Sherlock sat in Mycroft's car and tried not to fidget. He wasn't sure how this was going to go, but the anticipation of seeing John again was making it impossible to sit still. For the last two years, he had focused on bringing down every inch of Moriarty's web and finally (finally!) the last piece had fallen and he was free to come back to life. To his life.

Mycroft had given him updates on John from time to time, and they had always been a reassuring, heartening reminder of the home he was striving to return to. Sherlock had been sad to hear John had moved out of London six months after his faked death, but he had told himself it was healthy that John was moving forward.

His biggest complaint was that the town John had moved to was too small to have much by way of CCTV, or a homeless network. He had been forced to rely on Mycroft for reports of his friend—especially since John had not updated his blog once since his final message declaring his faith in Sherlock. Still, the need for secrecy was over now and Sherlock wanted to come home … and that meant coming back to John. Sherlock had never had a sense of what a home was until he had become flatmates with that remarkably patient ex-army doctor who put up with him while not putting up with his nonsense. He was a study of contradictions and loyalty and Sherlock had missed him terribly.

He had conceded, though, that his return would be a shock to John, and had gone along with Mycroft's insistence on coming. He still wasn't entirely sure why, other than because Mycroft wouldn't tell him where John was. (Madthwaite-on-the-sea? What kind of name was that? It sounded like something ludicrous from Yorkshire) Not that Sherlock couldn't have figured it out, but it was faster just letting his brother come—though Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure why this meeting was something his brother was willing to leave London for.

Oddly enough, after two years' absence, he found he didn't mind the time in his brother's company as much as he'd expected.

Now, though, they were so close to John, it was maddening. In fact, he could see John coming down the street now, leaning on his cane with each step. Not so bad a limp as when he'd met him, Sherlock noted, though his leg clearly troubled him. He leaned forward in his seat, straining to take in the details. John's hair was greyer than it had been. He was thinner, with more lines on his face, but he looked well. Not relaxed, entirely, not with that line of … not tension in his shoulders, but something like it. Wariness, perhaps.

Ah, but John had spotted Mycroft now as his brother shifted away from the car. That would explain the tension. Mycroft's plan was for him to usher John to the car and to get in behind him, just in case he took it in his head to bolt when he saw Sherlock waiting inside. (Even Sherlock could agree that introducing himself to John on the street would be verging on cruel. He didn't want his best friend to faint from shock—not that John would ever do that.)

John was shaking his head, and for a moment Sherlock was worried. If he wouldn't talk with Mycroft, how was Sherlock to reintroduce himself without making a scene? He wished again they had arrived in town before John had left for work. This would have been so much easier in a private setting. After two years of secret, ultra-covert work, being out in public still made him twitch.

He clenched his hands in his lap, fighting the impulse to jump out of the car as he saw John glance at his watch and gesture toward the bank. He'd left some transaction for the last minute, obviously, and needed to go now. Sherlock wanted to scream with frustration as the two of them turned toward the bank. It was only the cool gaze of Mycroft's PA from the front of the car that kept him in his place.

It was only two minutes later that everything fell apart.

Trying not to fidget like a seven year-old promised ice cream, he watched three men purposefully walk toward the bank doors. It was their walk—a march, almost—that caught his attention first as his brain catalogued the matching clothes, the knitted caps that were too warm for this early Spring day. It was as they paused to pull them down into face-covering masks that he saw the outline of rifles under their jackets.

He sat up. "The bank is being robbed!"

Anthea didn't even look up from her Blackberry. "They'll only be a few minutes, Mr. Holmes. Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not. They're being robbed, and John and Mycroft are inside." He had the door open just as an alarm on the dashboard blared and Anthea's phone vibrated in her hands.

"Distress signal," she reported, looking startled. "Sherlock, you can't…"

But he was already out of the car and sprinting across the pavement, only stopping when he heard gunfire inside the bank.

He fought the instinct to tear the door open and rush inside. He'd done far too much covert work the last two years to think that would be a good idea.

He snarled in frustration as he spun away from the door and stalked back to the car. So close, he was so close to seeing and talking to John again, and the stupid man had to walk into a bank robbery?

Anthea was busily texting (of course) and the driver was on his radio, so it was only a matter of minutes before the first police car pulled up. (Sherlock grudgingly admitted that no matter how incompetent this lot might turn out to be, at least their response time was good.) He had his credentials from Mycroft out of his pocket before the first officer was even out of his seat.

