"Doctor, I need you to focus on my voice; can you do that for me?" he asked evenly, despite the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach over how the man was shivering.
"'M hurt…not stupid." He heard the growl and grinned despite himself.
Patting Watson's arm, he lurched again to his feet and went for another sack; he would waste no more time in searching for a better cover. "Yes, Watson," he chuckled, grunting as he tore the sack-end open.
Flour cascaded over his shoes, but he had more important things to care for and only hurried back to his friend's side. Shaking the burlap to dislodge the worst of the dust, he then dropped to one knee.
"I've found something to work as a blanket for now, old fellow," he said, trying to sound warmer than he felt. "This will help, but I need you to tell me what else I should do. Can you tell me if you're hurt anywhere else?"
Apparently the injured man's mind was clearer than he had assumed, for a moment later it evidently registered with the Doctor that it was his own overcoat being layered under the rough burlap. He only smiled and shushed the vehement protest, fondly wishing he could see the scowl he knew was aimed at him from below.
