"Somebody will call by tomorrow, Sherlock, to make sure you have everything you need."
Sherlock rolled his eyes as the phone clicked off. Mycroft and his interfering cronies would, no doubt, be keeping a close eye on him now. Now that he had moved out of his brother's home and into his own flat.
It wasn't anything fancy. Sherlock had chosen it partly because of its proximity to New Scotland Yard and partly because it was in an 'interesting' area.
And by 'interesting', of course, it meant an area that Mycroft absolutely hated.
It was a win-win situation all round.
Sherlock dropped his duffle bag onto the bed and lifted one of the large cases that had been delivered earlier that day. He unzipped the top and began half-heartedly pulling the contents out. As he mindlessly stuffed items of clothing into random drawers, Sherlock realised he felt tired. It wasn't often that fatigue overtook the young Holmes but leaving Mycroft's house, however much he outwardly loathed being under his brother's care, was emotionally draining. Unpacking and folding could wait for tomorrow.
He dragged the half-empty suitcase from the bed and flopped down onto the soft mattress, bouncing softly and looking around the room. The small flat was nothing special. A living area, small kitchen, single bedroom and a bathroom. It wasn't fancy (despite Mycroft having insisted on having it furnished by himself - well, by Anthea!) but it was freedom. It was his own space. A space in which he could start his new life.