"I am going to kill Mycroft Holmes…" growled Bucky Barnes as he gave a fierce glare at the queen-sized bed in their hostel room.

The only bed in their hostel room.

"Get in line, for I have the honors, wanker," Sherlock Holmes spat, hands on his hips as he glowered deeply at the bed as if it severely offended him, "A tenner says that my dear brother did this on purpose."

"Is Mycroft Holmes the type of person to do such a thing?" Steven Rogers asked as he lugged their two suitcases into the living quarters.

John Watson's droll and wordless gaze was all the answer he needed.

The good doctor did his best to not sound reproachful as he suggested meaningfully, "If this is deliberate on Mycroft's behalf, then perhaps you two would learn your lesson next time you think of knocking out Anderson and leaving him in a skip?"

"Oh, shut up," snapped Bucky, "It wasn't even that big of a deal! The fanboy dumbass wasn't even hurt, wasn't he?"

"If by 'wasn't even hurt', you mean waking up in the nearest landfill outside London's city limits and needing to claw his way out of being buried alive in tons and tons garbage where he most likely could have suffocated or developed an infection or could have wound up in an incinerator or compactor where he would have easily been killed or mutilated and where you would have been held accountable for negligent manslaughter, then yes, he wasn't injured, Buck. Although I'm pretty sure Ma would take you by the ear considering that Anderson was willing to help you escape Mycroft's detection to spy on my lunch with John last week and seeing how this is how you pay him back," Steve rebuked with a slight hard tone, clearly disapproving as he stood with arms crossed over his chest.

Bucky had the grace to look a little ashamed as he fought the urge to hunker down his shoulders and look at the floor like a chastised child.

Sherlock sniffed, "It is hardly our fault that that specific day was the day for garbage collection. Besides, we apologized to Anderson, didn't we?"

"Saying that you're sorry that you and Bucky put Anderson where he belonged is not an apology…" sighed John with a glare, "You both are bloody lucky that Anderson forgave you two, you know."

"After the little sneak wheedled that stupid autographed picture of us he'd been begging for since Winter Soldier and his handler came to blight us with their presences and body odors," grumbled Sherlock under his breath.

That one picture of Captain America, John Watson, Bucky Barnes and Sherlock Holmes (with the latter two grumpily frowning and put out) around a smiling Anderson, declaring him their Number One fan, already broke the Snapchat, Twitter, and Instagram servers upon its first hour of getting posted…

It also made Phillip Anderson the sole envy of all the "Empty Hearse" members and the Avengers fandom throughout the planet.

Darcy Lewis herself tweeted her congratulations to Phillip, texting "#youluckyasshole".

Although that was nowhere as embarrassing as Phil Coulson himself calling Steven at two in the morning on Steve's cellphone, uncharacteristically in tears, and moaning how he thought he was Captain America's Number One fan.

Steven had to spend over an hour consoling Coulson before promising the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. another autographed picture of the four of them to ease Coulson's hurt feelings.

"We're getting another room," Bucky presently avowed, clearly not in the mood for an argument.

"All the other rooms are booked," John murmured nonchalantly as he hefted his suitcase on the metal luggage rack, "You were too busy putting Sherlock in that chokehold to overhear the head clerk telling a guest on the landline that they had no more quarters available."

"He was most likely exaggerating," Sherlock grouched, although he had to secretly admit that he wasn't one-hundred percent sure. It was hard to deduce when Bucky's fingers were tightening around his neck while they were wrestling on the floor earlier…

"I dunno, Sherlock," Steve pointed out, cocking his head, "It's tricky to exaggerate the five couples that were waiting in the lobby for any cancellations. Well, three actually. You scared off several people when you and Bucky crashed and toppled into the luggage carts and scattered all the suitcases during your grappling match."

Steve was just thankful that they were able to convince the receptionist to not kick them off the premises.

"Forgive me for trusting a steroid-induced solider of lesser intellect…" derided the detective, and thankfully, John and Steve both addressed on their lovers before another brawl between Sherlock and Bucky could break out (Bucky looked like he was going to knock Sherlock's teeth out right then and there).

"One of the women kept complaining to her partner to start looking for another hotel while they were waiting…" John pointed out, one corner of his mouth turning upwards.

