They'd been sitting on the floor for two hours now, and no further communication had been had with the outside world.

This should have worried him, John knew, but somehow it felt like a reprieve. Outside these walls was a living, breathing, lying Sherlock Holmes and, as much as he longed to see his best friend again, part of him was not ready. Might never be ready.

How many times over these long two years had he wished to talk to Sherlock? How often had he missed—actually missed—his careless, self-involved habits, his frustrating refusal to eat properly or rest during cases? There had even been times when he'd felt almost nostalgic about body parts in the crisper. (Well, almost.)

John wasn't stupid. He was well aware that—assuming they all got out of here—he was getting a precious gift. His dear friend wasn't actually dead, and since his name had been cleared over a year ago, there was presumably no reason why they couldn't pick up their friendship where they had left off. He even wondered if 221B was still available.

But there was also the part of him that was furious. Not only had Sherlock lied to him, but he'd done so in the worst possible way—letting John mourn for two years. No matter what their acquaintances might have thought, he and Sherlock had never been a couple, but they had been closer than brothers. Sherlock had given John a reason to get up in the mornings, had given him purpose for his days. When Sherlock died, he had taken all that with him—it wasn't like John could continue working with Scotland Yard. Even with Lestrade reinstated, crime scene consulting just wasn't an option.

No, leaving London had been his only real choice. He had rebuilt his life here and now … he was almost grateful for a chance to sit quietly andthink. The minute he stepped foot through the doors, everything was going to change again.

"Doctor! Come here, it's time for another call."

John looked up and nodded, heaving himself to his feet, legitimately limping this time since his leg had fallen asleep. He didn't make eye contact with anyone as he made his way across the room to the same desk as before, where Jagger was waiting. "Decided what you'd like to ask for, then?"

"Don't get cheeky, doctor. Tell them we want safe transport out of here—an unmarked van, with no trackers, no bugs, nobody following … just a good van with a full tank of petrol."

John nodded and picked up the phone, then paused. What number was he supposed to dial?

But, no. Sigerson's voice came through without any further effort. "Doctor Hamish, I presume? How can we help you?"

John swallowed again at the familiar voice and focused on the job at hand. "They'd like an unmarked van. No trackers or bugs, no-one following … just a full tank of petrol and safe passage out."

"That seems reasonable enough. Anything else?"

John glanced at Jagger, listening on his extension, who shook his head. "No, that's it for now." His fingers tightened on the receiver. It didn't matter that this was the worst possible time, but he wanted to say … something … to the man who'd been—who might still be—his best friend. He wanted to hear that honey-drenched baritone telling him that somehow, everything was going to be fine.

"Doctor," Sherlock's … no, Sigerson's voice came down the line. "Is there anyone there with any medical conditions we should be aware of? Heart conditions? Diabetes? Low blood sugar?"

John looked back at his fellow hostages. He had asked earlier, but nobody had said anything. John was certain Sherlock had to know that, since he presumably had Mycroft's people working on this, so why would he ask?

"I don't know, hold on."

He covered the receiver with his hand and looked at Jagger. "I don't know if anyone has special medical needs, but it's been hours. If we're going to be here much longer, some food wouldn't hurt. Water, too, since it's getting warm now they've turned off the power. People will start getting dehydrated."

"And you're an expert on hostage care and feeding now, doctor?"

John met the man's glare calmly. "Not at all, but if your hostages start getting ill, you lose your bargaining chips. If you show some basic human concern, it can buy you good will. It's your call, but as a doctor, I can tell you that your hostages are going to need some kind of nourishment soon."

He kept his face calm while the man thought it over. Jagger clearly didn't want to open the doors, but he wasn't entirely stupid, either. Nor did he seem deliberately cruel. Hard and not to be messed with, yes. Angry, definitely, but that's still something that can be worked with, as long as he felt he was in control.

"Fine," Jagger said finally. "Pizza and water. One delivery person. And get us that van!"

John repeated the instructions and ended the call, turning in his chair to face Jagger, uncertain whether he should head back to the others or not.

