Mycroft turns up the next day with an artist and a laptop and she sets to work with John. This makes John more active than Sherlock has seen him since their admission. He is not just going through the motions for once Sherlock can see him thinking, concentrating on something. In the end Mycroft is left with a picture that is in John's opinion fairly accurate.
This coupled with the promise that if they eat well and John promises to return for physiotherapy and counselling regularly they will be released has John stuffing himself with the lunch that Mycroft has brought with him. Sherlock still picks at his, unsure if releasing John is such a good idea. He is worried, worried that as soon as they are back in the flat again John will want to go out, will want to put himself in danger again.
When Lestrade comes in to see them and give them an update with his arm in a sling saying with a chuckle that it would seem that he can't credit John with having all the bad luck John goes positively white and immediately starts to throw his clothes on. They all know what he's thinking and Lestrade crouches in front of him to reassure him. It really was an accident John. I slipped on some cleaning liquid in the office, don't fret, just goes to show we can't credit this guy with everything that goes wrong around here.
John just keep trying and failing to put on his shoe and Lestrade takes pity on him taking it from him and slipping it onto his foot doing up the laces.
'I don't believe in accidents any more.' John says looking sadly down at Lestrade as he fits on his shoe. He has been allowed to take of the walking boot for his first physiotherapy session but since progress was slow he was ordered to make sure to only take it off indoors and only for short periods of time so he's still stuck with only one proper shoe and the inability to bend properly to get it on, it is humiliating. Before he had been able to bend double to reach down, he was reasonably flexible but now his chest and back just hurt too much.
Everyone frets around him and it is frustrating. He has not been alone, properly alone since he can't remember when. They make their slow way back to Baker Street in one of the black cars sent by Mycroft. They don't trust taxis and Lestrade apparently isn't allowed to drive with his injured arm for at least a week. Whatever he says about accident's John doesn't believe him. He knows that the yard isn't safe he just hasn't told Lestrade about the coffee incident which he no longer writes off as a mishap.
When they get back Sherlock offers to make tea but John shakes his head. 'I'm going to bed. I need to sleep.' He argues and Sherlock isn't sure if he is worried or relieved when John does not instantaneously ask to go out. He makes the tea anyway and brings it up to John to find him in fact curled up in bed with his boot stood at the side of the bed. He places the tea on the bedside table for when John wakes up.
John doesn't, or at least he doesn't emerge from his room. Sherlock goes up to check on him at regurlar intervals and finds him usually tucked up in bed. At one point though he is sitting at his desk doing nothing just looking down at his hands ad fiddling with the edge of the cast.
Sherlock sits down on the bed next to him but he doesn't move. 'Are you worried about it? Your hand? He asks and it takes John a minute before he attempts to answer.
'I thought I was. Not sure it matters now. They're burying little Johnny on Friday he says vacantly. Compared to that, what's a broken hand.' Sherlock just nods, what can he say. Of course there would have been people who cared about that John's life just as much as Sherlock cares about his John's but Sherlock can't quite feel it. Of course John can.
'Did you know him?' he asks instead.
'Yes. No. I met him twice. He was a sweet kid. They did name him after me but I wasn't his godfather or anything. It was just a sign of gratitude, and I guess his father and I had a strange kind of distant friendship. I think they just liked the name, really. Turns out it was a bad choice.' He is still fiddling with his cast on the desk, poking at the tips of his fingers where they protrude.
'You saved his father's life right. If it hadn't have been for you there wouldn't have been that John. He never would have been born.' Sherlock argues thinking himself rather persuasive.
'Someone else would have saved him. One doctor is just as good or bad as another.' At that the doorbell rings and Sherlock goes to answer it. It's Mycroft and he looks rather like the cat that ate the canary. 'I know who it is he says even before they get inside the door and Sherlock actually beams at him.
'Come in.' he chirps happier than he has been in weeks and he bounds up the stairs before Mycroft who's face falls ever so slightly realising that his brother probably read a little bit too much into that statement. Still he makes his way up the stairs and into the living room where he stands waiting for Sherlock and John to come downstairs. A couple of minutes later they come hobbling into view John leaning his good hand on his old cane and his other arm resting in Sherlock's now that he knows his leg will just about hold him he doesn't want to go back to being strapped into that giant boot. Sherlock deposits him in his old chair perches on the armrest next to him looking expectantly at Mycroft how has remained standing.
'Don't get too excited Sherlock. I said I know who he is, but we haven't got him yet.' He explains and Sherlock's face falls a little. John looks much the same as before tired and depressed but a little bit curious. Mycroft hands them a photograph of a handsome man in a medical coat looking beamingly into the camera.
'It's him. He's a doctor?' John looks up incredulous and Mycroft nods.
'He's the prison physician and the facility she was locked up in. Ex army like yourself actually. He saw her pretty much every week.' Mycroft explains and now that they all know it is so obvious that they all just stare at each other in bewilderment at their own stupidity for a second. Access to medical facilities, fighting ability able to get hold of explosives and handle weapons, it is all so terribly obvious.
'Go take him in then.' Sherlock snaps standing up and Mycroft winces slightly at his raised voice.
'He's not there anymore. A couple of weeks after her death he resigned his job, argued a family emergency. He's not there anymore. Now that we know who he is though, it will be only a matter of time. My men are looking for him, so are Lestrade's, we'll have him soon.' Mycroft reassures but Sherlock has stopped listening. John's words from earlier are ringing in his ear. This man has all of the skills he admires in John, all except one, compassion for the innocent, and he turns to John and angles Johns face so that he has to look at him. 'One doctor is absolutely, emphatically not as good as another.' He says.
So had anyone managed to figure out who it was?
