Once he's updated the others on their latest lost trail, John can almost feel his energy leaking out of his body. It's a bizarre sensation, where everything around him becomes blurry and confused, and his movements are like trudging through jelly.

He knows it was foolish of him to insist on doing this meeting, that he's given it everything he has, but he's always been bad at this conserving energy thing. Or at admitting his own limits. He'd so much rather pretend they weren't there.

And the unforgiving pain of the migraine, bashing into his head at every voice, every sniff of Lauren's discrete perfume, every ray of light, is making him lethargic rather than tense, today. John is not sure that's better. His whole body is sore from contracting all night, but now fatigue is blowing over him.

Reed and Caitlin startle him by standing up, and John realizes the meeting is over and he hasn't heard a word of it. He's still leaning against Clarice, who must be straining under his weight by now, and his head is pounding in rhythm with his heart.

"John?"

Clarice's voice is simultaneously coming from far away and like fire in his ears. John digs inside himself to find the energy to sit up and untangle himself from her. His movements are sluggish and clumsy.

"What's wrong with him? He was okay earlier," he hears Clarice whisper, and he realizes Marcos is the one crouching in front of him, an undefined shape in the glare coming from the window. John closes his eyes again.

"John?" Marcos tries, gently shaking his hand. At least that's what John thinks he's doing, but he can barely feel it.

"Hm?" John tries, swallowing when his mouth is too dry to talk.

"John, I need you to pay attention for a second," Marcos says.

Things are getting clearer again, though the pain in his head doesn't abate. John nods slowly.

"I need to know if you'd rather stay here or go back to your place."

"Home," John murmurs, because it's the most he can say in one go right now.

Though the couch feels inviting, the hangar is the worst place for him to be. The windows can't be covered, and the acoustics are terrible.

"Alright," Clarice says. "Marcos is gonna help, okay?"

John wants to protest, or thank them, he isn't even sure, but the words don't make it past his mouth. He swallows again, instead, battling the never-ending nausea. He holds up a hand before Marcos can haul him up like he seems to be planning−telegraphing his moves, probably so it gets through the fog in John's brain−and tries to breathe until he doesn't feel like his insides want to come out anymore.

"'k," he murmurs. "'m ready."

"Ear defenders," Clarice warns before she gently put them on his ears. John makes a vague gesture of thanks. The pressure around his head isn't the best thing right now, but at least they muffle the noise from the street outside and the echoes of their voices.

Marcos guides John's arm over his shoulders, and between him and Clarice, they get him on his feet. John tries to lean on them as little as possible, knowing he's too heavy for either of them to carry. His legs are jelly like the rest of him, but as long as he has someone to guide him, he can walk. He just doesn't think he can orientate himself−especially with his eyes closed against the light−or stay upright properly without help.

The stairs are awkward. Enhanced proprioception issues make John completely unable to know where his feet are in relation to the steps, and he has to squint his eyes open and stare at them. He's still leaning too much on Marcos−he tries to stand up straighter, but he only manages to overbalance and nearly make Clarice fall down the stairs.

"Sorry," he murmurs, once he's made sure she's okay.

She squeezes his hand hard enough for him to feel. "It's okay. Let's just get you up there."

John struggles to walk the rest of the way mostly under his own power, only letting his friends act as guides. The fog is too thick to concentrate through, but he makes it to their apartment. He collapses on the bed, his energy fully spent.

Clarice closes the curtains and gently removes his shoes, while Marcos backs out of the room.

"You need anything?" she asks, whispering, stroking his face like she did last night.

"No," John says. "I'll be alright." There's no pretending that he's okay right now, not after the show he just gave them.

"I love you," Clarice murmurs. John opens his eyes, only noticing now that she's removed his glasses and ear defenders and put them on the nightstand. The room is dark enough that he can see her face without squinting. She looks close to tears.

John sighs. She's never seen him with a migraine before, so this has to be hard on her. He hates himself for that. Gently, he catches her hand on his cheek and brings it to his mouth to kiss. "Don't worry."

Clarice lets out a very small laugh. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yeah," John says. He looks for a way to say what he wants that doesn't take too many words, but his head is pounding too much. "This...is nothing. I'll be fine. Just need...time."

"Okay," Clarice says. "I just hate seeing you like this."

"You should...go. I'll just sleep."

"You sure? I can stay."

John nods carefully. "Just tired," he says, closing his eyes. He keeps to himself the rest of it, the pain and the nausea and his once again shaking hands. There's nothing to be done about them anyway.

Gnawing on her lower lip, Clarice joins Marcos back in the living room.

"He says he's going to sleep," she says, slumping into a chair. "Help yourself if you want anything," she adds with a wave toward the kitchen, realizing she's being a terrible host. But Marcos is not really a guest either, he's as close as it gets to family.

Marcos nods, but simply sits down at the table.

"You okay?" he asks.

"What's going on with him?" Clarice asks instead of answering, unable to tear her eyes away from the closed bedroom door. "He was okay this morning. I mean, not okay, but better."

"I think he just over-estimated his strength," Marcos says. "He's going to have ups and downs for a couple of days."

"Hum," Clarice nods. "He crashed really fast, though."

"It's happened before, okay? Don't worry too much."

