‘Posturing?” Sherlock says indignantly, and John resists the obvious joke.
‘Standard after retinal surgery,’ he replies instead. ‘Every hour awake, you spend fifty minutes lying face down, ten-minute break for moving round, toilet, food-’
‘-solving crimes,’ Sherlock breaks in.
‘No. You’d get a lead and forget to lie back down. No cases for a week, I’m afraid.’
‘Cold cases,’ Sherlock announces. ‘Lestrade always has dozens. Ten minutes reading the file, fifty minutes contemplating the answer...’
‘You’d jump up halfway through and insist we go out to check something vital,’ John replies. ‘Or send me out, so I wouldn’t see you breaking surgeon’s orders in all the ways you want to. No, we’re both stuck in this flat for seven days.’
He looks round 221B bleakly, assessing distractions. Then he sees the box files and, sighing inwardly, says:
‘You can tell me about all your early cases. Keep your mind occupied at least.’
‘All of them?’ For the first time since the operation, there’s hope in Sherlock’s voice. John’s normal case reminiscence limit is two a day.
‘As many as it takes,’ John replies with determination. ‘Only when you have your ten-minute breaks each hour, please just shut up then, for my sanity’s sake.’
It’s going to be a difficult week, he knows, but better that than Sherlock ending up half blind.