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You don’t remember much of the fight. One minute it was you and Sleuth on the sidewalk, arguing about who exactly got the two of you kicked out of the bar - the next it’s cold fire along your ribs.
You remember the world tipping, inverted, Sleuth trying to grab you and use you as an anchor - then you realize that you’re the one falling.
You’re vaguely aware of other injuries lining your sides, but the one that grabs your attention is the blood-geyser that is your stomach. Sleuth is trying to both fight off whoever the hell attacked you, and keep your sorry ass from bleeding out.
He takes a clock against the head and collapses against you, wheezing slightly.
A hand reaches out and grabs his shoulder, flips him over, and the stupid endearing detective scrambles only until he’s on your wound, instead of trying to get off.
He’s keeping you from bleeding to death, but he didn’t focus on the fight and now the bastard hits him again, hard against the face. Sleuth falls back, head on your collar, and he suddenly cries out.
You don’t know what’s going on - your whole body is freezing and falling away. You’re aware of rough motions on top of you, Problem Sleuth resisting and then crying as he’s hurt too bad to put up a fight.
You’ve never seen him cry before.
You try to lift your arms, but one is made of lead - no, steel - and so you can only bring up the other, weakly brushing numb fingers through his hair. You think it’s making him sob harder, and the motions become staccato jerks, interspersed with grunts and sobs.
You hear somebody groan, and finally the darkness overtakes you.
You wake up in the basement of one of your hideouts, Droog leaning over you. You try to bat him away, and groan as it stretches a wound.
The sound reminds you of something, and the memory of last night comes, with sudden and terrible clarity.
You all but jump out of the bed, taking only a moment to haul on a shirt and pants, before heading for the door. Droog gives up trying to hold you back, and lets you go.
You arrive at your detective’s apartment an hour later, wishing you had thought to grab some shoes. You rap on the door and wait impatiently for it to open.
All your irritation fades when you see him.
He’s got two black eyes, a ton of bruising across the face, and you’re betting the rest of him doesn’t look much better. He tries for a weak grin, and that makes your stomach drop out.
“Hey.”
“...hey.” You shift uncomfortably. What the fuck do you do now?
“...thanks.”
He looks surprised. “For not letting me bleed to death,” you mumble, trying to snarl but failing miserably. Something like a chuckle almost leaves him, before the melancholy returns.
He looks scared.
You can’t have that.
You get invited in and bitch as he makes terrible coffee and curl up with him inside a shitty couch fort. You end up on his right and have to lean over to hold his hand, cursing your own lack of foresight. He smiles shyly.
Six hours later you finally find out who attacked you - it’s obvious, really. Ten minutes after that you burn the Felt Mansion to the ground, making sure that only Sn0wman got out. Fuckers’ll be back in a week, and you’ll take them down then, and again, and again, without any shred of mercy or hesitation.
But that’s for later. Right now, you pull Problem Sleuth into a hug, and hold him while he cries into your shoulder, and vow revenge.