The feeling one receives upon waking up after falling a hundred feet is not a pleasant one, to say the very least. Sirius would have, if you asked him, described it as being hit over the head by a cinderblock attached to a bludger, flying at- at very least- 300 miles per hour. However while he was doing this himself he wasn't really in the mood for descriptions.
Remus himself was going through the identical process at the exact same time. If he had been asked however, he would have said it hurt the first couple of times but you get use to it, after all he had. He opened his eyes to a different room than the one he remembered passing out in but he hadn't expected to. He had gotten to know this room rather well the hospital wing. It's white-wash walls and white sheets and white everything were part of his routine. He knew it had to be Tuesday by now; full moon had been Sunday night. He was always unconscious for one whole day, although that was admittedly better than the three or four days it had once been, when he was younger.
The infirmary looked the same as usual. He was in his bed, furthest from Madame Pomfrey's office with an excellent view of the quidditch pitches; he liked to think of it as his seeing as he was the person who used it most. From there he had a nice outlook on the entire wing, and (when they were open) out the doors into the corridor itself.
Most of the beds were empty he was pleased to see. The more people here the larger a chance of being asked what had happened to him. There was a tiny girl in the end, clearly first year, who was bright green and appeared to have lost all facial orifices so she wasn't up to 'chatting' even if she had felt like it. Shaking his head benignly he cast his eyes to the other line of beds he saw only one other face, in the bed closest to his own. His eyes widened in shock. It was the person he had least expected. No way...