He hears them at the same moment Johnny's posture shifts, the rising pitch of claws rasping over the exterior of this tomb - of this safehouse, Daniel has to correct himself automatically, fearfully, this safehouse that he suggested Johnny make in the first place.

And then he doesn't hear them at all. Just the grating of things moving beneath their feet and over their heads, and he doesn't need to listen for the whisper of rotting flesh and the inevitable liquid sound of that flesh being unceremoniously crushed to know what happened to them - what Johnny just did.

Daniel looks at him, his tone smooth, settling somewhere between recriminating and plaintive at the man who's adopted an uncharacteristic lordly sprawl.

"You didn't have to do that."

He feels the skin on his arms prickle with gooseflesh, his shoulders taut.

"They couldn't have gotten to us."

The protest curdles beneath his tongue, feeble and pointless. Don't confront the sleeping dragon, Daniel. He knows, god but he knows what happens next.

Except this isn't some nameless threat. It's Johnny.

Isn't it?