Still concealed behind his newspaper, Jim glanced around the interior of the bank, instantly taking note of every little detail that might prove to be of some relevance to the predicament he now found himself in and discarding that which he deemed to be unimportant or inconsequential.

It took him barely four seconds, okay maybe five, to thoroughly assess the situation.

First, the layout of the room. This was in fact, quite a sizeable building for it's purpose, the main waiting area and lobby were spacious but rather bare aside from the sofas, a small coffee table and small selection of children's toys. The staff were safely ensconced behind glass and separated from the main floor by a security door which could only be opened by a six digit key-code, 817691. That said, the presence of the woman on the helpdesk who Jim had nicknamed Boring Brenda in his mind despite the badge on her ample bosom which identified her as Cheryl, rendered the thing as good as useless. She would undoubtedly give up the code at the slightest threat to her dreary person. Why were ordinary people always so afraid of dying?

To the left, a row of small individual offices housed the manager, assistant manager, mortgage advisors, and suchlike, giving customers a place to discuss their financial woes in privacy. There were no desks on the main floor. All of this meant that once the shooting started, which it inevitably would and quite soon too unless he was mistaken which of course he wasn't, there would be plenty of space for panicked clucking and flapping but very few places to actually hide.

The front of the building was made entirely of glass, large double doors and floor to ceiling windows displaying advertising posters but with space enough between through which Jim could clearly see the rear end of the probable getaway vehicle. A nine year old Megane, obviously not theirs but not stolen either, these boys weren't clever enough to steal something so inconspicuous. More than likely borrowed from a young female family member judging by the number of stuffed toys on the parcel shelf. Wouldn't she be pleased when she found out why they'd borrowed her car and that she couldn't pick her little darling up from school in it now because it was evidence? Ordinary people and their morals and responsibilities. The car itself however was of considerably less importance than the fact that he could see it at all. That he could see out of the windows so easily meant that passers by could see in with only marginally less ease. Plenty of witnesses then, the police would arrive fairly quickly, even if no alarm was sounded, though he was fairly sure it would be.

People though, both staff and customers alike, were a somewhat more tricky issue. People generally, even the slightly less boring ones, could be disgustingly predictable in their stupidity when they were scared which effectively made them unpredictable… or at least slightly less predictable than usual, though Jim was certain he'd accounted for all of the possible variables from tears and fainting, heart attacks and strokes to runners and escape attempts and everything in between.

Six of the eight counters were staffed, a customer at each and the queue of people still waiting was a dozen deep. In the seated area, besides Jim, seven were waiting for appointments, two couples and three singles. Behind John at the helpdesk, and elderly woman with a wheeled trolley had formed the beginnings of another queue and a young guy in a suit, an office worker from a nearby building who was very soon going to regret visiting the bank during his lunch break had just entered behind the would be bank robbers.

In total, himself included along with those non customers accompanying actual customers, but not the robbers there were forty-four people. Forty-four potential hostages. Sixteen men, twenty women and eight children. Nine oap's, twenty-one over thirties and six twenty-something's, Four couples, twenty-eight singles. Six parents, grandparents or guardians with eight pre-schoolers between them. And of course, the biggest variable of them all, one forty-ish, slightly frayed around the edges, ex army doctor turned GP with tendancies towards extreme heroism… Dr John Hamish Watson.

John, it was safe to say was unlike any of the banks other customers. John, dear John was unpredictably predictable. While blissfully ignorant of the drama about to unfold for the moment, he would not remain so for much longer. His hackles would rise soon enough and his military training would kick in, alerting him to the presence of danger before the gunfire began and there was little doubt in Jim's mind that the good doctor would be ready to spring into action in a split second in order to protect the lives of innocent civilians. It was what he'd trained to do after all. What made it all so deliciously interesting and dare he say it, almost exciting, was that Jim could not predict exactly what form that action would take.

Frustrated and angry with Cheryl who it seemed to him was deliberately inept, John turned to apologise to the woman behind him for taking so long at the very same moment as Jim folded his newspaper neatly and put it on the coffee table in front of him. Their eyes locked. Jim grinned and waggled his eyebrows, John frowned hard and pursed his lips, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"You!" He hissed, taking a step towards the other man, forgetting his place in the queue. "What the…"

No time to explain Sweetness. Jim mouthed back silently, his eyes flickering towards the two armed men. The furrow in John's brow deepened as he followed Moriarty's gaze. It took a moment but then Jim could almost hear the penny drop .

Jim read the silent Oh bloody fucking Hell, you've got to be kidding me on John's lips and the question in his eyes as he turned back.

They're not mine Love, I have so much more class than that. He answered, but before John had chance to think or say anything else, the gunmen withdrew their weapons.

One of the men, ushered the guy in the suit into the middle of the room while the taller of the two fired a shot into the ceiling, shaking his head when plaster dust fell on it.

"THIS IS A R, ROBBERY!" He stammered loudly, raising his voice an octave as the customers and staff began to scream and cry. "N, NOBODY MOVE!"

Jim uncrossed his legs and leant back in his sofa with an amused grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Well, he thought, let the fun begin.

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