He'd closed his eyes to block the pain as Holmes worked angrily on the hand-cuffs, and when he opened them again it was to a cold hand on his forehead, startling him.
"Easy, Watson," the familiar voice soothed immediately, removing the hand as he gasped. "It's all right, they're off. You do not appear to have a concussion from what I know of the symptoms, but I'm not sure you should walk. I shall bow to your medical opinion on that."
"I can manage," he replied immediately. A wiry arm stole round his back to help in the sitting process, and between them with Lestrade's help he managed to make his feet.
Holmes pulled Watson's right arm around his own shoulders so that he could lean upon him, but paused when his friend grimaced, his hand clenching a handful of jacket as he shivered.
"All right, old fellow?"
"Not used…to moving my arms," the Doctor gasped, gingerly flexing. "Been in those…things…for 'most a week. Don't grind your teeth like that, Holmes, you'll give yourself a headache."
Lestrade smothered a laugh, not wishing to award himself the attention of exhausted-and-worried-and-homicidal Sherlock Holmes. Besides, despite Watson's levity, the Inspector did not much like the occasional grimaces when he moved a certain way, his hoarse breathing, or the way his eyes glittered feverishly bright.