Author's Note: Although I really can't afford to have another WIP, this one was too tempting. If it wasn't obvious, this is based upon the 2001 film, "Ocean's Eleven".

Obviously, characters do not belong to me. Which is a pity, because if I did, Sherlolly would've been canon by now.

Unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine. Forgive me.

The bar was not one he would have expected to find Mike Stamford in. It was small; dingy almost. A thin layer of dust stuck to the surfaces and any patrons sat inside the place were either asleep or falling asleep with a bottle in their hand. With a slight groan, Sherlock slipped onto one of the bar stools and watched as Mike Stamford caught his eye and gave a sigh before he fixed a falsely genial smile onto his features and stepped towards him.

"Good evening Mike," Sherlock said, voice low but his tone bright. Mike's hands stilled against the glass he was cleaning, and his eyes flickered with panic. When he spoke however, he was nothing but calm.

"Sorry mate. My name's Stephen." He tapped against the lapels of his waistcoat, where his name was embroidered on in lurid green thread.

"Ah yes," Sherlock said as he made an elaborate show of double-checking it before he directed an apologetic grin at 'Stephen'. "My mistake. I'll have a Scotch."

'Stephen' turned away, his shoulders sinking with relief. Sherlock watched, amused, as he prepared the drink and placed in front of him. Although some weight had been gained, five years hadn't really caused any major shift in Mike Stamford. He still possessed the same bland charm, that same 'married-with-two-kids' look which allowed him access into anywhere he wished. People were far too trusting of a blank face, and Stamford used that to his advantage.

"Lost in your thoughts again?"

He almost choked on his drink. What on earth was she doing here? She didn't know of places like this. He turned his head, but there she was, nails painted her trademark shade of crimson with both her hair and her clothing elegantly put together. She raised an eyebrow and took a glance around the darkly-lit bar.

"Never thought the day would come where I'd see you in a place like this."

"I could say the same for you," he said with a shrug and he gestured towards the stool beside him. She nodded once in acceptance and sat down, crossing her legs as she ordered herself a drink. 'Stephen', all too aware of the new arrival's identity, shook his head lightly but poured out the wine she'd ordered all the same.

"How long have you been out?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine. Sherlock glanced at his watch.

"Three hours, five minutes. The answer's no, by the way."

The woman forced herself to appear stricken. "But you don't know what I'm going to ask."

"Oh yes I do," he said with a chuckle as he took a gulp of his nearly finished Scotch. He looked to her. "I've been in prison for five years. Most people when they meet a recently released man asked what he was in for, or what he plans to do now he's out. They never ask how long he's been out. The answer is no, Miss Adler."

He gulped back the last of his drink and stood, but she wasn't ready to let him go just yet. That much was evident by the way in which she gripped at his hand; tight enough to make him pause, but not tight enough to raise any eyebrows or cause any pain. He turned back to face her.

"What makes you think I'll be good for it?"

"Because this requires planning and co-ordination and a brain," she said as she settled back on her stool, leaning against the bar. She gave a grin. "Plus, it's one of my better ideas."

He felt himself smile as he realised. "You want to rob a casino. Specifically, three."

"Very good, Mr Holmes. How did you figure it out?"

Keeping his eyes on her, he reached behind him and grabbed at the newspaper on the bar before he dropped it into her palms. She laughed at the headline splashed across the front page.

LUCK BE A LADY: TYCOON JAMES MORIARTY BUYS THIRD CASINO

"Am I that obvious?" she asked playfully.

"That ambitious," he replied, not bothering to hide his slowly widening grin. "When do you want to start?"

She raised an eyebrow, but if she was to make a remark, she quickly decided against it. Instead, she gave a shrug and flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Never."

"What?"

On seeing Sherlock's narrowed eyes, she sighed. "I already have a job going," she explained and she stepped off her stool and leaned towards him, squeezing her fingers against his upper arm. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. "This one is all yours, Mr Holmes."

That was her goodbye. He didn't watch her leave. With a sigh, he tapped at the side of his glass. 'Stephen' quietly refilled it.

"You don't happen to know where Mr Watson could be found," Sherlock said absentmindedly as he sipped at the warm amber liquid. "Do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone of that name sir," 'Stephen' lied smoothly. "And even if I did, I wouldn't know where he was."

"Might you have some inkling?" he pressed, taking another short, sharp swig of his Scotch before he reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette packet, followed by a lighter.

'Stephen' blinked in surprise. "I thought you quit."

"I got sent to jail. Difficult to maintain a smoking habit in a cell," Sherlock muttered as he put one between his lips and lit it. 'Stephen' gave another sigh. It was almost funny that he could be bothered to pretend to care about whatever smoking policy his place of work held. What was truly funny however was the way he struggled not to look as excited as a newborn at the sound of Miss Adler's offer.

