"She's ..." She's fine, he was going to say, before he drifted off, distracted by the need to concentrate to keep his eyes on one point. He hadn't wanted to think it was anything serious at all, but it was starting to seem as though Mycroft might be right. That wasn't a thought he wanted to entertain. He needed something stabilizing. Without really thinking, he reached up and grabbed onto Mycroft's jacket. "She'll handle it. Until I get this - patched up."

Several questions he knew he should ask wove in and out of his mind - how Mycroft had managed the shooter, where he was now, why he'd had the brilliant idea of barging into an active fire zone and dragging him out. None stayed long enough to form into words. When the sirens grew intolerable loud and then stopped, when he could hear the paramedics starting to tramp in his direction, he centered himself enough to release Mycroft's jacket and force out the closest thing to an apology he could currently muster.

"Thanks."