AN: Cliche tv robbery plot with some Sherlock-ness thrown in awww yeah. So this is probably totally inaccurate, and also I don't know the layout of UK banks or anything, so please bear with me and the liberties I've taken :)
Not beta'd; all mistakes are mine.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, heaving a world-weary sigh. Why must everything be so tedious these days? Where had all the exciting crimes gone? At this rate he would have to move to America in order to get any interesting cases...
He currently sat inside a Barclays, in a back office with the branch manager. The case was barely a four, but considering all the clever criminals had evidently decided to take an indefinite holiday in anywhere-not-London, Sherlock had been forced to stoop to dealing with idiotic matters involving employees hacking websites and stealing personal account information. It was so painful to think about, let alone investigate. Not that he had much choice; his coffers were sadly low at the moment.
Oh, the irony, he thought wryly as he glanced around at the obviously more-affluent-than-him visitors to the bank. A cheating spouse there, a single father living off his parents' money there, boring boring boring. Why couldn't something exciting happen for once?
As if the universe had been paying attention, the doors chose that exact moment to fly open, banging off the walls and bouncing back off the arms of four men who had stormed in holding... guns? Their yells mingled with those of the shocked customers and employees.
"Get down on the ground, now!"
"No! Please!"
"Don't move!"
"Run!"
"Keep your heads down!"
"Please, don't shoot!"
"Hands up!"
"Someone call the police!"
"Hand over your purses, wallets, phone, anything valuable!"
"Oh, God!" the manager was frozen in place, eyes wide. Sherlock, shaking his own shock off, leaped over the desk in one fluid motion, fingers scrabbling to find the panic button he knew had to exist somewhere beneath the wood's edge. Punching it quickly, he whirled back around, catching the thieving employee's eye, a man whom he'd been about to declare guilty.
"Evidently, you have received a momentary reprieve, Patrick," he said, calmly lifting his hands to shoulder level as two of the black-clad robbers stormed into the room, their obviously illegal firearms raised and pointed without a waver.
"Get out here, to the main room, now." The voice came from the most assertive man in the team of four, gruff and uncompromising. Ignoring Patrick's high-pitched gasping and the manager's blubbering, Sherlock walked slowly past them both and settled on the floor amongst the other hostages in the main foyer of the bank. He resisted the urge to grumble as he was unceremoniously divested of his wallet, phone, and lock picking kit he always kept on his person.
"Now," another man called, addressing the room at large as Patrick and the manager joined Sherlock. "Ground rules. One, no one is allowed to move or talk. You move or talk, we shoot. Understand?" No one moved or talked. "Cheers. Second, keep your eyes down at the floor. If you look at us, we shoot. Simple enough, eh? So keep it down, stay still, and you might get out of here alive."
He grabbed the manager by the arm and dragged him bodily behind the counter with the help of another. Sherlock watched as that robber and a second began interrogating him, mentions of passwords and "don't lie to us, old man" drifting to Sherlock's ears. While surreptitiously everyone watched this exchange, Sherlock took the opportunity to scan the room, inventorying the robbers. The two with the manager were menacing, but obviously focused on the goal at the moment, rather than on the hostages. Not - for now - much of a threat. The other two perpetrators were taking positions, one watching the hostages, the other near the door drawing the blinds across every window. All four were wearing dark clothes in varying styles, with ski masks of all things over their faces.
"Honestly," Sherlock sighed, barely aware he was speaking aloud. "What, are we in an American serialized crime show? Though that dialogue might actually be better, honestly. Their costumes certainly are."
"Oi," snapped the man wearing a black bomber jacket. "What did you say?"
Sherlock's lips quirked up. Whatever robbers one and two were up to with the manager, it looked a rather mediocre attempt to break into the bank computer system. Amateur robbers, an afternoon with nothing else on Sherlock's agenda... This might be more enjoyable than he thought.
Sadly, his default defense mechanism known as snark did not lend itself well to situations such as a bank robbery.
He flicked his gaze up back to Bomber Jacket and sighed. "Is this really the case you want to be known for? A half-baked attempt to steal credit information, using possibly the most cliched methods on earth to do so? Wouldn't your military background have told you this is a ridiculous exercise?"
