This is a bit of a bad chapter, things are drawing to a close now. Warning for increasing depression hints at suicidal ideation and death of an innocent OC.

The next morning as Mycroft arrives with a parcel John is just being taken off the ventilator and Sherlock hovers looking equal measures scared and angry as the tube is pulled from John's throat and he gags and coughs his face going deep red. 'It's ok, just breath, slow, steady you're ok.' A nurse urges him and he falls back on the bed trying to force his breathing to work properly again. Mycroft watches from outside until John regains his breath and the staff pat him encouragingly on the shoulder offering him a glass of water.

'I see you're doing better, I'm glad.' He says calmly as he enters the room and while John smiles weakly up at him between sips of water nodding his head Sherlock fixes him with a steely glare.

'No thanks to you Mycroft, what have you got?' Sherlock says and Mycroft has no doubt that it is worry making him lash out. Sherlock has become so sentimental since he met his new flatmate. Still he can't help but engage his little brother; it is so second nature to him.

'I see. Maybe you want to go back to an NHS hospital then? Maybe you don't want my man outside your door, or safe food delivered? Maybe you don't want what's in this package?' Mycroft waves an envelope in front of him.

Sherlock bites his lip slightly. Of course he wants all those things. He wants the nice clinic and the relative safety of the man outside the door, hell he even wants the food, especially now that John will be able to eat it to, though maybe not spaghetti shapes next time, for John's sake. But he especially want what's in that envelope if it has any chance of catching this guy.

The doctor and nurse absent themselves from the obviously private conversation with a steely 'Now don't upset him, he needs to rest.' And Sherlock snatches the envelope out of Mycroft's hand.

'What is it?' comes John's raspy breath from the bed and both brothers turn toward him.

'Passport photo's, of every dark haired tall man that Charlotte stoker has come into contact with as far as we can tell. From kindergarten up until her imprisonment. We've tried to include everyone, school friends, teachers, friends, colleagues. Hopefully he will be in there, I've got my bets on one of the ex-boyfriends, a Tony Smith we've got our eye on him at the moment, fits your description and he's not on facebook so your previous search would have missed him.

'Show me.' John seems to perk up, slight hope appearing in his tired dark blue eyes. Sherlock rips the envelope open and hands John the pictures one at a time watching with a mixture of hope and sadness and John takes them one at a time with his good hand and looks them over each time rasping out a steely 'No, not him.' By the time he hands John the last picture he can tell that hope has turned to defeat and he is not surprised when John slumps back in bed turning his face away from them with a soft 'He's not there.'

'Are you sure?' Mycroft asks wondering slightly if depression and blows to the head might not be playing their part in twisting John's memory. He really did think they had got everyone.

'I'm sure. Leave me alone, I want to sleep.' John says curling up on his side and shutting his eyes. Sherlock reaches out a hand to touch him but Mycroft stops him and nods to the corridor where Sherlock grudgingly follows.

'It's not over Sherlock, we will find him. I'll get the CCTV from any attacks that were recorded, for once it's a good thing that we are the most watched over country in the world isn't it brother dear' Mycroft's voice is as calm as ever and he doesn't seem to Sherlock to be in the least bit affected by the defeat they have just suffered.

'I know it's not over' he shouts 'It won't be over until either this lunatic or John is dead and I will not have it be John' he's shouting at the top of his lungs and a nervous looking nurse pops her head out to look at what all the commotion is about.

'Shush Sherlock, he'll hear you.' Mycroft scolds and watches as Sherlock slumps down in a neat chair just outside John's room 'He already knows, why do you think he looks so defeated. Do you know what he said to one of the nurses before they put him on the ventilator? He thought I couldn't hear him but I could. He said it wasn't worth it to try and save him. What does that sound like to you. He's giving up.' Mycroft does look a little troubled by that information but they are both interrupted by the appearance of a harried looking Lestrade approaching them from the corridor.

'What's happened, what have you found out?' Sherlock asks and Lestrade looks decidedly uncomfortable.

'Well, with the death of the runner, it's a murder enquiry now and well it's just escalated. We have another body. John won't like this, it's not one of his attackers this time.' Lestrade holds out a portrait photo of a rather pretty young boy of possibly about four or five years of age Sherlock guesses.

'How do you know it's related?' he asks as he hands the photo back to Lestrade.

'Uhm, several things. He was found in the bath with his wrists cut and a rather sizeable dose of painkillers in his system. Kids that young don't kill themselves. Also uhm his Name is John and well there was a note that said make it the right John next time. We questioned the parents. They only know two Johns but more importantly the boy is named after one of the father's military aquanitances who apparently saved his life, one John Watson.

Sherlock doesn't know what to say, he just stares at Lestrade and then in through the window at his sleeping flatmate. This will break him, he knows it. John hates it when innocent people die. 'Don't tell him, please Lestrade, don't tell him.' He begs.

Lestrade only shakes his head. 'You know I have to, if I don't the parents will, the press has already caught on to it, someone leaked it, we can't keep this from him, it won't work. We'll get him help, councelling, antidepressants, he's got through tragedy before.' Lestrade urges but Sherlock isn't so sure.

'Don't worry, I'll tell him you don't have to.' Lestrade promises and as he enters the room to do the impossible Sherlock remains slumped in the chair head in his hands and he doesn't even flinch when he feels Mycroft's hand on his shoulder. 'Go get him, just get him' he mumbles and Mycroft's hand disappears with a soft squeeze.