A strangled sound worked its way out of Greg's throat as Mycroft pressed against his shoulder; he could feel a clamminess under his clothes that might have been blood or might just have had to do with the fact he was ridiculously pale. For lack of anything to grab onto, he braced his hands against the ground and dug his fingers into the pavement. When he had a bit of a grip on his voice again, he looked up at Mycroft - as directed.

"Nobody dies from - from a bloody shoulder wound." The pain and shock and confusion mad it pretty easy for fear to breed, though, and he wasn't exactly feeling rational, or he likely wouldn't have snapped at the man who'd just saved his life. It was telling, perhaps, that e didn't look away. "If that idiot had just stayed put where I told him ... Jesus, you know that hurts." Most of the bite had gone out of his voice.