John doesn't have to Know that Martin is barely holding it together. Even if recent events weren't more than enough to tip him over the edge, his discomfort is clear enough in his eyes and his voice and, most of all, in his silence. Martin is a natterer, even when he's frightened. Quiet suggests something well beyond fear.
Perhaps John ought to be able to match it, that fear, but he isn't sure he wants to, or can. It was... unpleasant, what had happened. It had hurt. If he'd had more time to think about it, it might have occurred to him that there was a chance, however small, that he wouldn't simply recover from whatever foreign threat Darrow was in the process of throwing at him, and that he was risking more than temporary discomfort and another scar for the collection.
But it's the alternative that scares him, to the point where he cannot bring himself to regret any of it: not his choice or the consequences. Another scar, in exchange for Martin's life, is a fucking pittance. He'd make that trade again in a heartbeat. He may be tired and sore and worried about his partner, but he is not sorry as much as he is relieved that, despite what could have happened, they are walking home together, hand in hand.
He also knows that Martin knows all of that, and that airing it would be little comfort. So he keeps quiet as well, holding tight to Martin's hand, until he has to let go to enter their flat. And then, it's only a moment or two — the precise amount of time it takes for Martin to shut the door and turn back around — before Martin is clutching his hands again, both of them, as his composure finally shatters.
"Martin..." John starts, taking a small step towards him. He wants to just pull him into a hug; he is also acutely aware that it might have mixed results when he's still got a bloody hole in his shirt and a fresh scar visible through it. He settles for tipping his forehead down to rest against Martin's, and carefully extricating one hand so he can lift it to Martin's cheek. "I had to. I'm sorry. I—" his own breath hitches, and he swallows thickly. "I couldn't lose you."
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Perhaps John ought to be able to match it, that fear, but he isn't sure he wants to, or can. It was... unpleasant, what had happened. It had hurt. If he'd had more time to think about it, it might have occurred to him that there was a chance, however small, that he wouldn't simply recover from whatever foreign threat Darrow was in the process of throwing at him, and that he was risking more than temporary discomfort and another scar for the collection.
But it's the alternative that scares him, to the point where he cannot bring himself to regret any of it: not his choice or the consequences. Another scar, in exchange for Martin's life, is a fucking pittance. He'd make that trade again in a heartbeat. He may be tired and sore and worried about his partner, but he is not sorry as much as he is relieved that, despite what could have happened, they are walking home together, hand in hand.
He also knows that Martin knows all of that, and that airing it would be little comfort. So he keeps quiet as well, holding tight to Martin's hand, until he has to let go to enter their flat. And then, it's only a moment or two — the precise amount of time it takes for Martin to shut the door and turn back around — before Martin is clutching his hands again, both of them, as his composure finally shatters.
"Martin..." John starts, taking a small step towards him. He wants to just pull him into a hug; he is also acutely aware that it might have mixed results when he's still got a bloody hole in his shirt and a fresh scar visible through it. He settles for tipping his forehead down to rest against Martin's, and carefully extricating one hand so he can lift it to Martin's cheek. "I had to. I'm sorry. I—" his own breath hitches, and he swallows thickly. "I couldn't lose you."