"They couples were lingering with their luggage out in front, meaning that they weren't expecting for the staff to check them out, so logically, it indicates that they were all trying to check in…" stated Steve, his eyes playful.

"No cabbies have been delivering off any guests at this location during the half hour we were trying to get our hotel room and during your dispute, meaning that no more arrivals are coming…"

"There were however numerous maids and housekeeping staff running throughout the hall with towels and folding beds, meaning that there are already many rooms demanding for extra services with guests that have already checked in their rooms and are already past full room capacity…"

"The airport tags on one couples' luggage showed their flight came in early this morning…"

"A man was checking on his phone for a nearby restaurant. If they are trying to familiarize themselves with the area, then they are clearly not from around here and are most likely tourists, and the fact that he was trying to look for a restaurant when it was two hours close to midnight meant that they had been waiting for quite a while and skipped dinner…"

"Once again, you look…" John smirked.

"…but you do not see," finished Steven, the two Captains looking so absolutely smug and self-righteous that Bucky and Sherlock we both so, so tempted to break it off and leave their two significant others stranded in Russia and take the next flight back to England.

"Very well…" Sherlock grumbled with clenched teeth, "John and I will simply move to another establishment while the good Captain and the Winter Soldier can make themselves comfortable in this mold-infested, bed-bug ridden, urine-soaked hovel. Oh wait, all the more reason to allow the Yanks to stay here: the Winter Soldier would feel right at home."

"Sherlock, you can't leave," Steve broke in strongly, catching hold of Bucky's wrist before he could tackle Sherlock to the floor for that last insult, "Not only is this hostel has been especially made secure and under both S.H.I.E.L.D and MI-5 surveillance, but we have to wait for Mycroft's informant to give us his intel on the Hydra cell. And this was the only place she felt comfortable to meet us given the local Mafia has their snoops out already."

John was a little less gentle as he intoned meaningfully, eyebrows wiggling, "Sherlock, are you really going to pass up a chance to solve this mystery? Especially if Mycroft's suspicion that Hydra is teaming up with whatever's left of Moriarty's criminal syndicate is actually right? I believe even Mycroft said that would rate a nine of your interest-meter considering that even Black Widow was unable to piece together whatever evidence she and the other agents at S.H.I.E.L.D had gathered."

Sometimes, Sherlock could actually hate John.

He really could.

Sherlock schooled his face into a blank mask, hiding his internal fuming, as he begrudgingly admitted, "Fine. Then it is safe to assume that the matter of the bed is settled?"

"I agree," Bucky nodded as he said chillingly, "Steve and I get the bed."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

John winced.

Steven looked resigned as he exhaled through his nose, silently praying to God to give him strength.

Hopefully, Mycroft could foot the bill for the inbound reparations done to the hotel room.

Sherlock then straightened his spine in challenge, his posture so erect it was like a rocket about to blast off to the skies, turning his nose up at Bucky Barnes as he said sweetly with clenched teeth, "I beg your pardon? I simply must be hard of hearing. I assume you have a strange way of saying 'John and Sherlock shall have the bed while we useless Americans take the floor'."

"We're getting the bed. You two sleep on the floor," Bucky growled, hackles rising.

"No, we get the bed," Sherlock sneered, inching closer towards Bucky's face, and by all that was holy, Bucky was just itching to give Sherlock a black eye.

"I called dibs first, you Cheekbone Cunt. Deal's settled," Bucky pointed out.

"Let me remind you, you Greasy-Haired, Gormless Git: my brother is paying for this room, so as his only sibling, as loathed as I am to admit it, John and I get the bed by extension since we're family. But I do apologize that your normal requests of freeloading and sponging off the government were denied for this one night."

The acerbic glee in Sherlock's last sentence just made Bucky's ire rise to precarious levels as he immediately deliberated through the twenty-odd scenarios he could literally murder the consulting detective at that precise moment.

"We're the guests here on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D, so like any good host and human being, as you fail to grasp the concept, means that we get the bed," Bucky said softly, indicating hazard.

"How droll. The Hydra assassin, of all people, lecturing me about being a decent human being."

"How pathetic. The amateur who thinks he's always right and who made his best friend watch him commit suicide and left him behind is lecturing me about being selfish."

