Snatches of reality manage to work their way through the thick fog that has settled in his brain. John. Mary. John again.
It's mostly voices; he can't make out what they're saying, but the mere sound is comforting somehow. It means he's not actually dead, and for now that's enough.
Then comes someone who doesn't say anything, just cards gentle fingers through his hair and waits. He instantly recognises the familiar touch, and slips back into a peaceful slumber.