"Can't be too careful," John says with an illustrative gesture at himself, his tone the only part of him that's as dry as he'd like it to be. Despite the second towel draped around his shoulders, he's starting to shiver. Giving himself a vigorous scrub with said towel helps a little, at least insofar as it keeps him moving and banishes the worst of the chill, but there's no chance of him starting to warm up while he's still stood in the entryway, mostly nude and only nominally dry. Even The Bishop can't do much for him; it would feel mean-spirited to cuddle the cat while he's still a bit damp, and while the way he rubs himself against John's shins is sweet, it isn't particularly effective.

He's having to work to keep his teeth from chattering by the time Martin returns with the very welcome sight of his robe. It's been too warm for him to wear it much lately, even with how cool he tends to run; now, he could about weep with gratitude at the mere sight of it. "Perfect, thank you," he sighs, wrapping it snugly around himself and tying the belt with minimal fumbling. It's an immediate improvement, and he bends to scoop up the cat, cradling him against his chest like a purring hot water bottle as he finally heads further into the flat to collapse onto the couch.

The prospect of tea is just enticing enough that he refrains from immediately whining at Martin to come join him. But he still allows himself to be theatrically wretched, his head lolling back against the cushions as the cat purrs against his chest. Rain lashes the window behind him as if the storm is still trying to target him, specifically, and both John and The Bishop start as another crack of thunder rings out, this one close enough that he actually feels it through the bloody floor. "Jesus," he mutters, lifting his head to look back at the kitchen. "All right in there?"