[Sorry for any spelling/grammar errors!]
I was seated in my chair, the note beside me on the arm rest. I haven't left the flat all day, afraid I wouldn't be there if Sherlock came back. I still didn't know exactly what he meant by the note, for all I know he could come back with a gallon of milk in his hands. Sighing, I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. I didn't know what to do or how to act. Was I expected to just sit here all day, waiting for him?
The light that leaked through the crack of curtains grew darker, the sky clouded with grey and fog as I stood at the window. I looked down at Baker Street, a few taxis passing by. The street nearly looked like a ghost town, hardly occupied and dark now that the weather was said to get rainy. Sudden nostalgia ran through my mind. Sherlock would always stand in this very spot, looking down at the pedestrians that strolled past.
He had always complained about how peaceful it was, his ice cold stare following the people below. His voice would be filled with disinterest, a low sigh carrying through his tone. His hand would drag the curtain aside, the robe nearly slipping off one shoulder as he stood in his pyjamas. That was another thing about Sherlock. He's a grown man, but try to get him out of his pyjamas and he'd come back striped naked in a sheet.
I smiled at the memory, Sherlock would go from the smartest man in London to an actual 5 year old within seconds. Mycroft had mentioned that, multiple times. He would complain about it, rolling his eyes as Sherlock made a remark against it.
My mind flooded with all these memories of Sherlock, and I could feel my chest tighten and a smile curved on my lips. My stomach felt warm at the thought of his return. He was back. Sherlock Holmes was alive. I had been telling myself this since I woke up prior, and it still felt as though it were all just a dream, an illusion...A magic trick.
It had just turned 7:30 P.M. I stood in the kitchen, nursing my cuppa with some added cubes of sugar. Suddenly, the faint creaking of a door reached my ears. I turned swiftly, soft footsteps revealing who it was before I saw the dark curls for myself. I felt my pulse quicken, Sherlock's piercing eyes meeting mine. "Oh, good. You've got the kettle on." He said as though he had just returned from a trip to the grocery store.
But as he approached, I noticed the paper bag in his hand. I guess he did just come from the grocery store. He set it on the table, pulling his gloves off and setting them aside. He wore a blue windbreaker and a snug cap, his dark brown curls escaping from underneath. He looked so out of place in clothes other than his own, shaking his windbreaker off to reveal a deep purple jumper. I raised my brows at that, but said nothing. Instead, I turned my attention towards the grocery bag settled on the table.
"What's that?" I asked gesturing towards it. A smile curled on his lips as he pulled the cap from his head, setting it and the coat over the chair beside him. "I told you I'd get the milk, did I not?" He asked, reaching into the bag and pulling a half gallon of milk from it. "You actually got the milk." I said quietly, looking back to a smiling Sherlock. "Don't act as though I've never gotten it before." He said knowingly, walking to the refrigerator in strides.
He opened it, placing the carton on a small shelf. He stopped suddenly just before he closed the door, bending down a bit to open a crisper. He reached inside, pulling out a jar. He held it, observing it before turning fully to me. His eyes read something soft and surprised. "You kept the eyes?" He asked, he sounded as though someone had just given him a present. I smiled sheepishly, nodding. His smile grew, and it seemed as though it nearly reached his eyes.
I thought about telling him how it was the only thing I felt I had left of him. I thought of telling him how I hid it from Mrs.Hudson in my room as she helped clear the refrigerator after he left. But I didn't, I simply smiled and shrugged, watching as he admired it with a glint in his eyes.
