Sleuth doesn't even try to control the sword, now; he just lets it fall from his hand. The first thing he thinks is, hah! this thing is sharp as hell. The second: he sure isn't bleedin' as much as you'd think.

The third, he says aloud.

"Holy mother of god!"

Sleuth clutches his hair, knocking his hat off sideways and leaving a smear of blood on his temple. "Buddy, Scarecrow, your arm! Oh holy shit you're gonna die and I'm gonna be fuckin'—executed or somethin'—fuck I need a drink. Jesus Mary and Joseph. What should I do? Are you—okay? Should I go get a doctor?"

He stares at the arm like he can imagine it back into place.