It's just me, Ianto says, and John's body language says tense. Where he'd been relaxed before, even in the rain and hail and nonsense, something in him now is on edge. Which, in a way, is perhaps not surprising. Things are definitely wrong here, and both of them know it.

"Glad you could make it," he says, in an easy tone that doesn't quite match the way he looks ready to shoot someone. "Ianto, this is Holland. Holland, Ianto."

He gestures vaguely between the two of them, but Holland's eyes stay on John. His face has a few cuts, and some bruising, but the worst damage appears to be highlighted by dark blood on his leg -- one hand resting near the wound as if to brace it. John reflexively drops to his knees near Holland and begins bandaging it again, eyes skittering around the area for any other signs of activity. This isn't real, he knows that on some level. Holland isn't real, yet he can't help but tend to him anyway.

"This is an old Russian helicopter," he fills in for Ianto. "But, Holland's was shot down and burnt up. Not so good for hiding out in."

Holland makes a faint sound of pain, but cracks a wry smile despite that.

"Can't help but notice you're missing yours too."

He shoots a look between Holland and the horizon, body language still wary, then lifts his eyes to Ianto again. There's a hint of the same dark humour Holland is displaying in the way Sheppard smiles, begrudgingly accepting this.

"Small arms fire hit my tail rotor. Lucky shot."

"Great," Holland responds. "Now we're both going to die out here."