The hand on his wrist snaps him out of whatever pit he'd fallen into, but it's not a gentle awakening; he jerks aside and tries to twist free, running on adrenaline and paranoia.

It's just Tim. It's okay.

He's dead. Yeah. Everything's okay.

"Oh god," he says, his voice shuddering. His hand opens, fingers aching and stiff, and the knife clatters to the floor. "Oh god, fuck."

He stares at the ugly, bloody, twisted corpse of post-human and can't pull his gaze away, feels himself tensing and shaking under Tim's hand.

"I didn't-" He swallows hard, trying to beat back the overwhelming nausea. "I-"