"Ehm," Ianto answers, uncertainly, glancing aside at both of the bags in question. "I do actually, yeah. Let me..." He pushes himself up to stand, pausing before he's reached the bad arm, and moving to pull both bags closer to him. Digging through his supplies and John's, fetching out the antiseptic the other man had brought and the bandages of his own. And the water. There's a pitcher across the room, and he's got a clean handkerchief that he's willing to sacrifice in the name of John's health.

"Right," he says, recognizing he's repeating himself but needing to steel for this himself. He flicks his eyes back up to John, hesitantly questioning and apologetic at once. "Okay. On three then, yeah? One. Two..." Ianto presses his lips together tightly, preparing himself for whatever sight he might uncover here, as he finishes, "Three," and tears off the remaining arm of the other man's fleece.