The man took half a step back. "What?" he stammered. "How did you-?"
"And you," Sherlock turned to look at the man by the door with the dark-washed jeans, ignoring the distressed noises coming from his fellow hostages at his continued speech. "Impulsive choice, this, isn't it? What with your wife and newborn at home? I'm sure they will be so proud of you."
"Hey," the man who'd given the rules barked, having noticed the defiance across the room. "Shut up, you."
"You're asking the manager to access accounts, because you assume he knows the passwords." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You would be wrong. If you actually used your eyes you would be able to see that he clearly is not the one who handles the electronic side of operations. He has a computer with software several dozen generations out of date in his office, he keeps all his notes by hand in a frankly alarmingly massive notebook, and any fool could see the poor man can barely type. And no, it's not fear; he was typing that way earlier. He is not going to be useful in hacking the accounts. You'd be better off taking the money from the tills at the Tesco down the street."
During this speech, things in the room seemed to freeze. The hostages were gaping at Sherlock as if he had transformed into an alien life form, some frozen in half-executed gestures that said shut up you idiot, some watching the robbers in terror, some seeming glad it was Sherlock rather than them. Not that Sherlock could exactly fault them for that.
The rule-giver, whom Sherlock assumed was the so-called mastermind of this debacle, approached him slowly, the handgun glinting from the lights above them. He yanked Sherlock to his feet and shoved him toward Bomber Jacket. "Deal with this bastard," he growled. "I don't want to hear his posh voice again. If I do," he met Sherlock's gaze. "Shoot him in the mouth."
"Shoot him?" Bomber Jacket sounded uncertain, though his grip on Sherlock's arm was anything but.
Mastermind rolled his eyes behind his ski mask. "Yes, shoot him. Politely," he spat, giving Sherlock a mocking bow before turning back to his work. "We're trying to avoid trouble here, and this poncy git seems a little too eager to make some."
Before he could protest, Sherlock was dragged over and tied on with plastic zips to the barred gate separating the main room from the small set of safe deposit boxes. He took a chance and quickly surveyed the layout from the new viewpoint, peering under Bomber Jacket's arm as the man worked.
There were seven other hostages, two employees - Patrick and a woman (named Monica according to her name badge) - and six customers. Two women, three men, and a child who appeared to be about twelve, who was clinging to her mother's hand and silently crying, biting her lip and trying to keep her chin raised bravely. Sherlock caught her eye for an instant, and suddenly this situation was far from funny, cliched, or ridiculous. Now, it was something that had to be changed.
He looked up at his captor, who was pulling a necktie out of a pocket in his jacket, eyes intent and hard. Sherlock waited until their eyes met, then spoke again, an urgent whisper now, a far cry from his previous snark. "You don't want to do this."
The man huffed out a quiet laugh. "Look, for someone so brilliant, you're an idiot. Would I be here if I didn't want to be?"
"Perhaps not," Sherlock mused. "But I don't think you want to shoot anyone. The way you reacted to your boss' suggestion that you shoot me, and indeed that you shoot anyone at all, tells me that violence of that scale was not the initial plan." He paused, admittedly for effect but also to steal another gaze at the young girl. "You wouldn't hurt that child."
The man's dark blue eyes seemed to pierce him. Sherlock found it difficult to read his expression with the mask obscuring most of his face, but his eyes appeared to agree with Sherlock's assessment. When he replied, though, he only said, "You aren't allowed to speak. So I'm going to have to gag you. Well, that, or hit you with the butt of my gun. Your choice."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow on reflex. Instead of responding with irritation at the silent attitude, the man just chuckled softly and set about securing the tie across Sherlock's mouth. That finished, he strode back over to stand near the hostages, his posture military-straight. The gun in his left hand he held comfortably, at ease with the weapon. There was evidence of a slight limp in his right leg too, and the faintest trace of a faded tan on his wrists and neck. Wounded in action, then, in the desert no less. Returned a few months now, but not long enough for the tan to have faded.
If it weren't for this bloody gag, which was already aggravating, Sherlock would have asked him specifically in which country's desert he'd been. Did he know the faint limp was psychosomatic? And why was he here now, stealing credit information with amateur bank robbers?
