He swallows -- it sets off another blast of pain -- and closes his eyes, trying to think through it.

(He shouldn't have to be trying this hard.)

Disjointed: the same bed, a familiar face, you're very sick, I should have killed you --

"Peter," he hazards. Sylar's eyes snap open, unfocused but very dark. "He was here, too."

The end of the sentence rises, like a half-question, without his noticing.