He takes after House (in one of a few ways) - the desk is busy but not cluttered. A framed city map sits behind his computer screen, with a child's violin bow balanced carefully on top of the frame. Beside his computer there's what looks like a fossilised shark's tooth, mounted. A row of antique looking medical texts (one with a lego figure from a popular sci-fi series chilling out on the spine). Two in-trays, both overflowing, one topped with today's half-completed crossword.

There's a singular ping-pong paddle on the filing cabinet (don't ask him why) and a set of expensive looking cufflinks in the dent at the base of a silver anglepoise lamp.

A shower of biros, and a coffee mug, stained with regular use.

"I'd say around... twenty-three hours ago. Though if I need to work on your emotional baggage it might have to be stronger than I'd planned."

He has the drinking mostly under control, now. A far cry from when he showed up in the city, fresh from murder and divorce. Maybe other compulsions have replaced it, but they don't make his hands shake at work. It's something he's proud of, for now. Not to be so helplessly his mother's son.