Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but imitation surely is the sincerest form of flattery. Or perhaps I should say inspiration is? Please enjoy, and if you do, review!

Chapter Thirteen

"Redecorating, with Villains"

Night had fallen by the time they returned to Baker Street. Sherlock grabbed John's bag as they left the cab, John paying. Together they went to the door, and Sherlock opened it with his key. Each step together was familiar, each move so ingrained in them they moved around each other with ease. The lights were on behind Mrs Hudson's door, but they went straight up to Sherlock's flat without stopping.

Sherlock tossed the bag on the couch, and twirled his jacket off. He slung it up on the hook behind the door before disappearing down the hall to his room. John stopped just past the flat's door, blinking tiredly at the room where his life had just changed a few hours before. His life had changed so many times in this room, he had lost count.

John could hear Sherlock making a racket in his room, but he didn't pay much attention. He felt exhausted, strung out. He'd had the busiest and craziest day of his life - well maybe second craziest, that day with Moriarty and the pool had been a bitch. Getting strapped down with explosives and being told to repeat after a madman wasn't something you ever really got to top. That memory conjured up another, the mastery and fearlessness of Sherlock Holmes, as he faced down a monster. Thinking about Sherlock always did weird things to his head, and this time it was no different. And it wasn't just his head Sherlock was affecting.

John smiled to himself, and after a particularly loud BANG from Sherlock's room, he stopped daydreaming and walked down the hall. Sherlock had turned on all the lights as he went, the bathroom door open, his bedroom door ajar.

"What in the world are you doing?" John asked, and it was obvious from the disarray that whatever it was, Sherlock wasn't holding back. Half of Sherlock's clothes were torn from the closet, hangers dropped everywhere, with the clothing lumped on top of the bed. Sherlock was currently dragging a short dresser from the depths of his closet, and he pushed it up against the wall where there was an empty space. He then turned to his armoire, where he kept all his suits, and flung open the door. Staring at it with a fierce frown on his face, he sniffed loudly before slamming the door shut.

Sherlock didn't bother answering, instead walking past John into the bathroom. He seemed to be displeased with what he saw, as he sniffed again and stalked right back out. John just shrugged, used to the idiosyncrasies of the younger Holmes. John was so tired he just stood in Sherlock's room, staring at the very soft looking bed. It didn't matter to him that half of Sherlock's wardrobe wilted at the foot of it in a heap. All he wanted in that instant was to lay down. John distantly heard Sherlock storming down the stairs, making the turn to Mrs Hudson's flat. John laughed quietly again, as he heard Sherlock calling to his landlady, something about more towels.

I am so tired. This has been a very long day. John made his decision, toed off his shoes, took off his coat and cardigan, and threw himself flat on his back on Sherlock's bed. Thinking he should have killed the lights was the last thing he thought, as sleep took him quickly. He fell asleep on blankets that smelled like Sherlock, smiling.

...

"More towels? Why on earth do you need more towels? Are you experimenting again?" Mrs Hudson asked, staring at Sherlock as he raided her linen supply.

"I don't need them, John does." Sherlock replied, armful of cotton towels muffling his voice. Mrs Hudson followed behind him up the stairs, completely confused.

"Why would John need my towels? Is he experimenting now too?"

Sherlock grinned wickedly under the towels covering his face, knowing she couldn't see. "Because I already used all of mine, and he needs towels." Sherlock's answer seemed adequate to him, but Mrs Hudson was still confused.

She followed him down the hall, and stood watching as he dumped her towels onto the towel rack in the bathroom. Sherlock turned and walked to his bedroom door, where he promptly stopped. Mrs Hudson bumped into him, having expected him to keep going. "Sherlock, what is going on?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and Mrs Hudson peered around his shoulder into the room. There she saw the unexpected. John was sound asleep, laying on his back, snuggling with Sherlock's pillow. His lower legs dangled over the side of the bed, his feet almost touching the floor. He was breathing deep, face relaxed, his other hand on his stomach.

