John announces his return to consciousness with a pained whimper, and not much more than that.

"Thanks," John says, his voice barely a whisper. Speaking is hellishly difficult, but he has an important question:

"Is—is Godric ... okay?"

John's desire to get on his feet and get out is at odds with the fact that he can't really walk for long without needing to sit down. He's just returned to his bed and sat down when Dorian approaches.

"You, ah, didn't strike me as the kind of guy to say 'sic 'em'," he says wryly. "I mean, your statement notwithstanding ... and you're right, I deserved it. But thank you for clearing that point up."

He can actually manage a small, hollow laugh, though it hurts his throat. "I feel amazingly pathetic," he admits. "Norton said this—this death toll was like a week-long hangover, but I never had a hangover like this."

John looks up from the book he's not really reading, closes it, and gets carefully to his feet.

"Nothing but," he says, and offers his hand. "Father John Pruitt ... though I guess you know that already."

His handshake is a little less firm and emphatic than usual.

John is sitting up now, and is sort of able to read without his eyes totally swimming, and he smiles at Tiffany, who he's seen around but not properly talked to yet.

"I'm doing all right for now. Thank you. You—you run a tight ship here. So to speak."