Jack claimed that he was used to wounds, but he looked very unsettled indeed when assisting Stephen with getting the bullet out. My guess is that it wasn't from the blood. So here goes...
The Constitution For This Sort Of Thing
He had seen many sickening things, Jack thought. Dying men, blown full of splinters by a cannonshot, howling as they waited to die sailors with festering wounds... He'd seen the worst life was capable of, and he'd gone on, because he was captain, it was what he had to do.
But this here, standing there with his hand on the stomach of his friend, watching Stephen gasp for air as he cut open his own flesh... This was different. He tried not to look away, not to fail his friend. Tried not to grimace as Stephen between sharp, laboured breathing managed to ask if he was all right. Tried not to listen to how a chuckle turned into a whimper.
Was he all right? The thought that Stephen should be concerned about him, of all people it was intolerable. He applied the cloth again so the wound became visible once more, and knew it was not the blood that tried to turn his stomach now. He had, as he had said, been around wounds all his life.
No, it was the knowledge that his prideful pursuit of the Archeon, that fated argument, had caused this. Without his pride his friend would not have been shot, and would not now be grimacing with pain as he tried to remove a bullet from his own belly.
It was a bitter realisation. He had caused this, and he vowed to make it right, to let Stephen know he regretted it.
The bullet was out, and the doctor sank back onto the pillows, utterly exhausted.
I can't say it, my friend, but you'll know
.
.
.
"A week?"