Humming, John took his hand back and moved towards the window, pushing past Peter with intentional roughness. Peter did not look affronted, however -- if anything, he looked away as if he felt he had deserved that -- and even if he had, John likely would have ignored him, focused solely on his task.

He climbed up through the window hurried and took a quick look around once he was in the room. Sylar, still wearing Samuel's face, lay face down in a wet mess that could only be the remains of his tea, and John was half-tempted to go over a kick him in the ribs on principle alone, knowing that he would heal. He thought better of it, though, not willing to risk waking him up or alerting him to his presence if Samuel's ghost was still aware even if his boy was not, and steeled his jaw, forcing himself to move past them and to the hideaway Lydia had mentioned. He reached up into it, pulling down the bag of herbs he'd bought, and moved back towards the window, pausing only long enough to retrieve his cane when he spotted it. Magically or otherwise, it was only a prop, but he damn well wanted it for what he was going to do.

He jumped back down to the street, landing in a crouch, graceful despite his exhaustion and his juggling act, and moved back over to them. He leaned the cane up against the wall, shifted the bag from one hand to the other, and started going through it, looking for something. What he came up with was a handful of small white flowers, and he handed two of them to Lydia, keeping one for himself, before dumping the rest of them back in the bag.

"Eat that." He hoped he didn't have to tell her to just eat one. The other was for Peter, but hell if he was touching him to hand it to him, himself.