Consciousness returned slowly, sluggish thoughts drifting just out of reach in the chill of the
sensations tantalizing him, dancing out of sight, out of smell, out of earshot, out of touch, only the taste of
rhododendrum ponticum honey
lodged in the crevices of his teeth and bittersweet in his throat and that meant something he knew it meant something if only he could think past the nervous presence of
yammering at him, inane reassurances, her fingertips so small against his wrist where John's fingertips had pressed hunting for a pulse that wasn't there, and suddenly was again.