He's from London? He doesn't sound like it. But even London is still hours away by train, and John's stomach clenches like a fist. Are they both in London now, then? Or somewhere else entirely?

John swallows thickly when Martin asks if they've been drugged. It's getting harder to hold himself together. He's had plenty of practice, but usually against bullies: people who want to see you scared, which is why it's so important not to show them when you are. But Martin's not trying to scare him, and he sounds like he might start crying at any moment, and John really wishes he wouldn't.

"Maybe...?" he replies uncertainly. He doesn't feel like he's been drugged, but he doesn't know what being drugged is supposed to feel like. Sometimes medicine makes him tired, but he's wide awake now. Maybe whatever drugs they were given just wore off, and you feel normal once they have. "I don't remember anyone, either. It—it was just... normal."

John chews on his lower lip, his eyes fixed on the bedroom door. It's ajar, a little, and he wonders if it was left open so whoever took them could hear them when they woke up. Except he hasn't heard anyone moving around out there, yet, and it's not like they've been that quiet. Maybe the kidnapper's asleep in another room, though that seems stupid, too. Why go to all this trouble just to ignore them? Shouldn't they be... keeping watch, or something?

Moments after he thinks as much, the door starts to slowly push inward with an awful little creaking sound. John sucks in a breath, scrabbling back against the headboard.