John has been roused by Martin's nightmares before, often in more dramatic fashion than this — to the point where he isn't immediately aware of what has drawn him back to consciousness. He drifts for half a beat, wondering if this is a feline intrusion that he can safely ignore. Then he registers Martin's ragged breathing, and lucidity lands like a slap.

John lifts his head, blinking into the dark. "Martin?" he mumbles, laboriously freeing one arm from beneath his pillow so he can bat at the bedside lamp. "All right?" The warm light that floods the room a moment later feels like far too much for whatever ungodly hour this is, and John shuts his eyes with a wince of protest before cracking them open again.

Martin, once he's brought into focus, looks a wreck. John rolls onto his side, brow furrowed. The instinct to reach for him is difficult to resist, but he doesn't want to risk anything until he has a better idea of what sort of state Martin's in. "Hey," he murmurs gently.