Another beat of silence passes. He doesn't blink.

Then Sylar moves his hand away from the wound, gingerly shifting his weight off of the wall as he does, and begins to shrug off his trench coat. His entire body stiffens midway through the motion as the pain bites into his stomach; Sylar grits his teeth, unceremoniously drops the coat to the floor, and begins maneuvering toward the stairs leading up to the loft's front door.

Sitting down is far preferable to standing right now.