Um, excuse you. Sinclair was just slashed in the thigh by a rusty metal hook, I think he's allowed a minute or two to get over the blood dripping out between his fingers.

"Two of 'em," he says, nodding. "Side by side. Door combination's one-five-two-five." Meanwhile, he's going to try and figure out how to actually pick himself up and walk the rest of the way to his own medical supplies. Standing up does not seem too appealing right now.