The cold seeping in through the windows and the dull grey sliver of sky visible over the rooftops has just succeeded in making him feel more insulated, more claustrophobic, more short-tempered. Or maybe that's the cast and the elaborate network of metal in his leg. Or the third week of eating take out (which shouldn't be bad compared the hospital food, but it's amazing how quickly he's run through the available delivery options and discovered he's tired of all of them). If he cared to make one, it'd be a long list of possibilities.

He doesn't want to watch anything; he just wants to leave the bloody flat. "I've got a book on hold for me over at Canvendish's. We could just go down there - pick it up. Wouldn't take but fifteen minutes." It'd take longer than that, he knows, and he likely wouldn't even be able to navigate the bookshop's cramped doorway with it's small step up, but the idea's something to stubbornly sink his teeth into.