A distraction, indeed. Prior requires no prompting to notice and frankly finds himself at a loss as to how he'd missed the worsening signs. The smells, the pallor, the way that Fitzjames holds himself—

"Let's see it," he says, voice brooking no argument. He turns partway, legs akimbo, and begins rolling up his sleeves so as to avoid getting too much blood on his cuffs. Bad enough to have to rely on scavenging, he's certainly not bound to run across a qualified laundress.