"Oh! Dear me, isn't that going to hurt his back? And why is he asleep on your bed?" Mrs Hudson whispered loudly. Sherlock stirred, and tore his eyes away from his doctor, where he had stretched out on his bed. Sherlock snagged the door, hit the lights and gently nudged Mrs Hudson out-of-the-way all in the same motion, blocking her view of John. He closed the door, being very careful not to close it as loudly as he usually did. He shut Mrs Hudson out into the hall, and he stood in the dark as his eyes adjusted. He heard her huff in annoyance before moving into his kitchen, where she started banging about, probably making tea.

Stealthily he walked over to the bed, and grabbed the clothes he'd pulled from his closet earlier. Carelessly he dropped them to the closet floor and quietly closed the door. He moved so lightly that he made no noise, ghosting across his bedroom floor to the bed. John slept on, oblivious to everything. Sherlock stopped by John's legs, and he very gently bent down and picked the doctor's feet up, and moved John so he was laying properly on the bed. The blankets got all screwed up and Sherlock was surprised that John hadn't woken up yet. Sherlock sat down next to him on the bed, and just stared. John's face was visible in the moonlight from the window, and Sherlock's eyes had adjusted enough to let him see the older man clearly in the darkness.

His hair has more grey in it. A few more lines next to his eyes. John is here. Sherlock felt a curious sensation, a slight tremor in his fingers. He raised his hand, and so very slowly, reached out to John's face. He paused a hair's breadth from his temple, fingers just itching to touch. Sherlock gave in to the temptation, and he traced his fingers across John's cheek, to his mouth, followed the bottom edge of his lips before lifting away. His touch had been feather light, but somehow John stirred awake, his eyes blinking hazily from exhaustion. He seemed at a loss for where he was, then awareness flooded back into his eyes. He didn't speak, and neither did Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his hand again, his fingers whispering across the other man's jaw line, from his ear to his mouth. Sherlock couldn't tell for sure, but he thought he saw a blush creep across John's cheeks. As his fingers got to his lips, John lifted his own hand and caught at Sherlock's shirt, pulling him down to him. Sherlock went willingly, and stretched out beside John, his arm next to his head, propping him up. John kept tugging, and Sherlock dipped his head, and somehow their lips found each other in the dark. Sherlock was half laying on top of John, his weight mostly on his arm and hip. John's other hand had found its way into his hair, tugging at his curls. The kiss was chaste and slow, deepening for only a heartbeat before John let Sherlock lift back up. It was dark, Sherlock's long form casting shadows. Neither could see each other clearly, but the emotions swirling between them were tangible. Sherlock noted in the back of his mind that he was breathing faster, and he hadn't wanted to stop. John's hand was very distracting, playing with his hair.

"Is that Mrs Hudson out there, making all that racket?" John whispered, his breath blowing into Sherlock's ear.

"Mmmm." Sherlock leaned down, and tried to catch John's mouth again. John laughed, and began to sit up.

"We can't hide in here this early at night, with the lights off, making out with Mrs Hudson in the kitchen brewing tea!" John sat up on the bed, as Sherlock groaned and fell onto his back.

"Why ever not?" That seemed like a perfectly logical thing to Sherlock, but he wasn't the expert on snogging your flatmate. He groaned again in protest as John climbed over him to hop off the bed.

John gasped and jumped as Sherlock 'helped' him, his fingers sneaking into places unexpected. Sherlock was surprisingly willing to be physical with him, and John was flustered. Most likely an accident? Oh God, it probably wasn't! But damn that felt good!

"Stop it!" John hissed, trying not to laugh. This entire evening was surreal, and he felt like he was in a dream. It was a turn he would never have expected for his life to take. He would've felt lost if this had been any other person but Sherlock; but because it was his detective, he had a compass of sorts. "Did you tell her anything?"

"Tell her what? That we made out, you said you loved me, and then you broke it off with your fiancé, after which you promptly moved back home, and you then fell asleep in my bed?"

"Um, yeah that. Tell her any of that?" John flicked on the light, making Sherlock throw his arm over his eyes and lament under his breath about the stubbornness of a certain doctor. John cracked open the door, and peered down the hall.

"Haven't said a word, thought it would've been obvious, really." Sherlock sat up, and bounced back to his feet. He crowded behind John, wondering why he hadn't just opened the door and gone out if he was so determined that they not be making out instead. He reached over John's head, pulled the door open, and walked out into the hall.

