John ignored the gasps behind him as the bank robber leveled his gun. He had known the fuss with the umbrella had raised suspicions, but right now, he could not care less about what this idiot with a gun thought about his credentials. John had just had a conversation with a ghost. Nothing else could possibly shake him.

And so he pulled over a chair, propped up Mycroft's umbrella on the edge of the desk and leaned over with perfectly steady hands to roll up his trouser leg.

Luckily for him, there had been an injury to his leg—just not recently. He'd broken it badly when he was 16 and still had the scars from the compound fracture. The leg had healed fine and after he'd finished therapy had never given him any trouble until he was shot in Afghanistan. Why his subconscious linked a wound to the shoulder to an ancient one on his leg, he had no idea, but it had been cranky ever since. Hence the limp.

Jagger leaned over to look at the scar and frowned. "Okay, doctor. Back with the others."

Keeping his head down, keeping quiet, keeping everything totally unmoving, still, neutral, John moved back to the circle of hostages on the floor and resumed his seat. He very deliberately did not look at Mycroft. He didn't look at anyone.

He had just spoken to a ghost.

He just sat, looking at the floor, knowing that the rest of the hostages were watching him, concerned.

Knowing that Mycroft was watching.

This probably explained why Mycroft was here, he thought. Come to break the news that they'd been lying to him these last two years, letting him think Sherlock was dead while he was obviously not.

It made being a hostage in the middle of a bank robbery seem so inconsequential.

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at nothing, when Susie's concerned voice broke through the haze. "Dr. Hamish? Please, are you all right?"

John blinked up at her scared, young face and automatically said, "Yes, I'm fine."

There was a flicker of relief as he spoke (how long had she been trying to get his attention?), but she still looked worried. "Really? Because you look … what did they say?"

He glanced around at the circle of faces and felt a twinge of guilt for not helping ease the tension. "They wanted to know if anyone was hurt and what the robbers wanted. That was as far as we got." He looked over at Mycroft. "Sigerson—the negotiator—said they'll do whatever they have to to get us out safely."

Mycroft gave a brief nod, eyes intent on John's face while the others looked surprised. "That's all? But that's … that's not going to help us get out of here!"

"No, really, it's okay," John said. "They need to start by opening the lines of communication. You can't negotiate if you can't talk. The first conversation doesn't have to be much, it just needs to establish trust."

"Judging by the way that gun was pointed at you, it doesn't seem you did very well on that last point, doctor." Mr. Keller's voice was dry.

"He listened in on the phone call, Mr. Keller. That wasn't the problem. He just didn't believe my limp was real." John rubbed absently at his leg. It felt odd, like the absence of pain and stiffness was wrong somehow, rather than a relief. Though since that phone call, he had been suffering twinges. It seemed his leg was as confused as he was.

"But that doesn't make sense. Everybody knows you walk with a cane."

John smiled at Susie. "But the robbers don't know me—and not everybody who uses a cane actually needs a cane."

She dimpled and dropped a bashful nod, but Mr. Keller was still worrying. "How do you know so much about hostage situations?"

John looked at him, considering. He had never deliberately hidden who he was. He might be using his middle name, but he didn't lie. Nor was he ashamed of his past with Sherlock. He was definitely proud of his service with the army and the aid he'd given Scotland Yard over the years. Normally, a question like this, he would answer honestly (like he did everything else). He would casually mention that he'd spent time in the army and that would be that.

Except … this was a hostage situation and Jagger was already suspicious of him. It wasn't really the time to be boasting about his army-honed skills.

All this flashed through his head in an instant. "I told you, I watch a lot of telly. What can I say, I like mysteries. A man needs a little more for entertainment than Doctor Who."

Keller nodded, still looking uncertain, but accepting that answer while Susie said how much she loved Doctor Who and started talking about it with one of the other tellers.

Attention deflected, John took a breath and looked over at Mycroft, eyebrows raised. The other man reached over and laid his hand carefully over the umbrella handle. "I wanted to tell you, doctor."

"When? Today? Or for the last 25 and a half months?" John asked quietly.

