John sighed and turned a page in his book. The story wasn't developing into the engrossing thriller he had hoped, but it was (just barely) intriguing enough to make him at least want to find out how it ended. Not an ideal way to spend his time, but the current case - a tricky combination kidnapping-homicide - was at the "Sherlock lies around and mutters a lot" phase and there really wasn't anything he could do to help.

"Stop breathing, John, it's annoying," Sherlock snapped. He was splayed out over the sofa, his forefingers steepled under his chin in his favorite "thinking" pose, but so far he seemed to be doing a lot more grumbling than thinking.

"I highly doubt me passing out from lack of oxygen would help you concentrate," John replied mildly.

"You existing is not helping me concentrate." Sherlock growled and smacked his hand against the arm of the sofa sharply. "DATA! I have the data, it's all there, but I can't think and it's all fuzzy and mussed up in circles and that's what the killer wanted, I'm sure, but it's bloody annoying. What am I missing? Somethingmissingsomethingmissingsomethingmissing . . ." His rant subsided into a low murmur, and he sprawled even more aggressively over the cushions.

John shrugged and turned another page.

"TOO LOUD!" Sherlock roared.

"Too bloody sensitive," John retorted. "It's a wonder you can live in London at all - wouldn't you be happier in some quiet cottage off in the country?"

Sherlock opened one eyelid and shot him a peeved glare.

"Bloody - fine." John slammed his book shut, belatedly remembering he should have marked his place. "I'll just go wait on you, shall I?"

An elegant hand gesture shooed him up to his room.

John stomped as he ascended the stairs, which was perhaps a bit childish, but it felt good to at least do something to defy Sherlock when he was being such a git. It's not like John could stop making noise altogether-

Ah. The thought appeared out of nowhere, just a glimmer of an idea, but John had nothing better to do and he damn well wasn't going to hide up here in his bedroom, so perhaps it was worth trying. He tugged open the drawer of his nightstand, pushed aside the old handkerchief (his grandfather's, not used for at least twenty years, but still nice to keep close by) and the comb (used rarely) and the bottle of lube (used a good deal more often than John wanted to admit, they way his love life had been going recently) and yes, there they were. John shook a new pair of earplugs out of the box and rolled them across his palm. He had bought the box when he first moved in, the day after Sherlock's first all-night marathon violin session as a matter of fact, but by the next week he was used to the noise, used to Baker Street, and they had gotten pushed to the back of the drawer.

On impulse, John dug in his closet and pulled out his widest, ugliest necktie. A real blindfold would be better, but this would serve. And if Sherlock didn't like it, he could bloody well do his deducing somewhere else for a change.

Sherlock had managed to rotate a hundred and eighty degrees by the time John got back downstairs, his head crammed into the corner between the armrest and the seat cushion and one long leg sticking up at a right angle over the sofa back as if in some sort of demented cheesecake pose. At least he was dressed - John would have gotten an eyeful if Sherlock had been in just his boxers and dressing gown like he often was when sulking. (He'd say "deducing," but "sulking" covered it just as well.)

"Solved it," John announced. "Sit up a bit."

Sherlock sat up. "What, the kidnapping? I don't believe you."

Yeah, like I'd have suddenly solved THAT. John rolled his eyes a bit, which Sherlock undoubtedly noticed but chose to ignore. "Solved your problem. Lean forward." Sherlock was turned just enough sideways that John was able to slip around the edge of the sofa and get behind him, and before Sherlock could protest, John had the tie wrapped twice around his head and was tying off a quick square knot just over his left ear.

Sherlock held very still, but the confusion infused every line of his body.

"Not too tight?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock caught his bottom lip between his teeth, a nervous habit John had noticed he only indulged in when he felt suddenly out of his depth and didn't want to say anything. He shook his head in a tiny "no," though, and didn't ask the obvious question.

"Earplugs next. Don't worry; they're a clean pair." John placed his palm against Sherlock's jawline, tilting his head slightly to the side, and nudged one earplug snugly inside Sherlock's left ear canal. He quickly repeated the process on the other side - a bit more clumsily, since he had to lean over Sherlock to do it, but both sides looked reasonably centered and Sherlock was holding perfectly still.

There wasn't much point in explaining now that Sherlock couldn't hear him, of course, and Sherlock didn't seem to be inclined to ask questions. He still sat nervously, spine unusually straight and that little divot in his lip from where he was biting it on the inside. Silent and uncomfortable, but trusting. The realization - Sherlock truly did trust him - sent a wash of warm emotion through John's torso. It was one he didn't allow himself to examine too closely.

Instead, he pressed one hand to Sherlock's sternum and the other to the small of his back. Sherlock acquiesced, allowing John to tilt him backwards and position him on his back on the sofa. John tried to settle him in as best as possible, mimicking Sherlock's normal thinking pose, then dropped a hand to Sherlock's ankle for a quick squeeze before moving away to retrieve his book.

The flat was silent. Sherlock just lay there, not moving, not complaining. It took several minutes (and several uninteresting pages of his story) before John noticed Sherlock's lips twitching - talking silently to himself, then, working through his deductions. John hid a smile (not like there was any point in hiding, not with Sherlock blindfolded) and turned his attention back to his book.

Sherlock sat bolt upright forty-five minutes later. He tore the improvised blindfold off in one smooth movement, eyes locking onto John's.

"The brother!" He winced slightly, dug the earplugs out of his ears, and bounced to his feet. "It's so obvious now - of course it was the brother's idea! Lestrade thought he couldn't be involved because he was broke, but of course he didn't tell the kidnappers that. There was no money trail because there was no payment. And when the kidnappers learned they had been lied to - it all fits." He bounded over to John's chair, pulled him up to standing, and whirled him around in what would have been a hug for anyone except Sherlock, because of course Sherlock didn't do that sort of thing. (Did he?)

"Um." It was about all John could manage in the wake of Sherlock's enthusiasm.

"That was a brilliant idea, by the way," Sherlock said over his shoulder, already pulling on his coat and headed for the door. "Sensory deprivation has never worked for me before, but I see now it was because I never had someone to stand guard and keep me safe while I was incapacitated. We'll have to get a real blindfold for next time." He paused in the doorway. "Coming?"

John was following before he really even had the chance to decide. Sherlock . . . trusted him.

He really shouldn't have felt as good about that as he did.