It only took 'Stephen' a moment to fall away, leaving Mike Stamford standing there in his stead. He leaned forward.

"He was last seen in London, near the West End, running short cons."

"He must be bored out of his mind," Sherlock drawled as he took a drag of his cigarette. Mike hid an amused smile and shrugged.

"Perhaps. Just remember: you didn't hear anything from me."

Sherlock eyed Mike carefully and he slowly took another drag, his expression impassive. "What possible information could a barman tell me?" He stood. "Thanks for the drink."

The door swung behind him as he left.

It was only a few minutes later that Mike Stamford discovered a card slipped underneath the abandoned Scotch.

Quit your job. SH.

One haircut, one suit fitting and a train journey later, Sherlock was sat in another bar—much classier than the last one he had frequented thankfully; this one even had proper lighting—and he pinched lightly at the bridge of his nose with one hand and held a bloody tissue in the other.

"Head-butt to the face," he muttered. "A bit theatrical."

John Watson sat opposite him, flushed with rage.

"Five bloody years," he hissed. "You told me you'd only be gone for two!"

"I clearly underestimated the British justice system," Sherlock said with a shrug, but John shook his head.

"Are you asking me to punch you again? What the hell do you want?"

Sherlock pressed the tissue to his nose and groaned uncomfortably as a dull pain tingled against his skin. He moved his head back to face his former friend and tried a smile. John's remaining scowl informed him that his attempt at lightening the mood had most certainly not helped.

"I'm thinking of doing a job. It'll be tricky of course, and a large crew will be needed—lots of planning too—"

He was cut off by John raising a hand. His features were twisted into an expression of utter disbelief. "Just how long have you been out of jail?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few hours. Almost a day. Why is that important?"

John's answer was cut off by the arrival of a smiling bartender, female and wan in looks. On seeing the bloody tissue and Sherlock's equally bloody nose, she raised her eyebrows. "Can I… get you gentlemen anything?"

"A beer would be great," John said, rubbing at his temples. "Make it the strongest one you've got."

"I'll have the same," Sherlock said, and the bartender grinned before she moved away. John directed a withering look at him as soon as she was out of earshot.

"You hate beer."

"I know. Now, are you going to do this job or not? Will you help me?"

John sighed and leaned back against the leather of his chair. "Fine. I'll being roped into helping you anyway—what's the job?"

"A casino," Sherlock said as he pressed his palms together to steeple them underneath his chin. When he heard John give the inevitable splutter of disbelief, he grinned. "Actually three."

"Three? You've gone mad. That isn't possible."

"Actually, it is—if you're hitting the right venues of course. To be specific; the Bellagio, the MGM Grand and the Mirage—"

"You have gone mad."

"All of their takings are dropped off in the same vault; the Bellagio vault."

"Which is known to be the least accessible vault ever built!" John said impatiently, sitting forward. "Sherlock, this can't—"

"Two beers, as requested!" the bartender said brightly as she set them down on the table. John sat back and fumed as Sherlock brightly thanked her and pressed a crisp twenty pound note into her hand before he subtly waved her away. John rolled his eyes and made a grab for the beer bottle in front of him.

"You can't rob those casinos Sherlock," he said, taking a swig from the bottle in his hand and shaking his head. "You just can't."

"I can, and I will. Whether or not you join me is entirely up to you." With that, he wiped the remaining blood from his face, stood up and departed from the bar. It was with a growing smirk that he counted down in his head.

4…

He'd be fidgeting, perhaps mumbling under his breath about the stupidity of it all.

3…

He'd glance at the two beer bottles and the bloody tissue. Wryly smile.

2…

He'd swear loudly—a whispered "shit," sounded behind him—and he'd jump up.

1…

"This had better work, so help me God," John muttered as he fell into step with Sherlock, who grinned wider as they stepped out onto the bustling London streets. It was when they got a short distance away from the bar that John spoke again.

"Who gave you this idea anyway?"

"Irene Adler. She suggested it to me soon after my release," Sherlock said as he stepped forward and waved down a cab. When he opened the door to climb inside however, he found that John had come to a halt and was looking at Sherlock with his trademarked look of you utter bastard.

Sherlock gave a small nonchalant shrug and stepped inside the cab, only to be quickly followed on by John.

"The Diogenes Club," Sherlock said to the taxi driver, who nodded once and pulled away. Sherlock chuckled to himself and settled against the seat, watching the London scenery flit past. Five years had been far too long. Once this particular job was done, he decided, he would have to come back to London. Get to know it again—

"Please tell me this isn't about her," John said, pulling him from his thoughts. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him before he broke into a smile.

"Of course it isn't. What on Earth gave you that idea?"

John rolled his eyes again and tapped rhythmically against his knee. Five years hadn't changed Sherlock Holmes one bit.

He silently thanked God for that.