Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. Drat.
Note: I resisted this a long time, but in the end couldn't hold out. It's an odd pairing that kinda-sorta makes sense.
The weight of the silk on his face was heavier than expected, and thick enough that his eyelashes brushed against it as he blinked. That meant a momme of at least 19, and the brief moment he'd had to see the creamy luster of it before the fabric had been tied around his head indicated it was from silkworms fed a diet exclusively of mulberry leaves—
"You're doing it again."
"What? I was merely considering the property of—oh, sorry—"
A finger pressed against his lips and he had to stop talking so he didn't accidently bite the tip of it as it dipped just inside his mouth.
When he was silent and made no indication he would say anything more, the cushions of the couch shifted. He shifted with them but kept his balance.
Feet padded away from him, across the throw rug and into the kitchen. Soles made slight sticking noises when they made the transition from carpet to tile, and he carefully turned his head to hear more clearly.
With the sound of a weak hermetic seal breaking, the refrigerator was pulled open. The sound of glass on glass reached him as objects were moved on their shelves inside, then a barely inaudible gasp, then the refrigerator door was closed, then the feet were walking back again—more slowly this time, more carefully. Things were being carried, things in glass bowls and containers. They were cold things, so cold they burned bare skin for a split second, judging by the quick gasp he had heard.
Seated on the couch, blindfolded, naked, Sherlock waited.