The wait is agonising, and Lancelot feels his stomach turning a little with every minute that passes. He keeps hold of Nancy's hands, as if pressing comfort into her directly, and when the door opens and everyone comes back he can't decide if he feels fear or relief that at least they'll now find out for sure either way.

This is it, do or die.

He lets go of one of her hands because leads her by the other, trying for his best encouraging smile even though she probably feels far sicker than he does.