The thanks is both bolstering and a bit embarrassing, and Martin's answering smile is a little strained, but it's beside the point now. He helps John into the WC and out of his trousers, gentle as he can, then he crouches down to inspect the bandaged leg. He's about to start unwinding all that when John thanks him again, startling him softly. He looks up, catching John's eyes and holding his gaze for a moment, his hand coming to rest around the back of John's calf. It might be a supportive gesture if there was any indication John needed it, but there is something else driving him to make that contact, some compulsion gnawing at the back of his mind.

"I've got you," he murmurs, a reassurance that doesn't seem necessary, and yet. "Just relax."

He tips his head back down to examine the bandage. For all it was magically produced, it seems to be an ordinary bandage, closely wrapped but not adhered to him or anything awful. Small mercies. He tuts softly as he starts unraveling it, gradually revealing the scarred leg beneath. Most of the scars are old and familiar; shrapnel from the House of Wax. Today's wound seems mostly healed and with only a little left behind to show. John might have weathered much worse, but Martin's glad he didn't have to.

"Looks all right," he says, then sighs heavily at the torn trousers before looking up at John. Again there's that pull from somewhere in him, the back of his thoughts or behind his ribs. He hesitates, then reaches out to take John's hand, rubbing his thumb gently over his knuckles. "You're okay."