Sherlock had plenty of time to ponder these and other questions in the next twenty minutes. His knees were getting sore, as the angle at which he was cuffed to the bars made it nearly impossible for him to sit comfortably, so he was forced to perch on his knees and toes. The Mastermind and Henchman Number Two were still terrorizing the bank manager, while Dark Jeans was watching through the windows. Nothing was really happening. How tedious.
Being a hostage was strangely not as thrilling as he had thought it would be. Or perhaps he's simply used to a higher class of criminal, he amended upon noticing two of the hostages - strangers prior to this - clinging to one another's hands.
The only thing truly stimulating was Bomber Jacket, who was observing the hostages with a practiced sort of restrained calm and being irritatingly fascinating while he did so. More than anything, Sherlock just wanted to know his name.
"Mummy," the little girl whispered, and Sherlock whipped his head up. "I'm scared."
"I know, sweetheart," she breathed back, brushing a hand through the girl's hair. "It'll be okay."
Sherlock was glad they didn't dare to speak any further, but he caught sight of the face on the next person over. Mid-thirties, gay, possibly employed at a hospital. He held his gaze fixed on the girl as she blinked back tears, then his face hardened in determination, brown eyes glinting as he looked up at the robbers.
Oh no. Not good.
"Excuse me," the man said sharply. Sherlock closed his eyes. Why must people be such idiots?
"What do you want, to get shot?" Mastermind hissed, striding over to stand before the man and brandishing his gun.
"Moran," Bomber Jacket snapped. "Back off. Do you want the cops rushing in here because of a gunshot?"
"Shut up," Mastermind, or rather Moran, growled back. Clearly using names had not been part of the arrangement either, but Bomber Jacket had evidently decided that if they were going to be waving guns around in such a flippant manner, he could do the same with names. Interesting.
That sign of internal rebellion, Sherlock mused, could prove to be useful.
Unfortunately, any chance to plan any manipulation of Bomber Jacket was ripped away instantly as the hostage spoke again, ignoring the gun being pointed in his face by Moran.
"Gentlemen," he scowled. "Let the child go. Allow her to leave, and I'll stop talking."
But Moran dismissed his words with a smirk and a waggle of the gun. "Ah, I already warned you though. Talk and you get hurt."
Without much warning, he and the other two men began kicking at the man until he collapsed onto the ground. The blows to his stomach from their boots made the man cry out and even Sherlock winced in sympathy. The hostages cried out and scrambled away as the beating continued. The girl cowered in her mother's arms, but Sherlock noticed above the chaos was the man in the bomber jacket, clutching his gun but not moving to help his fellow robbers. He caught Sherlock's eyes over the heads of the others, shaking his head in warning when he saw Sherlock straining against his bonds.
"That's enough," Bomber Jacket said, starting toward Moran and the others.
"Sod off, Watson," Moran snapped, straightening and turning. "Or do you want the same treatment?" He gestured to the man laying before him as the other two robbers stepped back, guns trained once again on the other hostages.
"None of this was in the plan," Bomber Jacket - or rather, Watson - snapped. "You promised me this would be a simple, quick job. You said nothing about having weapons drawn. Then this morning when you came to get me you hand me a gun? You come in here threatening to shoot all these innocent people? What are you playing at?"
"You agreed to follow orders," Moran growled. "I would have thought a military man like you would know how."
"I didn't agree to this."
"You've got no choice but to agree. If you don't, you'll regret it."
"Why? You going to shoot me?" Watson sounded amused, as if to say I'd like to see you try.
Moran paused, eerily still. The hostages and other robbers seemed to collectively brace themselves when Moran fell silent.
"No," he finally replied. "But I will shoot her."
He shifted his gun to the side, and Sherlock followed its barrel toward the mother, who let out a shaking breath and frantically shifted her daughter behind her. Before she could complete the motion, however, several things happened, practically in the same moment.
Watson, eyes widening, swiftly moved forward and struck Moran in the torso, then whipped his hand up to grab his wrist. The gun, in a loosened grasp thanks to the sudden blow to Moran's solar plexus, fell easily to the ground. Watson kicked it, and it skidded away far from anyone's reach.
