Severus shot her a look over his shoulder at the name, but fell very still when he saw her handling his wand. If she snapped it in half, he had no way to replace it. No Ollivander. No (somewhat) benevolent Admiral. No wand.

Slowly, he clambered to his feet and turned to face her, eyeing her warily and putting pressure on the wound. His right sleeve was bloodsoaked nonetheless. The anger and frustration was still there in his expression, a turmoil underneath the surface, but as much as he wanted to shout her down for the conclusions she had drawn (Milligan? Really?), he needed that wand intact.

"Martha," he started evenly, trying to be soothing without seemed patronizing. "You're a doctor. You won't stand by while I bleed, no matter how dangerous I seem. You would do it to no man. Not even Saxon. If you wish to help me, let me have that wand. If I wanted to harm you - truly harm you - I had ample opportunity in the hall."