Sometime later and slowly, Sylar stirred. His movements were slow and sluggish, thrashing in half-time against the cushions of the couch like an insect caught in tree sap. He managed to roll over onto his stomach before he decided that movement was more trouble than it was worth, and groaned weakly, breathing hard into the arm of the couch as if he'd run a marathon rather than simply rolled over.

And really, he felt as if he had. He was tired, his stomach rolling in protest, and when he managed to pry his eyes open, he found he couldn't focus properly on anything, the room surprisingly too dark to make out more than a few shapes, and those that he could pick out were horribly blurred. He imagined this was what it was like to be drunk -- truly drunk, human drunk -- and closed his eyes again, trying to resist the urge to be sick that had come with those few seconds of vision.