ligature.
As a servant, John was rarely in the heat of the action. But rarely did not mean never. And, today, a sudden attack had taken the entire army by surprise. Men had scattered, diving for cover, and somewhere in the chaos he and Everett had gotten separated. At one point John, entirely unarmed, had found himself face to face with a redcoat. He had managed to run, but not before getting a bullet to the leg for his troubles. He limped to the nearest shelter -- an abandoned building -- and assessed the damage. Messy, but not bad. The bullet had only grazed him, instead of embedding in his skin. Still, it hurt. This was much easier when it was Everett he was looking over instead of himself.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, he ripped fabric from his own shirt and tied it tightly around the wound as a makeshift bandage. After that, there wasn’t much to do but sit and wait. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t brave, like Everett. He had seen the other shake off bullet wounds far more grievous than this and keep fighting -- but John himself felt quite ready to throw in the towel. When he heard steps coming through the room, he went to hide ... at least until he heard a familiar voice calling his name. “Everett?” He stood and weaved unsteadily on his feet. He felt sick and faint. How much blood had he lost while fleeing? “Everett, I’m here!”