I sighed, and leaned back against the rough bricks of the fireplace, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Twenty-seven stitches.
Empty night.
I would have called Harry's little doctor friend, but by the time he got here Harry would have actually been more his kind of patient.
So I'd stitched up my brother myself.
It had been close. Very near an artery, opening up several veins.
Harry stirred a little, and I got up to stand by the couch.
Bending down, I pushed some sweat-soaked hair out of his face. "It's alright, Harry," I said quietly. "Just sleep."
He did.