In the same instant, Sherlock yanked his wrists downward, the connecting pieces of the zip ties snapping. He'd been lining them up properly the last few minutes, waiting for an opportune moment to try to gain some control over the situation. The pressure he'd exerted when the ties were positioned correctly caused them to break and his wrists to pop free. Then, he stood, yanked the necktie off his mouth, and stood. The entire series of acts lasted mere seconds.
He'd taken barely a step, however, when a sharp knocking on the door startled everyone in the room into silence.
"Hello?" A voice called.
Sherlock stiffened. He knew that voice.
No one inside the bank moved, other than the stupid hostage, who was moaning softly on the floor and rolling onto his side, clutching at what were likely broken ribs.
"My name is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. We received a distress call from this location. Would someone open the door?"
The robbers were staring questioningly at each other. Moran, still doubled over from Watson's blow, hissed, "Don't talk to him. Anyone."
"You don't exactly have the upper hand just now," Watson replied coolly, twisting his wrist just so that Moran let out a very high-pitched gasp.
"We are willing to negotiate," Lestrade continued. Sherlock's brain was whirring. What was going on? Why was a homicide detective being sent in to negotiate with bank robbers? And what was Sherlock going to do with the robbers clearly raring to tear at each other's throats and the hostages ready to either rebel or bolt?
Well. He supposed, since everyone else in the room was obviously incompetent, he would have to deal with this himself.
"I'll talk to him," he said. Everyone's eyes flew to him, three of the hostages and two of the robbers clearly shocked to see him liberated and standing. "I can get him to go away. Then we can deal with this, work out what needs be done so we can all go home. You, to your ill-gotten plunder; these people," he gestured vaguely to the hostages slumped on the floor. "To their boring little lives. The police will only get in the way of that at the moment." He locked his eyes on Watson, for - due to Moran's rather helpless current position - was clearly now in charge. "Have we a deal?"
No one replied for a few shivering beats, then Watson nodded. "Yes," he said. "We're in no position to bargain with the police. And I'd fancy the chance to get a few things straight with you," he added to Moran, who glared up at him.
Sherlock nodded and began to pick his way across the floor between hostage's hands and feet. Three steps into the journey, he stopped, turned, and tugged the girl upright.
"She leaves," he said directly to Watson. "Or I let Scotland Yard in and leave you idiots to your fate. Agreed?"
Watson looked at him with intense eyes. "Yes."
Sherlock nodded and pulled her toward the door. She went, clinging to him but saying nothing, and Sherlock moved his hand forward to grasp the lock.
"Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you, Sherlock, darling." A loud click accompanied the words.
Turning about slowly, ignoring the murmurs and whimpers from the hostages, Sherlock raised his gaze to meet that of the man standing before him.
The idiot hostage, who'd moments before been on the floor cradling his torso, was upright.
With another gun in his hands.
Shifting so the girl was behind him, Sherlock slowly raised his hands. The man watched, an amused glint dancing behind his dark eyes.
"My my, what a plot twist this is," he murmured, voice a bit singsong-y. "You, back on the floor." He fluttered the gun - equipped with a silencer, unlike the others - from the girl to the group of paralyzed hostages. She squeaked and scurried back into her mother's arms. Meanwhile the man smiled in satisfaction. The rest of the room seemed to be frozen.
"Do you want me on the floor too?" Sherlock asked dryly after a beat of silence.
"No, no, Sherlock. There's just fine," the man's gaze slid up and down his body, almost like a physical touch, light yet lingering.
"Listen mate, was that beating not enough the first time?" Moran snapped, moving back around to stand equidistant to both the man and Sherlock, having slipped at last from Watson's grasp in the wake of this newest shock.
"Please," was the derisive reply. "Do you truly think I would not have worn padding and body armor to a daylight bank robbery? Obviously I had to get into a position where I would no longer be perceived as a threat, so I prepared accordingly."
"What?" Watson spoke now, the word echoed in the faces of those around him. "You knew this was going to happen?"
"Of course I did," he giggled, glancing to the side at Watson, the gun still trained steadily on Sherlock. "Oh and do put down the gun, Captain, it will hardly help you now."
"What makes you think that?" Watson challenged, keeping his own weapon on the man. "I daresay I'm a better shot than you."
