C. Cut
"It's going to be fine," I'm telling him, covered in blood. His blood. He's staring at me with those all-knowing eyes, and I think I've made a slip. I think he can deduce that because I'm saying aloud that it'll be fine, I'm not actually sure it will be.
I'm not. Sure, I mean. I'm not sure. What I am sure of, though, that I shouldn't have said what I said. I should have shouted at him and called him a dolt and snapped at him to stop wriggling or something. I realise how useless these speculations are almost as soon as they occur; Sherlock knows everything. Somehow, some way, he always figures it out. No matter what.
A man can tell when he's dying.
His eyes roll back and I tap his cheek with my free hand. The other one is clamped down over the wound in his side and I can feel the blood sliding through my fingers. "No," I tell him firmly. "Open your eyes, Sherlock, and look at me."
He blinks his eyes open again and I sigh through my teeth. Then I hear the sirens. Thank God. It's not a guarantee for Sherlock's life, but it certainly is an improvement.
I'll be a happy man if I never have to see another drop of Sherlock's blood.