The futility of his errand isn't lost on Martin — not if that faint twitch of his eyebrow is anything to go by — but he dutifully plays along, recovering the file and stumbling a bit as he leaves the office. John watches him go, repressing a smirk, and then gets to his feet the moment after the door closes. He crosses to the cot, and after a few moments of rummaging, he successfully finds the pants (prudently sealed in a plastic bag to save it from dust), brings them back over to the desk, and deposits them in one of the mid-level drawers. Much better.

He has enough time for a sip of his perfect cuppa before Martin returns, and he watches over the rim of his mug as one of the Jones files is set before him. He barely notes which one; it really doesn't matter. Instead, he stares at it for a beat, heaves a weary sigh, and sets down the cup, giving Martin his full, undivided attention.

"You seem to be struggling today," he observes, appending a faintly snide, "more than usual." It would be cheap, he thinks, to immediately devolve into the idea that he requires some sort of punishment, as if this is a lazily written porn film. Instead, John scrutinizes Martin through narrowed eyes, studying his blushing face as if it's a puzzle he's been reluctantly badgered into solving. "Are you... ill?" he asks. "You're flushed." He gestures, idly illustrative, towards Martin's face.