"It doesn't matter."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, and both men looked back at him. The rest of the group watched the action unfold as if watching a tennis match.
"Yes, darling?" he addressed Sherlock again, soft voice still eerily musical.
Sherlock ignored the endearment. "You arranged this robbery. You recruited these men yourself."
"Point for the pretty laddie," he breathed, smirking. "Very good, Sherlock. I knew keeping an eye on you would be worth my while. And imagine my delighted surprise when you waltzed into this bank today."
"Who are you?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe we have had the pleasure of meeting before, yet you appear to know all about me."
The man beamed at him, gun still steady in his hands. "How rude of me, not introducing myself." He stopped, simply gazing into Sherlock's eyes. "However, I'd rather wait until we're in a more... private setting. Seems too personal a discussion to be having in the presence of so many others."
The man's gaze was beginning to unsettle Sherlock, in spite of himself. "So what should I call you in the meantime?" he asked sardonically.
"Your biggest fan will do, for now."
Sherlock raised eyebrows. Intriguing.
Before he could reply, however, Moran dove for the man without warning. The man, though, did not even turn fully, just shifted his hand back and turned his head to aim; he squeezed the trigger. Moran crumpled for the second time, clutching at his knee and crying out. Watson, nearest, leaped back and was forced to hold his hands up as Sherlock's fan turned his gun onto the army man.
"Why are you doing this?" Watson asked, staring down the man without so much as a tremble.
"Yeah," Dark Jeans chipped in. "You forget you're outnumbered."
Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, but stopped when he heard his fan's chuckling. "But not outgunned!" he sang teasingly.
Watson's gaze, as did Sherlock's, dropped to the weapon in his hands. "I don't understand."
Watson only received a derisive laugh in response. Everyone in the room then watched in horror as the strange man in their midst reached down and plucked up Moran's fallen gun, turned it towards his own face, and stuck out his tongue in a grotesque gesture.
Several people cried out as his finger moved, but the gun only gave a soft, ineffective click. No blast, no blood.
"It's fake," Watson breathed, confusion etched onto his features.
The other two robbers gaped and immediately pulled the triggers of their own guns, to the same result. Which was fortunate, as they would have ended up shooting each other in the groin and the foot respectively.
The man giggled, sounded thrilled at their ridiculous performance. "Yes, they're fake. Quite convincing, though, don't you think, Captain Watson?"
Watson whipped his gaze up, arm clutching his useless gun lowering. "What do you want? If you want us to get away with this robbery, you aren't exactly helping the process."
Sherlock snorted in amusement. The man had guts, mouthing off to the only armed man in a hostage situation.
"Oh, Watson, you poor thing. What must it be like in your funny little brain? Must be so boring." The man smirked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who had stiffened. "I liked that one. You should come up with those charming sayings more often."
Sherlock didn't reply, just swallowed around the tightening sensation in his throat. The man couldn't have heard that; Sherlock had been with Lestrade at a crime scene. Unless the man had surveillance.
Just how long had he been watching Sherlock, and Sherlock had had no idea?
Apparently ignoring Sherlock's consternation, the man turned back to Watson. "You think this is all about a sloppy robbery? How cute. No, this is much more than that."
"Enlighten me then." Watson's left hand was repeatedly clenching, itching for a fight. He glanced apprehensively at Sherlock, who shook his head in warning. This army man was his only capable ally, and he could not have him put out of commission before he could provide any assistance.
Sherlock's "fan" giggled again, the high-pitched sound strangely eerie in the silence of the room. "And reveal my plan to a bunch of idiots? I think not. A good magician never reveals his secrets, and it's the same with a criminal mastermind."
He stepped forward, right into Watson's space. "Now on the ground, Captain."
Watson glared at him but obeyed, positioning himself next to the young girl and her mother. Again, he caught Sherlock's gaze, looking helpless for the first time.
"Alright!" the man announced abruptly. Several hostages jumped. Sherlock waited, eyes on the gun which was once again trained directly at his own chest. "Everyone, on your feet and toward the back, quickly now!"
The hostages scrambled, murmuring amongst each other, but to a man seemed too petrified to attempt to resist. Sherlock followed helplessly as the group was herded into the back corridor near the manager's office. Sherlock's "fan" shut the gate behind them, then twirled about to face Sherlock, brown eyes glinting with a sickening, delighted malice.
