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What if James' right hand had been covered in Sherlock's blood when he shot the soldier?
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“James, we need to go,” the Princess calls.
James is looking at his left hand, stained with the blood of the first man he’s killed, and his right hand, lying against the ground, red with Sherlock's blood.
He feels wholly different right now to how he had felt watching Sherlock get shot. He had felt only a desperation to be there, to hold the blood in, to keep his life from draining from his eyes. He had wanted to hold Sherlock, to cradle him away from the cold ground.
He runs his fingers over the blood of the soldier, and he knows he doesn't feel what the stories tell him he should feel. He felt horror only minutes ago, and this, this isn’t horror.
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