Banging on the door was, specifically, thumping it with his elbow (which hurt, by the way, did the damn doors have to be so fucking hard?) because both of Gabe's hands were involved with holding steady the body slung over his shoulder. The top half of said body was mostly occluded by being wrapped up in something that might have been a robe, but the bottom half might have been identifiable - if you'd made a study in the area - as William Beckett.
When Bob opened the door, Gabe was leaning his other shoulder against the doorframe; he looked up wearily. "I've got a delivery," he quipped, but there wasn't much of the Saporta sparkle left in his voice. His hair was a mess, his lip was split and swollen, and there was blood on the collar of his heavily rumpled shirt from a set of scratch marks down the side of his neck. Even as he straightened up, he winced.