"Darling," he breathed. "Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?"
The words may have been structured as a question, but the steady gun and the look in his eyes revealed the true nature of the demand. Sherlock, suppressing a shudder, stepped froward and did so. The other man tilted his hips into Sherlock's hand, smirking up at him as the first pocket turned out to be empty. He sighed contentedly, almost indecently, as Sherlock withdrew his hand and slipped it into the other pocket, finally pulling out several curled up neckties. Clutching them, Sherlock retreated, steadfastedly ignoring the pleased smile on his adversary's face.
"Help me tie them up?" Another order disguised as a request.
One by one, Sherlock secured the others, but when he stepped toward Watson, the "fan" intercepted him with a waggling finger.
"Ah ah, can't have you and Watson teaming up."
He yanked the tie around Watson's wrists mercilessly, though the army man didn't flinch. He glanced at Sherlock, eyes full of resolve. Sherlock nodded nearly imperceptibly back. It was nice to know he had one ally he could rely on fully, should the opportunity arise.
Once everyone was tied and shoved into a supply closet, the man turned the gun on Sherlock again after removing it from his waistband. "Face against the wall."
Sherlock obeyed and allowed himself to be bound again as he attempted to ignore the warm breaths on his neck. That finished, the man stepped away lightly, almost skipping. "I'll be off now," he announced.
"Catch you later?" Sherlock straightened.
"No you won't!" The door slammed shut.
Silence and near-darkness enveloped them. Watson stood immediately. "No one move," he ordered in a whisper that allowed no argument. "We'll get out of this. Don't panic."
He peered through the thin window in the door before Sherlock could get there. "He's heading toward the safety deposit boxes," he informed the room at large, which seemed to be holding its collective breath. "I can't- he's out of sight now, but I think..." He trailed off then, and Sherlock saw his shoulders tense.
"What is it?" he demanded, striding over to crane his neck to look over Watson's head. He stopped as well, though, for he immediately found the reason for Watson's sudden silence.
A bomb had been placed in the middle of the corridor, a great mass of wires and putty, explosives and impending death. At the far end, Sherlock's "fan" was waving as he slipped into the deposit box room, a cheeky but evil smile on his lips.
Sherlock and Watson glanced at each other, communicating silently. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and Watson shook his head. Between them they did not possess enough bomb disposal training to be able to stop it, but they had to try. A mutual nod had them facing the hostages.
"Listen," Sherlock spoke before Watson could. "I'm a consultant for Scotland Yard." He paused, watching varying degrees of shock and wonder register on the faces, visible even in the gloom. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that earlier... Nonetheless, I need all of you to stay here in this room. No one try to be a hero, because heroes are fundamentally idiots who get themselves and countless others killed. Stay here, while Watson and I deal with the situation outside and fetch help."
"But-" the mother stammered, her daughter buried in her arms.
"No, I'm sorry," Watson said. "I know all you want is to leave, but you can't yet. I know we don't know one another, but I didn't come here to get innocent people hurt." He sighed, straightening his posture. "You have to trust me, at least for the next few minutes." Then, as what seemed to be an afterthought, "I'm sorry about that whole... robbery thing earlier."
Sherlock tugged him to the door then before anyone could continue the conversation, and proceeded to help him kick it open. They tumbled out into the corridor, and Sherlock reached back and shut the door again, throwing the deadbolt. Watson raised his eyebrows.
"It's simpler that way," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, already halfway to the bomb.
They moved forward as one, crouching before the device. Sherlock braced himself, and gingerly shifted back a few wires to expose a small metallic box. Numbers ticked down on its surface. Both men sucked in their breath and leaped back.
"Go," Watson said harshly, shoving Sherlock backwards, though Sherlock found his gaze was fixed on the timer even as his feet began to flee.
7 seconds... 6... 5... 4...
Their footsteps pounded in unison as they dashed back towards the supply closet. Judging from the size of the bomb, and the distance the room was from it, the blast radius should just miss-
The explosion threw the world into a state of fire and roaring noise before Sherlock could complete the thought, and the last sight he had as he spun on reflex to look back was the lurid grin of his biggest fan, at the other end of the flaming corridor. Then, darkness swallowed him.