He found Jagger staring at him. "There's something about you, doctor. You seem familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it."

Yeah, John was used to that. "Maybe I treated you in the A&E at some point? I've been there for almost two years, now."

"No, that's not it. Ever been in prison?"

John didn't have to fake his look of surprise. "What? God, no. I had to bail my sister out a couple times when she was picked up for being drunk and disorderly, but … no. Never in prison."

He was starting to wonder how long the pizza was going to take. Even if he and Sherlock had never met the man in front of him, they had had quite a reputation (and he could only imagine how people in prison talked about Sherlock). Jagger was going to piece this together at some point, and this was going to blow up in his face unless he could come up with a distraction or he told the truth.

Facing the man's stare, he was trying to figure out the best thing to do, because he had to do something before the thoughts in Jagger's head tumbled into place. He didn't dare look at Mycroft for a hint, and volunteering the information that he used to work with the police was really not a good idea, he was quite sure of that, but he was surrounded by men with guns and a room full of civilians and how was he supposed to derail this train of thought before things went pear-shaped and everything went to hell?

He was thinking so hard, he jumped when the phone rang. At Jagger's wave, he answered it. "We have your water here at the door, and the pizza should be here in ten minutes," came Sherlock's voice. John couldn't help a sigh of relief. His old friend had to be watching as well as listening to know how suspicious Jagger was getting.

"Do we want to bring the water in now, or wait for the pizza?" John asked.

Jagger just looked frustrated. "We'll wait. I don't want to open that door any more than I have to."

John relayed that. "What about the van?"

"An hour."

"How long does it take to get an unmarked van?" Jagger wanted to know, as he slammed down his phone. "You just sit there, doctor. I'm not done with you yet. Watch him, Sting! Jackson—come over here."

The third robber came to stand next to John, gun at the ready while the other two robbers backed toward a corner. John could see them glancing at him as they talked and just wished he knew what he'd done to cause Jagger's suspicions. If it was too-familiar face from far too many news articles, there was nothing he could do, but had he done or said something?

He looked back at Mycroft, still looking elegant and composed with his long legs stretched out on the floor and crossed at the ankle. He was watching John with a slight crinkle in his forehead—the concerned one that usually came out when Sherlock was being difficult. John gave the tiniest shrug—he really had no idea what was going on.

Still, a life-and-death situation was really just what he needed to get his mind off Sherlock's existence at the end of the phone line.

Just then, an enlightened look of a memory emerging spread on Jagger's face as he turned toward John. Seeing the wicked gleam to the man's smile, John took a deep breath.

Yes, clearly, Sherlock was back. Nobody else could make his life this insane.

#

Sherlock put down the phone and gave Barnes a nod. Van. Pizza. Water. On their way. Excellent.

"Mr. Sigerson." Anthea's voice was calm as always, but Sherlock heard the urgent edge. "We may have a problem."

"What is it?"

"Robber number two, Mike Coving. Does the name ring a bell? He was put in jail on evidence found by Sherlock Holmes, you might remember the case?"

Sherlock blinked. Now that she mentioned it, he did. The man had murdered his brother-in-law in a rage of anger because he'd been having an affair and lying about it.

"He might recognize Dr. Watson."

"Worse," Sherlock said, remembering the case. "John is in danger. I need to get in there."

He looked blindly around the scene, mind reeling at the thought of John being in danger because of him … again. Why hadn't Mycroft kept him from going into that bank?

He looked back at the video footage. John was still sitting in the desk chair by the phone while Smithson loomed over him like an angry bear. Twisting the volume knob, he heard, "There's something about you, doctor. You seem familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it."

Damn it. The man was getting more suspicious of John by the moment. He needed to distract him. Picking up the phone, he called back with a question about the food delivery, but he barely heard the words, he was so busy watching the video footage, trying to parse whether his distraction had worked.

For a few minutes, it looked like it had. Smithson left John guarded by the third (still unknown) robber while he pulled Coving aside to begin a heated conversation.

This was going to go very badly, very quickly.

Just then, the pizzas arrived and Sherlock hurried over to the delivery boy, snatching the cap from his head and practically dragging the jacket from his protesting shoulders.

