Martin feels a bit like he's walking through thick, wet fog as John guides him back to the couch — a comparison both pointed and apt. It isn't until they're seated that he feels like he can once again hold thoughts in his head, though it takes a while to sort through them. He looks rather blankly at John's hand for a moment before reaching out to take it, his fingers curling around John's in a loose but affirming clasp.

It's a long time before he says anything at all.

"I suppose I try not to think about it most days," he says. "And it... it caught me off guard, and that made me feel..." He draws a heavy breath, shifting uncomfortably. "Well. It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, I—I shouldn't have said those things. I am sorry, John. It..." He chews his lip for a while, wishing this still didn't feel so bloody insufficient. "Obviously it wasn't your fault. I know if you could've heard me, you... you'd have listened. I know that."

It's good to lay it out so clearly, but it still doesn't feel like enough, and he looks down, staring numbly at his free hand where it sits useless in his lap.

"I—" He stops, wavering, trying to find the right words, coming up empty. He grunts, frustrated. "I don't know how to talk about this."