Jonathan Sims

It's an astute observation, though John still lets out a noncommittal grumble before bracing a hand on the couch and levering himself upright. The motion grants him a handful (well, backful) of resentful twinges and two audible cracks, and he winces briefly until Martin's promise registers.

"Ooh," John says with an intrigued lilt, getting to his feet and stepping aside so Martin can toddle past him. "I'll just go and prepare myself, shall I?"

He heads for the kitchen, first, getting himself a glass of water, downing half of it, and refilling the glass to bring along for the ride — Martin might be a bit thirsty when he emerges, as well. The water is set carefully on the bedside table, and then John shucks off his top, mentally congratulating himself on having already dressed down before things got underway. It means there's nothing else to stand between him and pitching down onto the bed, which he does with a quiet oof and a gusty sigh. He could probably grab his pillow, but for the moment he just lets himself sprawl, eyes drifting closed as he listens for Martin's arrival.