The night has come and gone, Philip hasn't slept a wink, and it had very little to do with the killer on the loose. Whatever healthy amount of sleep he used to need has long abdicated in favour of a few hours of tired exhaustion daily, after a prolonged morning exercise routine. And since a quick jog isn't really in the cards right now it's back to sleepless stares in the darkness, waiting for the sun to come up.

"Morning," he mumbles back absent-mindedly.

He blinks a few times and shifts, in an effort to drag his mindset into whatever the weary and hospitalised equivalent of sociable might be. He could be worse off though, much worse, and Doctor Jones is once-again-living proof of that. Almost impossible not to hear that story down here, even if he wasn't there to see the body. Almost impossible to imagine that she's decided to stay here, despite everything.

"I'm, erm, I'm good, thanks."

Or close enough. The scrapes, bruises, the axe that hit his leg, and the bullet wound in his side - on his history scale of Wonderland injuries that much barely scores a frown. And, well, maybe some sort of constant, throbbing pain, but it's either that and grinding his teeth every few minutes, or feeling physically comfortable enough to really spend time thinking about who else might be out there, getting attacked right this very second.

No, he'll probably pass on that.

"Do I- need to sit up, or...?"

He tentatively reaches for the edge of his bed, and slowly ventures into a more upright sitting position.