Someone was coughing--hacking, really--from somewhere deeper in the bowels of the building. The coughing fit didn't sound terribly pleasant, and it was rapidly growing wetter. More strangled.
John had awoken in a fairly familiar position, wedged against a pair of doors, splayed out among a litter of broken glass. However, this time he'd been outside, and it hadn't been any supernatural powers that had tumbled him so violent against the doors. But the men with the needle, and the struggle were only unimportant flashes in his mind at the moment. Right now, all he could think about was the cloying, grimy mass in his lungs and the shallow, thready breathes he was reduced to. He could already taste the blood.
Having lurched up to his feet, and staggered through the back door, he was headed down the hall. The building looked public, and he as betting on a restroom. Coughing into the sink was a little more preferable that into the gutter, purely because the sink wasn't quite as awkward. His shoulder kept hitting the wall as he walked, and he barely registered the voices up as he approached the bathroom. Only enough to realize there hadn't been any outside. But John was more interested in fumbling for the handkerchief from his pocket.
And then he stopped, and stared at the Hispanic woman's rather militarist attire, and her company's rather discordant clothing. The three standing before him, engaged in their own conversation, certainly didn't look like they belong here. But then the place didn't look like John belonged here either. For a moment, the coughing subsided and he truly realized that this was not Los Angeles. That he had no idea where he was. That the men in those suits might have been a lot of things, but they weren't demons. His eyes darted quickly between them all, the woman--not half bad--and the two men, and then.
"...You wouldn't happen to have...cough syrup...?" he rasped, in a strangled voice. His throat tickled, and caught, and he coughed again.