Holmes has returned to his room, discarded the shredded and torn and
acid-sprayed trousers, applied basic first aid to the cuts and bruises,
and cleaned upt he detritus of the battle against the demons. Rinsed out
his beakers and test tubes in the tub, running water until the brackish
goo that he was using for a makeshift weapon slowly oozed down the drain.
He dropped the spent revolver cartridges in the garbage can and packed
away the gun.  And then he ran out of things to do. He sat in the darkness
of the storm a long time before the lights came back, and when they did,
he bought a bottle of whiskey at the hotel bar and brought it up to his
room. There is no music. Holmes is in his dressing gown, slacks, and
slippers - they seem to bring him little comfort.

A knock sounds on the door. Constantine waits outside, slouching. He's
pale and tired-looking, as if the storm had washed something vital away
from him.  In one hand he holds (surprise, surprise) a bottle of whiskey.

Holmes doesn't answer the door, but he's definitely in there, and it's
unlocked. He's sluggishly thrown himself across one chair with his feet in
another, head lolling slightly to one side, not with drunkeness but from
just a total lack of energy. His face is wan and drawn. He still hasn't
eaten anything.

Constantine waits a few moments. Then his impatience gets the better of
him and he opens the door and steps inside. After a moment of looking
expressionlessly at the scene, he lifts the bottle and says, "I see you've
already got one. Good, 'cos I think I'll need this one myself." He doesn't
leave, though.

Holmes lifts his head and fixes Constantine with an empty gaze. "Mmm." he
says disinterestedly. He sits up far enough to lean on his hand and put
his elbow on the table. His other hand rests motionless next to the empty
tumbler, one graceful finger tracing a small circle in the water ring left
behind by the humidity.

Constantine just looks at Holmes. Slowly, gradually, a faint frown builds
up on his face, even as his temper builds up in his head.

Then he explodes.

"*Now* you're sitting here moping! *Now* you miss her! And this makes up
for ignoring her while she was alive, does it?"

Holmes doesn't look offended, shocked or upset - he doesn't look anything,
not even sad, exactly. He looks dulled, morose - depressed in the literal
sense of the word, all the peaks and valleys of human communication
flattened out.  He simply unfolds his body from behind the table, standing
up to his full height, walks back over to the door and opens it. Then,
Holmes gestures calmly to the hall. Get out.

But an angry Constantine is very difficult to get rid of. (Of course, he's
always angry. Sometimes he just chooses not to show it.) "The couch! The
fucking couch! She was still sleeping there the night before we left
Beacon Harbor, wasn't she? How could you be so brilliant and still so
fucking blind?"  At this point he pauses enough in his tirade to actually
register the meaning of the open door and Holmes's gesture. "I don't think
so, mate," he snaps.  "I'm not going until I get some answers. Why were
you so bloody *stupid*?"

Holmes's voice comes with a previously unknown stillness (previously
unknown to this century and world, at least). "Perhaps here it is the
custom to pry into others' personal affairs. I decline to encourage it. I
bid you good afternoon, and hope you will leave before you convince me to
conform to the custom."

At least I got him to talk, John reflects, insofar as he's capable of
reflection at the moment--for the most part, he's too caught up in his
anger.  "I saw the look on her face as she went off to die." Every word is
measured and forceful; no punches are pulled here. "She deserved better!
You didn't just lose your chance--you lost hers." He falls silent, save
for the sound of his slightly ragged breathing. "There's something for you
to mope about, genius. Hope you've got enough to drink." He turns to go.

Holmes closes the door behind Constantine without another word. He doesn't
look drunk - he doesn't look anything. Just closes it. This time he turns
the bolt.