Nothing. This is what I do.

[ One gloved hand reaches down to grab the oncologist by the scruff of his collar, preparing to drag him in and dump him wherever there's water and a tub. Besides the eventual rope burns, Wilson just appears worn, weary, and a little scraped up with bruises and scratches here and there. Oh, and his clothes are torn. A small price for being rescued and dragged across the city. ]

Now are you going to open the door, or are we gonna stand here and waste air? I don't want to have to knock him out again.