Sherlock didn't know what made him all the more furious: the fact that Bucky's dig was partially true or the flash of hurt on John's face at the memory of the Fall so many years ago…

"The bed is ours, wanker."

"Not without a fight, butthead."

"Knowing your homoerotic fantasies, that usually involves mud and a camera, wouldn't it?" Sherlock sneered.

"Bucky, stop," Steve interrupted before Bucky could rear his arm back to throw the haymaker directly into Sherlock's mouth, "Sherlock and John can get the bed. We've had worse in the war, remember?"

Before Sherlock could immediately thank the Captain for his generosity, John then strongly dissented, shaking his head.

"Oh, pish-tosh! Steven, you and Bucky can have the bed," John protested, "Sherlock and I will sleep on the floor. I'm dead tired, so I can pretty much camp out anywhere."

"NO!" bellyached Bucky and Sherlock simultaneously, and both Steven and John were amused at the similar looks of distressed expressions on their lovers' faces, uncharacteristically whining like anxious puppies.

"You deserve a bed, Steve," Bucky argued.

"Oh, please, like that muscle-bound oaf needs it. Contrariwise, I will not have John's leg cramping up due to the floor," Sherlock disputed.

Despite the insult, Steven's eyes softened as he couldn't help but give a small smile.

He clearly wasn't fooled by Sherlock's "I'm-a-selfish-sociopath" veneer in the least bit…

Before John could point out that his leg hadn't bothered him for years, Sherlock and Bucky then continued arguing their case.

"Let me make this clear: John gets the bed," Sherlock growled.

"Steve gets the bed," Bucky retorted, inching his nose closer to Sherlock's, eyes furrowed and blazing.

"John deserves it. He's a doctor who saves lives and helps people."

"Newsflash, dumbass: Steve saved more lives during the War and during Project Insight than your Doctor Watson in his entire lifetime put together. So if we go by the total, he wins, and therefore, Steve gets the bed."

"Cleaning up your dirty work given by Hydra doesn't count, mongrel."

"Pretty sure your pwecious John Watson has killed as many people as he has saved them. Or do you want me to remind you of the cab driver, Jeff Hope, pinhead?" Bucky snidely retorted, adding a disdainful sotto-voice on the baby-fied "pwecious".

John was remarkably calm and assenting of Bucky's insult, pretending he didn't listen as he unpacked his clothing from the suitcase, but damn if Bucky didn't inwardly celebrate at the dangerous flush of red dancing on Sherlock's cheeks.

"Oh well, it's hardly any more admirable than your saintlike Cap who's only real achievement was crashing his plane into the ocean in an effort to commit suicide after failing to regain the Tesseract from Red Skull. You remember him? The enemy Steven Rogers couldn't defeat in a fair fight?"

Steve just hoped Sherlock would be able to come out of this reconnaissance mission without needing to walk with a crutch…

"Steve gets the bed! He's punched out Hitler!"

"John gets the bed! He's fought against Moriarty and his criminal syndicate!"

"Steve leads the Avengers!"

"Actually, he's just the figurehead. Since Tony Stark finances the Avengers, that makes him the official leader of your overexposed Avengers as opposed to the soldier whom had everything good about him come from a bottle."

Before Bucky could help Sherlock discover how thick the walls were with Sherlock's skull, Steve then broke in gently with a rather diplomatic but inane resolution…

"Actually…why don't we all share the bed? I'm pretty sure it can fit all four of us."

There was a horrified silence, and to be honest, it was damn eerie considering even Sherlock of all people was at a loss of words.

Bucky was uncharacteristically wide-eyed with a slack jaw, mouth open ever so slightly, flabbergasted as if Steve told him he secretly kicks puppies, steals candy from children, and pushes down old ladies on the street for fun.

Sherlock had one eyebrow raised with his lips puckered in disgust as if he just ingested a lemon soaked in vinegar, pure repugnance; just when he thought that they had reached the proverbial bottom with Captain America's naiveté and idealistic stupidity…

John just quietly unpacked his and Sherlock's clothes from their portmanteau.

After a few seconds of processing this suggestion, the explosions immediately began.