"Henry Sigerson," he told him. "You've got a robbery in progress with an indefinite number of hostages, and I will tell you right now that I will be your negotiator with the robbers."

"Mr … Sigerson?" The officer looked stunned, and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Faster at driving than thinking, what else was new?"

"You're going to want to call this in. You're going to need reinforcements. And yes, I will be happy to talk to your superiors, but first you need toget them here." Sherlock turned back to Anthea. "What do you know?"

He conferred with her and Michaels (a security member of the British secret police and clearly a great deal more than just Mycroft's driver) as more police cars squealed up and they started cordoning off the pavement in front of the bank. She was just playing the broadcast from Mycroft's umbrella as the local DI came up.

"You already have my phone. Do you need my umbrella, too? I don't see how it could possibly be used against you and your two friends, it's not like it's bulletproof." Mycroft's voice was smooth and unruffled, and Sherlock had to admit that his brother had presence of mind. He caught Anthea's eyes and nodded. Three robbers with guns.

A moment later, John's voice, heard for the first time in two years. "But, I need that. It's a legitimate walking aid, not a silly prop. Because, I'm sorry, you know as well as I do that that's what your umbrella is, My … Mike."

Sherlock almost smiled, picturing the look Mycroft must have given his friend to keep him from using his full name, and then did smile as John charmed the thieves into letting him keep the umbrella. It was a relief to know that John's instincts remained as sharp as ever.

He tore himself away from the feed to talk to DI Barnes. "We unofficially have two men inside. They are hostages with the others, but will be our ace in the hole. We already know there are three robbers, armed with guns, though we don't yet know what kind they are. Are there any cameras inside the bank?"

He sighed as the man blinked, absorbing the new information, and Sherlock wondered if he should have spoken slower. (John had often told him his verbal deductions came at ultra-sonic speed, too fast for normal human hearing—a point he'd often reminded himself of these last two years of dealing with idiots without John's calming presence.)

Gratifyingly, this detective seemed slightly faster on the uptake than most and just nodded, calling over some technician to discuss camera feeds. "How did you get people inside," he wanted to know.

"Pure luck," Sherlock said, tactfully not saying how bad he thought that luck was. "Mr. Holmes was here to visit a friend who needed to conduct a transaction at apparently the worst possible time. It's thanks to them, though, that we have an audio feed from inside the bank."

He watched as the computer tech pulled up a video feed of the inside of the bank on a laptop, and after a long look at John, sitting calmly and unharmed next to Mycroft (also calm, of course), started to study the layout of the room. Of the skills he'd needed to learn these last two years, tactics and deployment were two of the most useful. He was mentally marking out the best lines of attack when Anthea called over. "We've got names. They're introducing themselves."

Sherlock leaned over the tech. "Can you sync the audio feed with the video?"

The man nodded and conferred with Anthea about frequencies and security firewalls while Sherlock went back to staring at the screen. The robbers didn't seem overly stressed, nor were they rummaging through cash drawers or trying to get into the vault. Assuming they hadn't actually been after the cash (this had become a hostage situation too quickly for that), what was left? Either confidential files or safety deposit boxes, he thought.

He saw another detective walking up, jamming the earth with every stride. Head of the force, then. He approached DI Barnes and demanded to know what was going on, and why hadn't they contacted the robbers yet?

Barnes stammered a bit and pointed in his direction, causing the man to round on Sherlock. In attitude, he could be brother to the chief superintendent who had gotten a broken nose from John on that last night two years ago—puffed up and self-important. "What's this I hear about you taking over my crime scene? Who the hell are you?"

"Henry Sigerson," Sherlock told him, drawing himself up to his full height and speaking in his plummiest, most public-school accent. There was no way on earth he was letting this man interfere, not with that belligerent thrust to the chin. "I've men inside, and will be talking to the robbers myself."

"Are you a trained negotiator, Mr. Sigerson?"

"I know people," he said with a smile at what he expected John's reaction would be to that. "I can also lead a tactical team, if necessary, and have any number of other skills that are unlikely to be relevant to this situation. However, I can guarantee that with my people in there, I will be the one making contact."

"And who exactly are 'your' people, Mr. Sigerson?"

