Jack's sitting on the edge of the bed, cellphone in hand, eyeing John
Constantine's unconscious body. Kitty - ring, ring.

One and a half rings, and the phone's picked up. "Pryde." Nothing more
than that.

Two starchy syllables, and it's obvious who the one on the other end of
the line is. "Miss Pryde. Sorry to trouble you, but I've got a bit of a
problem here. I'm at Constantine's place, courtesy of one of those lovely
hunches. Seems our pet Merlin's gotten himself jammed - he's out like a
light. It looks like deep coma, enough so that he doesn't react even to
being lifted and carried. No obvious physical injuries that I can see, and
I'm rather dubious about calling the hospital. D'you have a healer handy,
perhance?"

Constantine is mostly dead, only without the black clothing torn in
strategic places like Westley had. Carry on, carry on.

A long pause. "Handy? No. But I might be able to dig one up. He's not
bleeding - you said 'lifted and carried.' Did you move him?" There's
absent, quick motion in the background, a door slamming. "How far? What
situation did you find him in?"

A pause in reply, as Jack casts another speculative glance at John. "No.
No external wounds or broken bones, no bruising to indicate internal   
bleeding, at least that I can see." He's got the phone cradled between ear
and shoulder, already tugging at Constantine's clothing to expose the skin
over the heart. A grimace of distaste. Legions of lovely young men in this
city, and here he has to undress the last man on earth he wants touch.
"Moved him from his living room floor to his bed. No scent of alcohol -  
this isn't drink induced. No drugs, at least that I recognize. The living
room has a pentagram and circle in it, burned down candles, incense - the
whole creepy Crowley lot. God only knows what he was doing." A reach to
peel back an eyelid. "Pupil response is about par. Breathing shallow but
steady, pulse also more or less so. He's burning low, but not in imminent
danger, I'd say."

Hey, Constantine's not exactly Mr. Ugly himself. He's just too...*rough*
for Jack. With the shirt tugged aside, there's still no sign of any
external wounds. Whatever did this to John left no mark on his body.

Pentagram and circle. Great. "Wonderful," Kitty says resignedly over the
phone. "/Might/ help if we can get him back to the living room - I've got 
no idea what he was doing, but Amanda used to be strict about not taking  
her anyplace if she wasn't responding. On the other hand, Amanda was
/sane/. I'll be over as soon as I can possibly get there - it's on the way
to where I'd have to go to look for help anyway."

Jack grunts assent, before adding, "I shall, ifit proves necessary. But I
didn't want to leave him there - for one, it's cold, and it'd be
ridiculous to get hypothermia in one's own living room. I await you with
bated breath." Was that sarcasm? Surely not.

"So when I get there," Kitty replies almost cheerfully, "we can move him
mattress and blankets and all." Or maybe he /will/ get lost trying to find
his way back to his body. Would that be such a bad thing? ... okay, Pete
would be disappointed. Sigh. "And then I'll go hunting for somebody 
actually willing to give him a hand. Shouldn't take more than a few ...
weeks?"

An answering sigh, as he reaches to pull a blanket over Constantine.
"Well."

"If the one I know is actually still talking to me, it shouldn't take
/quite/ that long. But ... don't know." Hopeful. WIlling to look. But
Kitty honestly /doesn't/ know, just now.

Aw, how cute. Jack is tucking John in. It seems wrong somehow that this 
should happen without snide comments from John. Surely, no matter where
his mind is, it'll surface now to mock Jack? But he merely lies there,
unmoving, barely breathing.

"May I ask whom?" Jack wonders, voice dry, as he eyes Constantine. Wake 
up, so I can crack your jaw for you.

"You can ask," is the bright response, "but I'm not entirely sure I can
answer. Which response has been known to clue people in anyway, so."

Celliers murmurs, "Ah, well," before edging over to lean himself against
the wall, in search of a posture that'll hurt less.