground seemed to tip, and I found myself falling sideways. Holmes reached out to steady me, and caught the brunt of it with his bad arm. The colour drained from his face, a sharp intake of breath following, and I crumpled against the side of the bridge.
"Watson?" He crouched in front of me unsteadily. "Watson?"
"It's all right. I'm only lightheaded," I murmured, my head falling onto my knees. "Blood loss. You know as well as I."
"Of course I do," he snapped.
There was a long, tense silence.
A cricket chirped from under the bridge, and Holmes jumped. He covered it with an emphatic gesture, and pulled me to my feet again, resuming his stance of holding me up.
"We need to... Apply pressure, as we walk," I said. "But I'm afraid I..."
"I will do it."
"Your arm is broken," I said weakly, eyes wide. I could not get the world to remain still...
His expression was grim. "Yes, Watson, I am aware."
"But..."
"We will simply have to be... creative." He removed his necktie, pulling a handkerchief from somewhere on his person, and created a snug, makeshift bandage. His mouth was one hard line, his hands trembling. Once he had completed his task, his arm fell limp; his breath came in constricted gasps, eyes swimming with pain that he could no longer hope to conceal.
"Thank you, Holmes," I said, quiet. He gave a wordless nod, and tightened his grip on my shoulders.
We made it to the end of the bridge.