"Sigerson! What are you doing?"

"I need to get in there," he said, shrugging into the boy's jacket.

"No, we need you out here," Barnes said.

Sally just looked disgusted. "You're going to get those people killed."

"There you go again, Donovan, putting protocol ahead of people." Sherlock waved at the monitor. "They're just about to identify John. I have to get in there."

"Wait, John? John who?" asked Barnes. "You were so insistent about being in charge, and now you're going inside? That's unprofessional and will just put you and every person in that bank at risk."

"John Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson," Sherlock said, hating the desperation he heard in his own voice. "They're going to figure out who he is and blame him for something he had no part in. They're going to hurt him, and I am the only one who knows enough to get them to stop."

"What? I don't understand."

Sherlock felt like clawing his own eyes out with despair … and would, too, if by being blind he could just make other people see. He took a deep breath and let it explode in a tightly controlled tone. "Mike Coving was sent to prison for the violent murder of his brother-in-law-enraged, not so much because he had cheated on his sister, but because he had lied about it. He was more upset about the deception than the actual affair. John wasn't even involved in that case—he was at some medical conference—but it won't matter. Coving will just see this as a deception. I have to get in there."

He could see comprehension beginning to dawn on Sally's face, but Barnes still looked confused. Why were people so dense? "Dr. Hamish!," Sherlock practically shouted at the man. "If I don't get in there, they're going to hurt him."

"Um, sirs?" The tech was staring at the video. "You need to see this."

Sherlock took only one glance and, while the others stared in horror, grabbed the pile of pizzas and ran.

#

Jagger came stalking back to John. "Doctor Hamish, was it?"

He reached into John's pocket and pulled out his half-written deposit ticket. The look on his face was infuriated and triumphant as he said, "The check says John Watson."

John nodded calmly, nerves running smoothly like oiled steel now he was facing a crisis. "Doctor John Hamish Watson, yes."

Jagger whipped his gun around, hitting John in the head with the butt. "Don't lie to me, Dr. Watson? Why are you here?"

John managed to hold on to the chair, but his ears rang to the sound of screams from his fellow hostages. "Like you can see for yourself, I'm just here to make a deposit. I told you, I work at St. Clares up the road, and have for almost two years now. I'm just a customer, like everybody else."

Jagger leaned forward, face contorted with anger. "You expect me to believe that? Then why lie about your name?"

"I didn't," John said, fighting to focus his eyes. "I just started using my middle name when I moved here. It was easier. I was just trying to start over. It's not like it was a secret."

Jagger laughed. "Not a secret? You haven't told anybody your real name in two years? What do you think a secret is, John?"

"Deliberate," John said. "With ulterior motives, or something that needs to be hidden. I still bank under my full name, my co-workers know. My friends know. It's not something I lied about. I just didn't advertise my old life, okay? That's what starting fresh is all about."

Jackson stepped forward. "Jagger, what are you doing? We said nobody would get hurt!"

Unnoticed by the bank robbers, there was a knock at the door.

"He's not hurt, Jackson. Not really. But he's been lying all this time, and I want to know why."

"I know lots of people who use their middle names, Jagger, that doesn't mean anything."

Jagger glared at him. "Jackson? Remember that detective a couple years ago? The one who everybody said was a fraud? The one who sent you to prison?"

Oh no, John thought. This was just about to get very, very bad.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jackson said, coming over to stare at John, a bitter twist to his lips. "What about him?"

"What was the name of his assistant?" Jagger asked, practically spitting the words out.

"Watson … Are you saying … This guy?" John tried not to flinch as Jackson leaned over to stare at him, a light in his eye that made John nervous. "You're right … it is him!"

He pulled back his own gun and slammed the end into John's stomach. He almost pitched out of the chair at the force of it, as if the wind rushing out of his mouth had shot the chair backwards. Hard hands caught him, though, and thrust him back as he fought for air.

Typical, he thought. He'd been having a perfectly normal day, and then the Holmes brothers rolled into town, and everything went to hell.

#