"Ok, Ok, Ok," he said. "I give; I'll go to bed."

The words were a relief, and a breath of the same escaped me as I watched him rise off the stool.

"Where to," he slurred.

"Room on the house. Up the stairs on the right"

"No problem." He turns, takes one step, crashes to the tiles like wet linen.

Christ, I grumbled. I'm going to have to carry him. And so, I do. Or I try to. Will's a grown man with well established girth. His full weight upon one shoulder is nearly too much to bear and when he inevitably mis-steps the crash of that stumble costs me in blood.

Locksmithing tools are both pin-tip fine and razor sharp.

The right-bound stagger I suddenly found myself struggling to support had brought as bonus a mercilous display of lock pick and miniature screwdriver puncturability. I gasped despite myself to feel the tear, to see the red drops quickly spread. For better or worse, I abandoned my charge to gravity.

I examined the injuries. Will lurches to his feet.

"Did I do that," he said.

"Seems so," I replied.

Evidently embarassed, he twirls as if to flee but the cobbles underfoot are uneven. Karma takes hold as Will catches one toe edge. His bamboozelement and momentum tag-team to undo him. Spine slouched, shoulders slack, Will careens into a dive unaided by motor reflex. Drunk to the point of immobility, his arms fail to reach to his own rescue and Will lands, face first against the grit-grain of an uneven street surface. 

Here momentum, returns to double down on his suffering. Lumbering before the fall, gaining speed in the descent, Will grind to a forward sliding halt only after scraping his bridge and forhead like drag brakes against the cobbles. 

My twin puncture wounds yet bleed, but HMS Will has sustained far more critical damage. The locksmith has been laid to rest.