Good lad. A bit on the scraggly side, but clearly earnest enough if he ran to the rescue of someone who'd just been cut by some psychotic New Feather. Maybe this would excite Sherlock... Unless the aforementioned attacker had some sort of vendetta against the Frenchwoman herself, in which case, it would probably be boring. Depending on how spiteful the detective was feeling about having his own new feathers twisted by the woman in question (John would wager the grudge was still in place), almost any assault would have been below a 7.

Left alone with Adele, John pushed his way into one of the trauma rooms and laid the woman on the singular table within it.

"Take off your shirt and bra, please, and lie back." He directed, twisting on the nearby sink to soak his hands before he pulled off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. After he was up to his elbows in antibiotics, he pulled on a set of gloves and pulled over the wheeled supply drawer itself. There was a drape for modesty (in fact, one of the reasons he sent the young boy along) as one of the things first out, along with gauze and surgical wipes. If she hadn't done away with entirely, John would be getting rid of that shirt and trying to quickly work at wiping away the blood to see the wound he was dealing with.

"You're going to be alright," He told her, because having her panic all over his operating table was not something he wanted to deal with. "Never did catch your name."