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Sometimes she danced for him.
She'd roll the rugs and close the doors make a space for herself in his cluttered living room. He would tune his violin and she would stretch and bend and smile when she caught him staring.
She was all elegant lines and soft curves and hollow spaces humming with music. She was gentle hands and hard muscle and sweeps of sentiment without words.
"Play something for me," she'd ask him in that heavy rasp he loved so much.
Sherlock would lift his bow and she would twist her hair behind her head, feet rolling on hardwood floors until she stood on pointe.
Her chest would rise.
Her chest would fall.
Green eyes like silver leaves would close and she'd turn into angles and twirls and shapes and thrumming power breathing life into every note.
Sherlock knew the science behind every ripple of muscle beneath her skin. He knew every angle in her body to the last degree and every measure of every inch, from lips to hips to arching feet.
Sherlock knew the anatomy of this woman who would tell him with movements that she loved him and accepted him and welcomed his eyes on her in all their incisive curiosity.
Sometimes Natasha would dance for him.
Sometimes Sherlock would fall and fall and fall in love.