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Lestrade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "All right, everybody, just hold your breaths for a bit. It shouldn't take too long."
Anderson looks incredulous. Donovan scowls. "You can't be serious," she says. "Now we actually have to stop breathing for him? Why do we put up with this?"
"Look, just do it," Lestrade snaps. (He's had a long week.)
There is a moment of mutinous foot-shufflings and murmurings, and then there is a reluctant sucking-in and holding of deep breaths by Lestrade, John, Anderson, Donovan, the crime-scene techs—everybody.
Finally, silence. Sherlock starts to pace again. Now he can think.
Or... not. He frowns. Something is still wrong...
He stops abruptly and turns to John. "You may breathe."
John blinks. Exhales.
Sherlock nods in satisfaction and resumes pacing.