Sherlock held up his credentials again. "I believe that's above your pay grade, but I assure you I am the best man for the job. I know people just as I know you had a bacon sandwich at your desk for breakfast despite the fact that your cholesterol is too high. Your doctor reminded you of that fact just this week, but you eat because it lowers your stress which is high because of your strained marriage—you slept at the office last night, didn't you? You're also feeling threatened professionally as the younger crop of detectives come up behind you, a little faster, a little smarter, and always a threat to your position, so that the idea of an early retirement appeals to you, despite the fact that you enjoy the sense of power your position affords. Shall I go on? Or is that sufficient proof?"

He had delivered the entire speech quietly, leaning in so that only the detective heard him—he had learned some discretion these last two years—but the man still looked furious when he'd finished. Sherlock kept his face still, though. He wasn't going to risk this man taking charge of a scene where both John and Mycroft's lives were at stake. (He found that, when it came down to it, he felt strongly about anyone other than himself harming Mycroft.) And so he calmly, politely even, met the man's eyes and waited while he blustered himself to a stand-still, faced with Sherlock's implacable, hard-won patience.

It wasn't until the man finally wound down and figuratively bowed to Sherlock's superiority by slinking back to his car with a muttered, "Keep me informed," that Sherlock looked past him and, surprised, recognized Sally Donovan, standing and staring at him with a shock of her own.

He had heard that she'd been transferred out of London after the truth about Moriarty came to light, but he hadn't realized she was here, this close to John.

He met her gaze calmly, reminding himself that he was Henry Sigerson, that he did not know this woman (or care to), and was furthermore in disguise. With nothing more than an empty gaze, noting her recent financial troubles and lack of a support network, he turned away.

It was time to make a phone call.

He watched on the video feed as the phone rang in the bank, and then heard as the robber picked John to answer. He nodded at Anthea at the comment about voice recognition—the man's voice must be on record somewhere—but mostly he was trying to brace himself. His first conversation with John in two years, and it was going to be under false pretenses. Worse, he was sure Mycroft had not had time to prepare John … the sound of his voice was going to be a shock, and there was nothing he could do about it.

On the laptop screen, John was reaching for the phone. "Hello?"

"This is Sigerson," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice light, as if it wasn't the most important call he'd ever made in his life. "I'll be helping you through this hostage situation today. Who's this?"

There was a pause as John's video figure froze and glanced in Mycroft's direction, then John's voice came through, a little faint. "This … I'm Doctor Hamish, one of the customers."

Sherlock wondered at the name, but filed that away to consider later. For now he just said, "Doctor Hamish, it's good to talk to you. Is anybody hurt?"

(You, John? How badly have I hurt you? You have no idea how very, very good it is to talk to you, even if neither of us is using our real names.)

"No, nobody's hurt."

"Glad to hear it. I assume this call is being monitored, yes? Of course it is. How can we help you all today? Because we will do anything we have to get all of you out safely."

(What do I need to do to get you out of there so you can scold me or punch me in the face like I know I deserve?)

There was a moment of static, and then an abrupt, "We'll be in touch," and John was gone.

Sherlock stared at the muted screen, expecting to see John return to the others, but the bank robber appeared to be threatening him, as if he didn't trust him. "The sound," he snapped. "What are they saying?"

The tech tapped some keys just as the robber pointed a gun at John's leg. "There's something about you … I don't think I trust you, doctor. I want proof that this so-called limp of yours is real. And if it isn't, I can change that."

"Oh God, Doctor Hamish!" the tech said, staring at the screen in horror. "He stitched me up after a biking accident last month."

Sherlock felt a hard hand on his arm and turned his head just enough to see Sally Donovan glaring at him. "So, you tell me, Sigerson, is the doctor about to be shot?"

"I really don't know, detective," he said, eyes still fixed to the screen as John sat down in a chair and then slowly leaned over and rolled up his trouser leg. The robber leaned over to inspect his calf, seeing, as Sherlock knew, the scar from a compound fracture John had endured in school. He wasn't sure why the old wound chose to reassert itself upon John's shooting in Afghanistan, but he was relieved that John had physical proof of a cause for his psychosomatic limp.

Still, he didn't breathe until the man gave a grunt and waved John back toward the others.

The minute John was safely seated, Sally Donovan gave a tug to his arm. "I'd like to talk to you … sir. Right now."

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