Admittedly, John was getting rather bored of the island as well. It wasn't that there wasn't anything to do, it was just that everyone seemed fairly content to make the island into another version of home. They were obsessed with trying to normalise everything- from giving themselves jobs to forming a council. But nothing about the situation was normal, and it was very much as if everyone had just given up. No one seemed to care where they were, or why they were there. And with every day that passed, John had to admit that they were never going home. Never. And while he wanted to stay with Sherlock, he missed home. Well, he missed their adventures. He missed the brain work and the leg work. What was he doing here? He was like a glorified first-aider.
But really, he was more worried about Sherlock than he was about himself. He was more used to long periods of boredom- there had been all his time in hospital, for a start, and then a long period of unemployment. Sherlock... well, boredom did strange things to him, and John really hated to see him so miserable. He was concerned about his partner's mental health, and he'd been trying to gently coax, but the softly-softly approach really wasn't getting him anywhere.
He'd made Sherlock a cup of tea, because it was the British way, and he was running out of options. He elbowed the bedroom door open quietly enough, and moved over to Sherlock's side, sighing as he looked down at him. It was quite pitiful, really.
"Are you sure you don't want some breakfast?" he asked, because offering food was the next step after offering tea.