Someone was coughing, hacking. The sharp, staccato sounds were coming from a bedroom a few doors down the hall from the impromptu gathering of people. And they were rapidly growing wetter. More strangled.
John Constantine had awoken, and before he could spear a thought for the old man bearing that odd envelope. All he could think about was the cloying, grimy mass in his lungs and the shallow, thready breathes he was reduced to. At first he'd only been able to roll over onto his side, but soon that wasn't enough. He could already taste the blood, and unless he wanted to ruin his--no, whomever's sheets these were--he needed a sink.
John lurched to his feet, and staggered to the door, and out into the hall. He hit the door hard on one shoulder and fumbled for the handkerchief from his pocket. The door jerked open and John burst into the hallway, the white cloth already pressed to his mouth.
And then he stopped, and stared at the people standing before him, engaged in their own conversation. For a moment, the coughing subsided and he truly realized that this was not his home. That he had no idea where he was. His eyes darted quickly between them all, the two women--not half bad--and the two men, and then.
"...Chas?" he rasped, in a strangled voice. His throat tickled, and caught, and he coughed again.