He passes Watson the brandy and his glass because that, at least, he's certain he can do. He's certain he can do this too because he can do anything for Watson -- is willing to do anything for him -- particularly if it lessens his pain or will lead to a better outcome than the alternative. As troubling as it is for him to have to do this, there's something comforting in the knowledge that he'll be stitching Watson up, working to repair him and set him to rights. That's what motivates him enough that his nerves calm down; finally, he can do what he's been desperate to make happen since Watson was shot.

He pulls a chair over and sits, drowning out everything else in the room beyond Watson's arm and the catgut and needle in his hands. He pays attention too, of course, to Watson's breathing and feedback, but otherwise he's happy to focus himself on the task. After sterilizing the equipment, he sets his jaw and gets to work, carefully and methodically stitching Watson's arm; the blood is disconcerting, and the knowledge that he's inflicting pain, but the sight of the wound closing keeps his hands steady until the job is finished. Sitting back, he takes a breath and reaches for a cloth for his hands.

"Am I an acceptable nurse?"