That little knife might have made it's way into Flint's thigh, or his side, or his stomach, or wherever else this Crow is certainly dexterous enough to reach. There's nothing that could have been done to stop it, were the two of them alone.

But Flint is not alone here.

(And the moral of the story... everybody needs a partner.)

The use of his crutch had sent John tilting backwards, knocking hard against the wall. He had been thankfully able to brace there, rather than topple all the way down to the ground where he would have simply been in the way. John does not see the knife, nor grasp the full danger of the Crow flipping up onto her feet other than she is a Crow and she is upright. John does what he would have done anyway, the most reliable thing to hand.

He reaches out and squeezes, drawing the air around her like a vise with what strength he has left.

It is not a perfect hold. It is more like trying to hold a wriggling eel, to crush the life from a thing while it fights tooth and nail against his grasp. Clammy sweat breaks across his skin, prickles at his hairline and neck while John strains, forces the manipulation of gravity further along as this woman thrashes against him.

When something breaks, it happens so painfully slowly.

"I can't hold it," is a barked out warning. If there's a knife, it had best be put to use before John's strength fails him.