Within a couple seconds of the impact, everything seemed to dull. His hearing dipped away, his vision seemed to fade from the edges in, and he could feel nothing except a sort of queasiness. It passed - he couldn't have said how much later - but it must not have been more than a few moments, because next he knew he was being hefted up and yes, berated by Mycroft Holmes, being shoved at by a terrified forensic tech, and newly conscious of the ripping pain in his shoulder.

"You've got - a bloody awful bedside manner," he grunted, gritting his teeth against the pain and managing only a very weak sort of glare in his general direction. "Aren't you supposed to keep me calm, or -"

Thankfully, only one of them was in any shape to bicker; Greg had to cut off his half-hearted attempt in order to focus on staying on his feet. He was coming back to himself, perhaps because of the adrenaline, but getting to the door still seemed like an insurmountable challenge. By that time he was vaguely aware of Sally and a couple of other officers running back in, Sally's thoroughly recognizable oh, fuck, and then a certain chaos of orders and radios. He made an attempt to add his voice to the mix and tell them all to get outside, but it was to no avail; all he could manage was to toss his good arm across Mycroft's shoulders and dig his fingers into the fabric of his jacket to try to keep steady.

"Be cross all you like, just don't drop me."