"Sherlock! Jesus!" John hesitated at the door a second, before slowly walking down to the kitchen. Sherlock smirked at John's nervousness, and he sat himself down at the table. It was still remarkably clear, as he hadn't had chance to muck it up since breakfast. Mrs Hudson had the teacups ready, waiting on her boys to finally come out of that bedroom. She had a small suspicion what was going on in there, but she didn't want to judge too early.

She gave Sherlock his tea, a splash of milk and sugar, and a couple of biscuits. She eyed John looking lost next to the table before he finally sat down next to Sherlock.

"John? Tea? No sugar, I remembered this time." She asked, smiling. His hair was all askew, like someone had run their fingers through it. Sherlock was in much the same state. Hard to tell with that head of curls though.

"Yes, thank you." He kept avoiding her eyes, like he had no idea how he was supposed to act. Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson's eye, and winked.

"John broke it off with Mary after he confessed he loved me, and now he's moving back in." Sherlock deadpanned, keeping his face straight, sipping his tea. John choked on his, coughing. He glared at Sherlock, who was ignoring him. "And I've been kissing him all afternoon." Sherlock fought off a grin as John glared daggers at him, his face getting red.

"John? You broke it off with Mary? Well, there goes a spring wedding!" She busied herself with pouring Sherlock another cup, missing John's shocked expression. Sherlock couldn't contain himself anymore, laughing at the look John had on his face. Mrs Hudson was sad there wouldn't be a pretty bride and flowers and a lovely reception. But from the way Sherlock was acting, and the bemused look on the doctor's face as Sherlock continued laughing, she knew everything was alright. Her boys were back together. John's face was hilarious, but he calmed down once Sherlock stopped laughing so hard.

Sherlock had his mobile out, clicking away. He slowly reached over to John without looking, palm up, pale fingers waiting. John stifled a smile, and very casually placed his hand into the detective's.

Mrs Hudson smiled, and began to think that maybe there might be a spring wedding after all.

...

Meanwhile, that same night...

London- CAM Headquarters

Charles Augustus Magnussen stood at the windowed wall of his bedroom, thirty stories above the streets of London. His gaze vacant, detached, he perused the streets below, the buildings of the skyline. He had just been brought news that displeased him, and the messenger stood quietly at the door to his room, sweating profusely. He could smell the stink of fear practically rolling off the man in waves, and it was a small comfort. He lifted his right hand from his side, and a part of him registered the slight twitch from the man at the doorway. He smiled, knowing it couldn't been seen, and brought his forefinger to tap away at the window.

Taptaptaptap... He watched idly as his fingerprints smeared the clean surface, leaving defined smudges in a small spot. His hands were always wet, leaving little bits and traces of himself everywhere. It pleased him, leaving himself behind wherever he went. Left inside the decisions of corrupt politicians, the despair of an indiscreet housewife of a millionaire, the violation of trust from a clergyman; Charles Augustus Magnussen had snaked his way inside of it all. And there he made his living, feeding like a shark from the blood spilled by secrets. Secrets that everyone held. Everyone.

The greatest enjoyment he got was finding that weakness, those secrets. The first time he twisted the blade on an asset was the sweetest. He held the knowledge best suited to hurt thousands, and he wanted more. Always more. And he knew the man who held all the secrets he could ever want. The one man just out of reach. Who had just slipped away a little further from his grasp, though he had yet to know it.

The little tidbit of news his spy had brought him put an unexpected hiccup into his plans, potentially putting them on hold indefinitely. It seemed his one piece of leverage up the chain to his target had just broken, a weak link. The failure of the woman known as Mary Morstan to keep the heart of one Dr Watson was unexpected, to say the least. No matter, he would find another way. Some other weakness to worm his way into the protected circle around his target.

Charles Augustus Magnussen, the Napoleon of Blackmail, wanted the secrets kept by the man who was whispered to be the physical embodiment of the British Government.

Mycroft Holmes.

And he would do anything to acquire him, and his secrets. No matter who he burned in the pursuit.