Clarice nods slowly. "I just… I feel really helpless."

"I know it's hard," Marcos says. "Believe me, I was just as scared the first time I saw him like this, but he will get better."

"Thank you," Clarice says.

"For what?"

"Saying that. I feel bad that it's so hard to watch him like that. I just want to help, but−"

"You seem to be doing a good job of that," Marcos says.

Clarice gives him a small smile. "Wish I could do more."

"Me too," Marcos admits. "This is a bad one," he adds. "Usually he feels better after getting some sleep."

"I don't think he slept much. And he hasn't been sleeping well in general, not since−" Clarice make a wide motion, still unable to find the words to refer to what happened in Atlanta and Charlotte. "Maybe even before that, I'm not sure."

Marcos frowns, thinking. "He might be also hypoglycemic. When was the last time he ate?"

"I don't know," Clarice says. "He didn't want anything this morning, or last night." She remembers the untouched container in the fridge. "Probably not since you came back," she adds. "And he threw up yesterday."

"Damn," Marcos murmurs. "This is my fault."

"Marcos," Clarice calls to get him to look at her. "It's not your fault. He said you were just the trigger, that the cause was something else."

"Still," Marcos says. "I keep losing control. I can't go on like this."

Clarice puts a hand on his arm. "We all understand, Marcos. We'll get to Lorna, okay?"

"Yes. Sorry, I shouldn't even be burdening you with my problems right now. We need to get John to eat something. I know the migraines make him nauseous, but he needs the strength."

"I have this chicken broth recipe from my foster mom," Clarice says. "You think he could eat that?"

"Maybe. Won't hurt to try. You need anything from the store? I can go if you want to stay with him."

"Thanks," Clarice smiles at Marcos. "That would be great. It will take a while to cook, though. Should I try to get him to eat crackers or something first?"

"Maybe you should get advice from Caitlin," Marcos says. "She'll know better than me." He blinks and looks away. "Lorna knew what to do for John, every time. I never did."

Clarice looks at him sadly for a moment and nods. "Okay, I'll text Caitlin."

"What do you need from the store?"

"I have some frozen chicken," Clarice says, going over to the freezer and taking out the meat to warm up in the sink. "Let me see...celery, mushrooms...parsley? Yes, I think that's it."

"Alright," Marcos stands up. "I should be back in half-an-hour."

Clarice nods. "Thanks. Can you get some Gatorade too? In case he really can't handle food?"

"Sure."

Marcos leaves the apartment, careful not to slam the door on his way out, and Clarice finds herself alone and worried again. At a loss, she looks around the kitchen. She doesn't want to wake John up, but he does need to eat, so she pops some bread in the toaster for him.

She brings it to him a few minutes later on a plate, with a glass of water. She figures it might be better to get him to eat before he falls asleep too deeply.

"Dry toast?" John asks with amusement, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. The room is nearly fully dark, so he doesn't need to put his sunglasses back on. Clarice tries to navigate it by memory and almost drop the plate when she stubs her toe on the corner of the bed.

"I thought it might stay down better than real food," Clarice says. "You're still nauseous, aren't you?"

John nods, and seems to regret it. "Not sure I can eat even that," he says.

"Do you want to try, at least? You need to eat." Clarice doesn't want to baby him, to take away his right to decide for himself, but she's not sure how clearly he can think right now.

"I know," John sighs, proving he's conscious of his situation. "I'll try."

Clarice hands him the plate and puts the glass of water on his nightstand. "Can I sit with you?" she asks.

"You don't have to. I know this is hard for you."

"Hard for me?" Clarice bites down her instinctive reaction to reassure him and goes for the truth. "Yeah, it's hard watching you in pain. That's why I want to help."

"Thank you," John murmurs, taking a small bite of the toast. Neither of their voices have gone above a whisper, and John winces at the noise the toasted bread makes in his mouth.

"Oh, I didn't think of that," Clarice apologizes.

"It's okay," John says. "I don't think I'll manage much more anyway. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault."

"But you went to the trouble of making this."

"John, it's toast, not a couscous," Clarice says. "I just want you to feel better."

"Yeah, me too," John says with a self-depreciating smile.

"I want to try to make you some chicken broth for later. You think you could eat that?"

"Maybe. Sometimes the nausea gets better after I've slept."

"Good," Clarice says.

John puts the plate aside and doesn't try to eat anymore. His head is already lolling to the side, like it's too heavy for him to hold up.

"Go to sleep," Clarice murmurs. "And call me if you need anything, alright?"

John doesn't even answer and only lies back down on his side, pressing his arm over his exposed ear once more.

"What am I going to do with you?" Clarice murmurs to herself, once she's walked out of the room and carefully closed the door.

She texts Caitlin to ask if there's something to do about John's nausea. The answer comes as she's starting to prepare the ingredients for her chicken broth.

I can come by with some anti-emetics. We could try painkillers or migraine medications as well if the pain is what's making him nauseous.

He says painkillers don't work, Clarice answers. But anti-emetics sound good. Thanks.

I'll be here as soon as I can take a break. Probably no sooner than in an hour, though.

Clarice sighs and steels herself for another hour of worrying by herself. She does that too much, these days.