Work Text:
At first, Sherlock thinks moving into his own flat is a splendid idea. A space of his own, room to think, no one to bother him, peace and quiet. The mechanics of living alone, however, turn out to be different than expected.
Independence has a price. Independence means having to do everything yourself: food, cleaning, laundry, all those mundane tasts nobody has time for. Even tea and biscuits don't magically appear on his desk anymore. So much for a convenient work environment.
He manages to subsist on the care package mummy sent him, but eventually he'll be forced to leave his flat and go grocery shopping. His landlord, unfortunately, can't be bribed into taking care of that, he's no errand boy. No problem, Sherlock thinks. He's bought items before, he knows the works, but somehow entering the nearest Waitrose proves a bit overwhelming: too bright, too full, too green. Sherlock cannot concentrate.
He goes about it methodically; he has a list. He starts by breaking down the layout, creating a mental map, taking stock aisle by aisle. That soothes him. When he's halfway done cataloguing the different flavours of crisps, a clerk asks if he needs help finding something. Sherlock ignores him. He's busy.
Finally, he reaches the checkout, triumphant, knowing what to find where, but leaving with an empty basket.