If he'd given much thought to anything beyond his immediate discomfort, he might have anticipated a ready cup of tea, but Martin meets him at the door with far more prepared than just a hot kettle. He's divested of the umbrella, which Martin pops open to dry — "Bad luck, that," John mumbles as rain drips off his nose — and then a towel is draped over his head, and his vision clears enough to see that Martin's got a second one standing by. "Oh — Christ, thank you."

It won't do much for him until he's out of his wet things, though. Well, one step at a time.

He offers his bag to Martin's waiting hands so he can give his hair a vigorous rub and pat his face dry, though clearing the rainwater from his vision has the drawback of allowing him a good look at himself. His shirt is doing a credible impression of cellophane, his vest beneath only offers a suggestion of increased opacity, and his trousers have gone from dove grey to something more like charcoal. He groans to himself, then drops the damp towel onto the floor. At least he can deposit his wet clothes on that instead of just letting them slap down onto the tiles.

A roll of thunder rumbles across the breadth of the city, and John winces, peeling his shirt away from his torso and picking apart the buttons. The sodden fabric clings to him as if it consciously objects to being removed, and as John clumsily divests himself of shirt and vest, shoes and trousers, his face screws up in increasingly petulant disgust. "This is awful," he says, mentally gearing himself up for the removal of his socks. Then, self-pity outweighing any lingering hope of dignity, he adds a dour, "I'm never going outside again."