As predicted, Sherlock was able to leave by Saturday, which was good, since the nurses were growing sick of storing leftovers in the fridge that they couldn't eat.
John brought muffins for them, as a 'thank you for treating Sherlock and not killing him accidentally on purpose' present. After all, he'd likely be back, and John didn't want to have to deal with unhappy nurses.
Mycroft sent a car for them, but didn't make an appearance himself, which both Sherlock and John were immeasurably grateful for.
His work was evident when they arrived back at Baker Street though, all of the things on John's list fulfilled and more.
Sherlock didn't comment, but John knew he was aware of who was responsible.
Sherlock slept a lot in the first few days after returning home. When he was awake, he insisted upon getting dressed and maintaining his facade of normal life, but John could see the strain it had on him.
By the end of the first week, he'd stopped insisting they go out (with John initially refusing, inevitably agreeing, and eventually dragging him back) and sullenly remained on the couch, or some days, in bed, accompanied by his laptop and the occasional textbook.
They watched a lot of telly those days.
John enjoyed making Sherlock watch a number of classic movies he'd never seen before.
The couch had conveniently been relocated into Sherlock's bedroom. Mycroft denied it was his doing, but John doubted anyone else would break into their flat, rearrange their furniture, and leave without taking anything.
John was curled up on it rereading one of his favourite books, listening to the London autumn rain fall.
Sherlock sighed, and John looked up at him. He was still asleep, just rolling slightly.
John smiled and flipped the page.
"Read to me John," he murmured.
Surprised, John looked up. "I didn't think you were awake."
Sherlock ignored his comment. "Read to me," he said again, lolling his head to face John.
"Alright. But I don't want to hear any complaints about the content, impossibilities of the story, or any comments about my reading, alright?"
Sherlock nodded, and with that, John flipped back to the front of the book.
He began reading with a smile. "Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa constrictor in the act of swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing..."
Sherlock seemed to like that book, even if he fell asleep halfway through. John simply picked up again later, when Sherlock was more or less awake, but still almost dreaming. It was the sort of book that went well with a dream state.
They went through a few books that way. Sherlock never complained about the content, and John never told him he had to stop because his throat was sore, even though they could both hear it.