Even before Bakura's choked word, Solomon's grasp on the spirit was seesawing. He could draw them together, but pulling together and knitting together weren't the same thing here, and the Necromantic power he was exerting just wasn't enough for a being so badly sundered. There just wasn't anything there to encourage healing.

Then their little bubble of reality exploded and Solomon was hurled back into one of the Dreaming's bookcases, and he tumbled to the floor without enough time to muster shadows as a cushion. He lay there and gasped for some moments, feeling as though he ought to have been cut to shreds or possibly torn to pieces from inside out.

It took far too long, but eventually he managed to get his hand to move and tried to push himself upright. He didn't succeed; his whole body felt like a limp noodle. He crawled over to the table instead, and between that and one single, thin shadow helping him up managed to get to his feet.

"Ba--" He coughed through his terribly dry mouth, as if he'd spent far too long in a desert, and tried again. "Bakura?"

That ... was not precisely the reaction he'd been expecting once they'd reached that far. He hoped that meant it was due to Bakura losing control and not anything they'd done wrong otherwise--or else they would have a great deal more to research before they tried again.