Between pulling the damp cloth away once the bleeding has stemmed to barely a droplet or two, dripping some iodine onto a cotton pad and dabbing at the cuts, Doc's heart doesn't skip a beat at that revelation, nor does he hold his breath or either of his hands falter. He doesn't even blink. Tilting his head to one side, he fetches some gauze to tape down over the cuts and wraps his work up with half of a brand new roll of bandages, mentally adding a trip back to the store to restock to his list of things to do for today.

He does not know of Jack the Ripper. The modern concept of a serial killer did not exist back in his time, though he has encountered many a twisted figure and can easily guess what a serial killer is, on top of Malcolm being one of those behavioural whatever he said he was, so a part of his lack of response could be attributed to that. More likely than not though, he's just wearing his tired old poker face.

Taking Malcolm's other hand, he turns it over to check for any cuts, and then he tugs up on the cuffs of those jeans to see if he might have stepped on any broken glass.