While still holding the neck of his vest top down, the Doctor sat back on his heels and peered down at Evelyn's fingers smearing the ointment all over the wound. More sweat crawled into his eyes; he rapidly blinked it away until his vision stopped blurring and he could see her smaller, pale fingers at work. He let go of the neck of his vest top with his left hand and reached for the water glass again; after lifting the rim of the cup to his lips he tilted it and drained the rest in three huge gulps before setting it back onto the commode lid.

He didn't speak for a few minutes, only watched her fingers while occasionally looking up at her with the same bleary gaze, with eyes like clouded honey. The nausea was slowly draining out of his body. He'd ask to take a shower to cool himself down, but he wasn't sure he could stand on his own right now, and he had no fresh clothes to change into. He blinked rapidly in thought: he couldn't do anything else properly until he metabolised the horrid, rotten junk they'd given him out of his system.

He cocked his ear to listen to her next string of speech and then nodded lightly. "Yeah," he assented softly. "Ta. T'at might be a guid idea." Rousing up and gathering what strength he could inside his body, he readied himself to stand.