"SHARE?!" Bucky hollered at the top of his lungs, one eye throbbing. Sherlock's outburst was softer, but no less outraged.

"With you two? Already trying to have a chance at infidelity, Captain? My goodness, it is refreshing to hear that your virtuousness and moral fiber is just a façade and that you're just as perverted and aberrantly warped as your assassin boyfriend," Sherlock sneered.

"Take that back, you Curly-Haired Prick…" snarled Bucky at Sherlock, his eyes growing dark and shadowed.

"I don't think it is a bad suggestion…" John then interrupted from the background, "At least we'd all be on equal standing and we'd jolly well stop fighting over something so trivial."

"There's nothing trivial over not trusting the Hydra assassin from murdering you in your sleep, John," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'd be more worried about me murdering the Posh-Spiced Jackass who's even more of an asshole than Tony Stark of all people. Wait, now that I think about it, it wouldn't be even considered justifiable homicide. More like a public service."

John's mouth set into a thin line, but he remarkably prevented himself from losing his temper as he tried again to ease the tension.

"Look, it's getting late, and we need to sleep," the good doctor suggested, "Why don't you two get the bed, and Steven and I can kip on the floor? That way, you don't need to worry about us and it will settle the fight over the bed."

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock argued, hands balled against his hips, "I will not sleep on a bed with this degenerate! Nor will I accept sleeping on a comfort while you endure a cold night on a hard floor! You will sleep on the bed with me, even if I have to lock the Hydra bicycle outside of the room."

"As much as I hate to agree with the Consulting Cock, I'm not gonna let Steve camp out on the floor either. So that means that I'm kicking Sherlock off the bed and giving the space to Steve," Bucky broke in.

"Piss off, wanker!"

"Get out of my face, shithead."

"I will always be in your face just to remind you what a useless example of a failed human experiment and AWOL Army soldier you are. Get used to it, you Rag-Tag Pissant."

"Back off, or instead of the bed, I'm handcuffing you, naked, outside in an alley where you'll hopefully freeze to death under the snow."

"No surprise you'd be familiar with back-end alleys since it is where you would normally sleep at to begin with, you louse-ridden hobo."

"And everyone knows you feel most at home in a crack-house, you cocaine-snorting, heroin-addled junkie who is and always will be inferior to his brother, the one Holmes who actually made something of himself," derided Bucky, his smile toothy like an incoming shark or a wolf about to lick its chops before the kill.

Sherlock's eyes flashed, glinting like sharpened steel.

"John gets the bed."

"Steve gets the bed."

"Actually…" Steve began, only to be caught under the brunt of both Bucky and Sherlock's glares before Captain America continued, "John has the right idea. You can take the bed with Sherlock, Buck. I'll be all right."

"But…but…"

At this, Bucky's head dropped a bit, biting his lip before he softly admitted, vulnerable and exposed.

"…I'll be lonely."

While Sherlock scoffed, John's heart then ached.

He saw Bucky's expression before.

In his own fellow soldiers as they tried to sleep despite the sounds of gunfire and missiles echoing in the darkness of the desert, quivering with fear and anxiety. In the faces of his patients who were told devastating news, the idea of a terminal countdown slowly eating away their composure and leaving raw emotion and regret. In his own face as he looked in the mirror days after Sherlock's Fall from St. Barts, simply lost.

John then recalled Sherlock mentioning that Steve constantly hugged Bucky and cuddled with him at night as a form of therapy, whispering encouragement while Bucky thrashed and woke up from the nightmares in a cold sweat…

Suddenly, John had a newfound respect for Steve's compassion.

"Well, if you're so lonely, feel free to forfeit your space on the bed to John," jeered Sherlock.

"Over your dead body, you Deducting Dickhead…" Bucky threatened, his metal arm creaking dangerously as he made a fist.

"Yours will be an adequate substitute," Sherlock shot back, making his own fist.

"Well, there is a third option…"

Everyone turned to John Watson who smiled meaningfully, hoping Captain America would catch on.

"If you do not want to share the bed altogether and if you are both insistent that you cannot tolerate sleeping next to each other, then perhaps we should go along with your suggestion. Steven and I can share the bed, and Bucky and Sherlock can sleep away from each other on the floor. That way, everyone can be satisfied."