Mycroft had the grace to look ashamed. "Both."

"But you knew?"

A small sigh. "Since just before the funeral."

Right. John really didn't want to talk about this right now. Apparently his best friend had lied to him in the worst possible way for the last two years, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He just had to get through this robbery and he would deal with Sherlock then.

Maybe by then he'll have decided whether he wanted to punch him or hug him.

#

Sherlock let Sally pull him away from the others. He had known this was going to happen. He could have bluffed away Sigerson's resemblance—it was amazing what a new hair color, contacts, and cheek inserts could do to your appearance—but the minute she saw John on the video, it was just too much coincidence. He knew he was going to have to come clean.

"Just who, exactly, are you, Mr. Sigerson?" she hissed.

Sherlock met her angry eyes calmly, just like he had dozens of other times. "I should think that would be obvious, Sally."

"But … you're dead!"

"Despite your best efforts, clearly not. Can we put this aside until we get the hostages out safely?"

"Since when do you care about hostages?" Her face was sharp with disgust. "And how do you get off, faking your own death when you're a wanted criminal?"

He shook his head. "Not true. My name was cleared, as I'm sure you remember. That was right about the time you were transferred out of London, if I recall correctly?"

"I'm not apologizing," she spat at him. "The evidence…"

"The evidence was flimsy at best. It merely gave you the opportunity you had been wanting for years, a chance to discredit me because I did your job better than you did. But that's hardly here nor there at the moment, is it? We have a bank being robbed, hostages to save, and this is not the time for this conversation."

She looked utterly stunned. "Not the … just who the hell do you think you are?"

"Who I am, is the person in charge," Sherlock said with a hiss, suddenly furious.

"Because you stole some poor bloke's credentials? Don't think I don't know that you used to do that to Lestrade all the time. I don't trust you, Sherlock Holmes, or whatever you're calling yourself. I don't know what you're doing here, but I will tell those people over there exactly who you are…"

Sherlock tossed his I.D. at her. "If you take a closer look, you will see that my credentials are, in fact, mine. They are not forged, stolen, nor otherwise false. The legality of my identity is recognized by the British government, as is my authority. Whether you like it or not, I am the highest-ranking official at this scene—outside the bank, at least—and you will do as I say."

"Do as you … what do you know about hostage situations?"

He just gave her a small, shark-like smile. "More than I did two years ago, Sally. I think you'd be surprised at just how much I've expanded my skill set while hunting down Moriarty's crime ring—entirely legally, I might add, hence the credentials."

She looked stunned. "That's not possible. Who would trust you to do that?"

Sherlock just lifted an eyebrow. "You saw the proof that Moriarty was real, did you not? And that he was in fact a consulting criminal before his death? Well, tell me, did you really think that that would all just go away because the man killed himself? That the British government would just let that slide?"

"Well, no, but…"

"No. But." Sherlock just shook his head at her. "I have spent the two years of my after-life hunting down every link to his organization, and believe me, you have no-one better qualified than I to take down these bank robbers. Now, if you'll excuse me, among others, John Watson is trapped in that bank and I have no more time for this conversation."

He started to walk away, but she blocked him. "That's another thing. How the hell did he get involved? Is he working with you?"

Sherlock could only wish. Shaking his head, "No. I have not seen him since my so-called death two years ago. Until ten minutes ago, he had no idea I was alive."

Sally's eyes widened. "You really are a bastard, then, aren't you? Do you know what your death did to him?"

Rage washed over him. Rage at her stupidity, at this entire situation. "Oh, please, spare me the sob story, Sally. As if you care? Of course I know, but what choice did I have? Once you had played into Moriarty's hands and forced me to that roof, there was nothing I could do. He had to believe I was dead. I had to be dead. You let a madman inside your mind and helped spread his lies and that man in there is the one who paid the price, even more than I did."

