John picked his way lethargically up the steps. One step after the other. One step at a time. His climbing drifted toward the banister, and it wasn't long before his hand was skimming the wood. The bloody shirt dangled from the other, and the coat hung open around his bandaged chest. The exorcist didn't care though.
His eyes were heavy and his legs felt like lead. But most of all his lungs burned. He needed to lay down and sleep for a year. Maybe he wouldn't wake up--no, he would wake up. John didn't give up just because some birds had decided to steal chunks out of his skin. He just needed rest to start replenishing the blood.
Distantly, John glanced back after Chas, but he only turned back and continued pulling himself up the stairs, through the hall on the top floor, and dragged himself into the bedroom he'd woken up in. The door rebounded off the wall and drifted a few inches shut, but John couldn't just go flop face down on the bed, and pass out. He had to check first. Every corner. Under the bed. The closet. Everything. He started to sluggishly but thoroughly inspect the room. Every square inch of it.