Lincoln murmured a thanks to her for her help in getting him across the field, then leaned back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a moment as he tried to sort through what he could remember about stitching up a wound. He'd had to do it once before, when he'd slashed his forearm on a shard of glass while climbing out of a window. Back when he'd been younger and stupider and his Saturday nights were filled with breaking and entering, taking what he needed and attempting to escape unscathed.
He opened his eyes again to the sight of her preparing to slam her fist into the window. "Don't," he called out ineffectively, just a moment before he saw and heard her fist slam into the window.
It looked like it hurt, and to top it off, the glass was still intact. So he moved forward then and used his elbow to accomplish the same feat; and thanks to many years of practice breaking in to places he shouldn't have been in, his attempt was fortunately successful. The heavy weight of his jacket managed to shield his skin from further injury as he reached in to unlock the door.
Glass crunched beneath his footsteps as he staggered into the building. He could feel blood oozing down his leg, making the fabric of his pants stick to his skin. He hoped it was only his own blood, and not anything from the dog that had slashed at him. He didn't know enough about how the undead's infection transfer worked, but general knowledge made him think that if he could avoid the animal's blood or saliva in his open wound; maybe, just maybe... there was a chance he could make it through this.
Once they were both inside the room, Lincoln shut the door securely behind them and turned to the woman, glancing down at her hand. "Does it feel broken?" He figured she'd know, even if she had never broken a bone before. It was an unmistakable pain. But she hadn't screamed out in agony yet, so either she had a ridiculously high pain tolerance or she had managed to avoid breaking any bones. He really hoped it was the latter.
He started rifling through the cupboards and drawers until he gathered up what he would need - sterile thread, a curved needle, and a pair of forceps. He'd been preparing himself to make do with whatever was available, so he considered it a small victory that the building was indeed stocked with the essentials.
Wincing, Lincoln hauled himself up on top of a table, took his hunting knife from it's holster and used it to rip away the remainder of his pant leg up to his knee, clearing the area for him to access the gouges across his calf. "Do you see any bottles of saline around - or water? Gauze pads, cloth?" He needed to clean it first, and it looked ....well, bad. Blood oozed from the deep open wounds, bits of debris and dirt would need to get thoroughly washed away before he could take a needle to the skin. And it was going to be painful at that. A lengthy, arduous process that he really wasn't looking forward to; but once again he told himself he'd endured far worse before - I can manage this.