Sherlock's consciousness came back to him in fits and starts, the painful ringing in his ears the first thing he registered. He sat up, grimacing, and felt something unpleasantly warm and sticky on the side of his head. His wrist felt as if it might be fractured as well, and he cradled it close to his chest, wincing and cursing under his breath. Every part of his body felt sore, as if he'd been run over by several freight trains.
A hand on his shoulder made him jump. He twisted about and so came face to face with an alarmed-looking Watson, his ski mask singed and falling off on one side. As if following Sherlock's train of thought, he reached up and pulled it off, revealing blond hair going a bit gray and a surprisingly soft face, relatively undamaged by flames. They must have been just far enough away to avoid the worst of the explosion.
"You okay?" Sherlock had to read his lips, thanks to the continued ringing in his ears. He nodded anyway.
"Mostly," he replied, the words scratching their way out of his throat.
He looked around to see that an entire section of the bank had been blasted away. The hostages and robbers alike were staggering from the supply closet, all stunned and sporting various cuts and minor injuries. But no one appeared seriously harmed, though Sherlock saw the mangled remains of the gate to which he had been tied to only a half hour before.
Beyond it, Lestrade appeared, looking terrified. Other officers appeared behind him, and Sherlock spotted an ambulance arriving on the street beyond. The DI spotted Sherlock and dashed forward as the latter staggered to his feet and approached the front of the bank.
"You alright?" Lestrade's voice was muffled, but audible enough that with lip-reading, Sherlock could manage.
"Mostly. The hostages, as well as your perpetrators." He gestured behind him to where the group was being collectively cared for by the emergency personnel.
Lestrade nodded distractedly, looking around at the wreckage. "Where did the bomb come from?"
Sherlock shook his head. "It will take some time to explain, and perhaps we should do so at Scotland Yard instead-?"
But a sudden impact made him frown; Lestrade had hit him in the arm, glaring. "What?" Sherlock winced, rubbing the spot.
"You can't just... Sherlock, you should have let the real authorities in to help diffuse the situation! Your brother sent me specifically so I could help you when he found out about this bloody mess, since I'm the only person you trust at the Yard, but... You shut me out! Do you have any idea how lucky you are that this didn't end with deaths?"
Lestrade probably continued ranting, but Sherlock had stopped listening. At least he had the ringing in his ears as an excuse for the moment. However, his attention had been diverted by Watson, who was ushering the mother and daughter toward the paramedics, supporting the woman, who appeared to be concussed.
Sherlock stepped away from Lestrade abruptly. "You can finish yelling at me later. Shouldn't you be interrogating the robbers?" he tossed these words over his shoulder as he approached the army man, grasped him by the elbow, and led him to the corner of the undamaged portion of the bank, near the main counter.
"You okay?" Watson asked, the third time Sherlock had heard the question in as many minutes.
He nodded. "Did you see where he went? My so-called biggest fan?"
Watson shook his head, looking frustrated. "No, I was a bit preoccupied with the bomb."
"There was no way out of the safety deposit box room," Sherlock said, then nodded meaningfully toward it. Watson twisted, and both men watched as an officer emerged, shaking his head at Lestrade, who had evidently ordered a full sweep of the building.
Watson turned back. "Where did he go then? Who was he really?"
"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "It's a sensation I'm not exactly fond of."
Watson chuckled. "Didn't peg you as one of those subscribers to 'ignorance is bliss,' so I'm not shocked."
They both gazed at each other for a few moments, amused, and Sherlock found it difficult to comprehend that this was the same man who had, a mere hour ago, burst into the building with an intention to commit robbery. They had bonded in that intervening time, as unlikely as it seemed.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but the words that came out were not ones he had consciously chosen. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
Watson raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Afghanistan. How did you-?"
Sherlock explained quickly - the references to his rank and recent experiences, his not yet faded tan, his stance and ease with weapons - and found himself blushing slightly when Watson pronounced him brilliant.
"Alright, so you're obviously a genius," Watson smirked. "What's your name then? All I caught was Sherlock."
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for these imbeciles you see before you," he tilted his head toward the officers who were still milling about, trying to assess everything while still staying out of the paramedics' way. "And you are?"