Steve spotted the twinkle in Doctor Watson's eyes and instantly understood.

"Are you sure?" Steve asked, doing his best to sound easy-going but hesitant, "I mean, this might be a bit awkward. I…er…sleep in the buff. But I don't want to be a problem for you if it is one."

Sherlock's horrified eyes widened in panic.

John made his act of awkwardly scratching his head as natural as possible as he winced and disclosed, "Oh. Er…this is rather embarrassing, but…it just turns out that Sherlock forgot to pack my jim-jams. So, I'll be sleeping in my underwear. But – but I'm all right with it if you jolly well are too, Steven."

Steve chuckled, his dimples showing as he joked, "I don't mind. Plus, you'll still be warm. Bucky always jokes I radiate heat a furnace."

Bucky was now white in the face, the cords in his neck now popping out in anxiety.

"Well…I supposed that would be all right. As long as you don't mind me snuggling against you."

"Please. Buck always complains I'm like an octopus," laughed Steve, his smile wider and mischievous.

Sherlock and Bucky both stared at Steven and John in absolute distress, frozen and unable to even utter a single squeak of protest from their clogged throats…

"Must you monopolize the sheets for yourself, you selfish wanker? John barely has any to cover himself as is," Sherlock accused in the darkness.

Bucky inwardly counted to ten, a vein popping out of his forehead.

"Dear Lord, do you even acknowledge the existence about deodorant?"

Bucky's eye twitched and his jaw tightened.

"Cease moving about."

Bucky swore he wasn't even budging in the slightest, still lying perfectly still on his back.

"Do stop touching me."

Even in his sleeveless undershirt and in the cool, night air, Bucky's skin was simply scorching with humiliated indignation.

"Quit breathing out of your nose."

Steve hugged a bit tighter around Bucky's midsection before Bucky could help Sherlock quit breathing permanently.

"Sherlock, Buck…both of you go to sleep," Steve murmured drowsily, burying his nose and cheek against Bucky's shoulder and neck.

"How can I sleep when this ignoramus is lying right next to me? I swear, my darling brother will pay severely for this affront. I can sense my intelligence quotient dropping with each second of prolonged touch I am forced to endure with this herpes-sucking doormat," Sherlock gripped, trying his best to shy away from Bucky who was lying next to him in the bed, skin against his silk pajamas.

"If I hear one more word out of you, I'm throwing you head-first through the window, you motherfucking asshole," Bucky hissed, now inches away from losing his temper completely. He was pretty sure he could smother Sherlock from this position…

"Language…" mumbled in John and Steven in unison, both of them still with their eyes closed and hugging their respective partners.

John Watson sighed as he faced Sherlock, one bloodshot eye open resignedly.

"All right, then we'll go with the other option," John murmured tiredly, "Sherlock, Bucky, trade places with me and Steven. You two can sleep on the outside of the bed, and we'll sleep in the center. That way, you both will be as far apart as possible with Steve and I separating you two."

"You might not be very comfortable, John," Steven yawned lethargically, "Sleeping against a solid mass of muscle might feel like you've been snoozing against a brick wall all night."

"Better than a soft man such as myself," John admitted with a little self-depreciation, "Sherlock always said I gained a bit of weight and a stone or two."

"Don't mind. Ma always said plump's pleasing, more for squeezing – er, sorry. That was rude of me, John."

"Actually, I don't mind. It is a little flattering," chuckled John blearily.

There was a twitchy and uptight silence in the darkness before Sherlock and Bucky both begrudgingly gave their answers.

"Good night, John…" griped Sherlock with unfiltered disgust.

"Good night, Steve…" muttered Buck unenthusiastically.

John and Steve both couldn't help but feel a little smug as their reached over and joined each other's hands, their arms linking and draping over their two loveable yet idiotic companions.

"Smart move," Steven praised softly in the darkness as he dozed off.

"I have my moments…" bragged John without shame as he squeezed Steve's hand a bit before nuzzling against Sherlock. Within seconds, he was out.

Bucky's mouth thinned, lips pressed tightly together in seething disgust, as he went as stiff as a board while Sherlock just fumed and ground his teeth against each other, pouting.

It was going to be a long night…