Chapter Text
My chair is back.
I stand in the doorway of 221B staring at the maroon chair that is now positioned neatly by the fireplace, where it had always sat.
Why is my chair back?
Sherlock had removed the object when I had moved out. He claimed that it blocked his view of the bloody kitchen. If my chair was back it meant Sherlock had known I was moving back into the flat.
Quietly I walk into the kitchen.
“Why is my chair back?” I ask Sherlock.
Sherlock is bent over the kitchen table. The sight of him is practically erotic.
His wrinkled grey shirt is untucked, and I can see a sliver of silvery skin peeking out above the black pant line, pressed against the hard edge of the table. He is barefoot. It is something of a weird indulgence for him; the cool floor on the bottoms of his feet. The black pants he is wearing are tight against his perfectly rounded bum and I let my light blue eyes linger there longer than necessary. Sherlock’s grey sleeves are pushed up as far as possible, unable to retreat further up the lean arms because of the slight muscles in his forearms. The shirt is unbuttoned, rare for the tall man standing in front of me. The veins in his neck are taut from stretching his long body across the table. Large, transparent goggles cling to his chiseled face, his ebony curls fighting the flattening power of the white elastic strap.
I have never seen anything as beautiful as the man standing before me.
Sherlock looks over to me. Sparkling green eyes give me a once over.
“I knew you would be home.” he says simply.