He died. There was nothing that Gabriel could do but watch; watch as Peter died, and whatever it was slowly receded, and then he opened his eyes and began to breathe heavily again. He was used to death, but this wasn't just death, was it? There was something overriding the invulnerability, something lethal that was killing Peter again, and they both knew it.

Sylar shifted, reaching for Peter's arm and guiding him up to his feet.

"You're not dying alone in a bathroom." It was unquestionably firm, because Sylar was dragging him out of the bathroom toward the bedroom, and he stopped there to pull Peter out of the ruined, bloodied shirt. There was no decency in it, lying in your own filth, dying, dying again, staring at white floor tiles and the mildew on the shower curtain again and again? And laughing at it? That kind of thing would make anyone crazy, and Peter was borderline as it was.

The next part was hard for him. It put Peter over his own freedom. "Is there anyone I can call?"