This is not an angel of mercy. In fact, to a man from Sherlock's time and place, she might even be a disturbing figure, a slender woman in leather and tight-wrapped linen, jingling with belts, left arm bearing some kind of heavy mechanical monstrosity as a prosthesis. There's a big man in matching gear following behind her with a laden hand-cart, but both pause to look at the question.

The woman's sharp eyes flick over him, taking in the state of his clothes as well as the blood. "Pretty fucking far," she answers. "About three days' drive and then back again like hell was nipping at my heels. Might have been worth it."

"Oi, Crux," she calls over her shoulder at her companion, "fetch me a kit and a canteen from the bikes. Apple if we have any."

And then back at the stranger, she points to his shoulder. "I'm not a doctor but there are plenty around. But you better sit and stanch that before you bleed yourself dizzy. Carrying you to a clinic is a harder sell than walking you to one."