Lee was tired, both from the abundance of magic he'd done in such a small timeframe -- something he hadn't done in a long time -- and from his minor but irritating wounds.
He probably didn't realize that he'd lost more than a little blood; his arm was still seeping sluggishly. Every time it had clotted and stopped, he'd fallen on it or done something to pull it open and start the bleeding fresh.
He had tended to it a couple of times, but it hadn't stayed tended. He wished he'd known to take one of the large knives his friend back in the States had taught him the rudiments of, or the shot gun that he was damned good with.
He eventually ended up at the Shack, though he hated hospitals, had ever since his mother was first diagnosed. He had, in gentlemanly fashion, let others in ahead of him, especially since he thought his wounds rather minor.
His knee and ankle throbbed dully and his arm ached, and other little scratches and pains bothered him but not enough to make him complain. He waited quietly and discreetly in the background of everything, willing to be overlooked for awhile longer.