"I'm fine!" He doesn't hesitate to say it, all enthusiasm— but, oh. For Arthur's sake, he ought to check. John falters and releases Jack so he can take stock, turning his hands and arms over to survey what look like days-old scabs. The wounds are a mundanely human shade of maroon. John leans back in the grass, utterly heedless of his nudity, to frown down at the mottling of bruises and scabs across his legs. Indeed, nothing is actively bleeding.

His gaze rises to Jack, and he blinks. There's still... fur? Ah.

"Jack..." His tone rises towards concern. He is looking at the tails.