The work is easy, anyhow. Sherlock sets his unease aside and sets himself to the puncture wound, wiping grime away from the site before pouring rather a vicious but necessarily antiseptic amount of alcohol. His gaze flickers up warily once or twice to Jason's again, but he doesn't reply until he's finished with the wound: he binds a tight dressing, winding a clean white band around the section of Jason's calf that he's scrubbed clean of grit and gore.

His hands are filthy now. He takes a few moments to fix that, scraping away Extra blood, Jason's, dirt, ash, until his fingers are bare and white again, all except for under the nails.

"I thought it was," he gives his eventual answer. "From a distance or out of the corner of my eye it looks it. But when I examine it I don't recognize any of the characters. It stands up well to cryptographic frequency analysis, too. A little too well, in fact. You know, I don't wonder if it is in the Roman alphabet and there's not some sort of," he frowns, "spell or effect or, I don't know, enchantment on it to keep me from reading it. I've no frame of reference."

There is blood in his hair, God only knows how it got there. He's starting to look like he's done a murder, or had one done upon his person. It doesn't bother him just now. "Your ribs now," he orders, imperious.