"Captain John Watson," John's hand was warm and calloused as he shook Sherlock's.
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Captain... what on earth are you doing here robbing a bank?"
"I can't afford London on an army pension," he joked, but sobered immediately when Sherlock did not laugh. "Listen, I didn't... this isn't what I signed up for," he gestured around at the general destruction.
Sherlock nodded. "Obviously," he replied absently as he made a quick abortive gesture at Lestrade, who'd noticed them and had taken a step forward. Reassured when the DI stopped, Sherlock refocused on John.
"Coming back here was difficult," John explained. "I had hardly any funds and with my injuries I couldn't find work, so I basically had no options. A week ago, I got this offer I couldn't refuse. The contact, Moran over there, said I just had to assist with a simple experiment in a bank, and if I did it well, I'd be given enough money to pay off my debts. He said it would be perfectly harmless, just a drill to test the bank's procedures for robberies. Course, once we got here, they handed me a gun and started threatening to shoot people." He glanced at Sherlock guiltily. "If I had known there was any intent to harm, I'd never have come, I promise you that."
Sherlock nodded, not considering for a moment to disbelieve him; the man had proved his earnestness already. "That explains your recruitment to an extent, but Moran was unaware of the real nature of the operation as well. Obviously, my fan hired him. But what was his motive?"
John shrugged. "He wanted something in those boxes, obviously. Something he was willing to orchestrate a fake robbery, be beaten up, and blow up the place for. You're the consultant, you tell me what he was after."
Sherlock snorted. "All in good time."
He turned and spotted Moran, bloodied and battered, being jerked to his feet by Lestrade. As the handcuffs clicked on, Sherlock launched himself toward him.
"Moran," he snapped at the man, who flinched and took an automatic step backward. "The man who hired you, the man who did all this. What was his name?"
"Why should I tell you?" Moran groaned.
"Because," Sherlock stepped forward, feeling John join him at his side. "He clearly intended your robbery to be botched, either through your own stupidity or - as became necessary - his own interference. He felt no allegiance or obligation toward you, so you have no reason to remain loyal. Everyone in your team, I suspect, was chosen because you were desperate for money or easily manipulated, not because he cared. Now tell me his name."
Moran grimaced under the intense gaze Sherlock turned on him then. "Alright, alright," he said, shaken. "I don't know much about him, I swear. He just gave me this one job, I swear!"
"The name!"
"Moriarty!"
Sherlock froze, barely registering John's questions as he combed through the files in his mind palace, searching for that name. Lestrade had led Moran off and had him loaded in the car before Sherlock blinked his way out.
"Sherlock?" John was asking. "Have you heard of him before? Do you know who he is?"
"I've absolutely no idea." He turned and looked into John's deep blue eyes. The eager look on the man's face, however, made Sherlock pause. This was a man worth saving, worth knowing, and despite the unconventional nature of their meeting, Sherlock found himself inexplicably wanting to keep him around. This Moriarty's emergence had potential certainly, but something about John had drawn Sherlock in, since the first moment. Perhaps he would be beneficial to keep around, whether or not Moriarty returned. Mycroft would likely be able to get the charges dropped once Sherlock and hopefully the other hostages vouched for John...
"John," he murmured, speculating and trying to hide a smile. John met his gaze, resolute and strong. The partner Sherlock had never known he needed. "How do you feel about the violin?"
I've got to admit, this one gave me a hard time; it just would not cooperate. I literally didn't even know Moriarty was going to show up, and when he did, I didn't know how to deal with it and just... *groans in anguish*. I was trying this thing where I come up with a concept but no overall plot and then see where it takes me, but I'm not sure I enjoyed it. I think in future I'll stick to story outlines... Anyway, I know this ended on a bit of an ambiguous note, but I just can't bring myself to continue down this rabbit hole - rest assured that in any universe of mine, I am sure Sherlock and John would find a way to take down Moriarty.
Next in series: immortal (which will be posted soon, as it's been almost complete for a while now). Title: It's a Long Story.
Feel free to leave a review if you'd like to say hi :D
See you on the other side of the new episodes! *exits, screaming in excitement and terror, pursued by the series four trailers*