Martin snorts a little at the idea of warding Peter out of his flat, more than a little tempted to follow up on that, but he softens at once when Eliot's face falls with evident guilt.

"Hey," he says, a bit awkwardly—if he were in a better place for all this, he might reach out to touch Eliot's arm, or something, but as it is he just keeps hold of The Bishop and continues, "you didn't know."

He looks at the door, considering the theory, and decides they won't get any progress on it just standing here. He sets his cat down and says, "I'm going to have a look," opening the door without waiting for a response. He leans out cautiously, peering down the hall, feeling a mixture of nervous energy and stubborn bravery, not unlike the feeling that had driven him down into the tunnels beneath the Institute, going after John. "Nothing here," he says, and picks his way slowly and carefully to the living room.

He's expecting it, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of that awful spectre just hovering there. It immediately turns its hollow gaze on him, but it doesn't make any moves toward him, and Martin stands there with his hand pressed over his heart, willing it to stop hammering quite so hard. The ghost is terrifying to look at, but if they're right... if it's just a lost soul, meaning no harm, then... then he doesn't want to hurt its feelings, per se.

"H-hullo," he ventures, lifting a hand in an uncertain wave. The ghost stares at him.