"But … I didn't …" Sally stammered to a halt and then glanced toward the bank again. "So, if he's not working with you, then how…"

"Purely coincidence. I came down to tell him and was waiting for him to come out of the bank … and now he's trapped and it's up to me to get him out." Sherlock drew a quick, hard breath. "Believe me, Donovan, no matter how much you might want to punch me right now, you'll have to wait. John Watson deserves the first blow, don't you think? Though, if I were you, I'd be prepared to duck. It's entirely possible that, after he's struck me, he might turn on you … in the stress of the moment, you understand."

And, brushing past her, he headed back toward Anthea to find out what he had missed. A whisper of sound made him pause and say, without turning, "It would be a help if you did not inform the press of my resurrection until after the hostages are free."

"I wasn't …" Her voice was indignant, self-righteous as always. "As if you care about the hostages."

He swung around again and took one, calm step toward her. "That's always been your problem, Donovan. Your insistence that your first judgment is the correct one—which it rarely is—and that people will never change. Our relationship got off to a rocky start years ago and you've been holding a grudge ever since. I'm not saying I wasn't partly to blame and certainly never cared enough to try to improve our working relationship, but how many times have I told you that you don't observe? I'm not the man I was when we met, and a large reason for that is the man sitting at gunpoint inside that bank. And even if John weren't one of them, even if my brother weren't one of them, I would still do everything I could to get them all out safely. You can think what you like about my motivations, but this is what I do. So please, hold off your revelations of my former identity until everyone is safe."

Before she could protest her innocence or her good intentions or whatever, he turned away but then paused. "Also, John has been using his middle name since moving to this town. It seems unlikely that anyone knows him as my former flatmate. If you could exercise your discretion on his behalf, I would be grateful."

#

"Hi, Greg? Don't hang up. It's me, Sally. You … I'm at a bank robbery here at Madthwaite-on-the-Sea and … you need to come."

"What? Sally? I've got my own job to do, despite your best efforts. I'm neck deep in this Adair sniper case. What do you need my help for, anyway?"

"It's not that I need your help. It's that … John Watson is one of the hostages and … Greg, I can't … Look, I can't say anything, but you just need to be here. Can you come?"

"John? (Sigh). I'll see what I can do.

#

Putting Sally out of his mind, Sherlock strode back toward the hive of action. "Anthea," he asked, "Any ID yet? Jagger's voice print?"

She glanced up from her Blackberry and gave a short nod. "Jeremy Smithson. He's been in prison the last five years for fraud and assault. He got out two months ago."

"Fraud? Interesting. Do we have the files?"

"They're coming now. The one going by Michael Jackson is Mike Coving, a former cellmate. The third one hasn't spoken yet, so nothing on him."

Sherlock studied the video monitor. "They seem to be spending a lot of time through that door. Do we know what's in there?"

Barnes stepped closer. "That's where the safety deposit boxes are."

"That doesn't … why would they do that? Unless … I need to see those files. Smithson aka Jagger is obviously after something in one of those boxes, something that either will prove his innocence—though I find that unlikely given his actions today—or something he wants to get his hands on before the rightful owner can. Find out who his most recent cellmate was, too."

He spun back around to stare at the screen. The man was just a common criminal, but he was putting John at risk. (And Mycroft.) That was unacceptable.

It was only a matter of minutes before Anthea handed him a laptop with all the data he needed loaded and ready. (He sniffed, even as he admired her efficiency. No wonder Mycroft was so lazy.) "Hmm. Nothing suspicious with his last cellmate, but the one before that? David Arnott? He shared a cell with Smithson for six months before he asked to be moved, and he grew up here. Barnes? Can you find out if David Arnott has a safety deposit box in this bank? A family member? Anthea, I'll need his file … ah, thank you."

He gave her a quick wink as the file appeared and skimmed it quickly. Arnott looked to be a man who'd gotten in over his head, involved in a high-profile burglary sixteen months ago. He and his confederates had all gone to jail but half of the stolen goods had never been recovered. Fine gems, he thought. Easily hidden. They wouldn't take up much room.

But would the man be stupid enough to stash them in a safe-deposit box under his own name? And then to tell his cellmate about it?

"Can we get Arnott on the phone?"

Anthea shook her head. "No. He's dead."

"When?"

"This morning."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he turned to stare at the bank. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a motive."

#