Marlowe is overcome by pain at the sudden jarring of his broken clavicle and pulled-perforated shoulder, and the pistol skitters across the tiled floor as he hits the ground.  He really needs the epi, and maybe some fuckin' morphine, too.<br/><br/>Grabbing it back and leveling it at where the officer would be-- hammer back to fire-- the officer's gone, beating a hasty, echoing retreat further down the hallway.  Marlowe emits a half-suppressed cough as he raises his head and looks.  "...'sright, you dirty bastard... fuck with the bull, you get the horns..." he murmurs, then forces himself back to his feet, using the pistol-gripping hand for leverage AFTER returning the hammer back safely.  He looks into the dark room behind... wondering from whence this guard was a-running... he tucks the pistol parallel to his chest, letting it point precisely where he's looking, and opens the door with his foot, easing his way closer...