Beyond the buzzing in his head John could hear orders being barked and voices raised in strained, frightened protest. He felt his arms being pulled back and struggled as he was pulled upright, away from his clenched, aching stomach. Lengths of something wrapped around him, around his wrists, tying him to the chair, and he was secured before the black dots in his eyes had cleared enough for him to see.

He gave his head a shake, trying to settle the muddled thoughts into some sort of order and then immediately regretted it. It had been over two years since he'd been abducted or tied up, he thought, and had to suppress a giggle. This was so like Sherlock. If it weren't for the blood he felt trickling down the side of his face, he'd almost think the man had planned this as some crazy kind of reunion celebration.

He looked over to his fellow hostages and was almost touched to see them irate and worried on his behalf. They needed to calm down, though, or somebody was going to get hurt. Or, somebody else, since he supposed that having been pistol-whipped and punched in the stomach qualified, though he'd had worse. Did it still count as pistol-whipping when it was a rifle?

Get hold of yourself, Watson, he told himself firmly. He just wished he knew why this had all gone south. Five minutes ago he had been just one hostage among many, and now he and he alone was aching and tied to a chair. Did he have a gift for this, or what? He should teach a class: "What to Do When You're Kidnapped" or "Get Kidnapped with Flair."

He gave his head another gentle shake and winced—that was a mistake. He looked over to Mycroft and the other hostages as the three robbers stood and argued in front of him.

The pounding he heard wasn't just in his head, he realized. It was at the door. Pizza, he thought, and I bet they won't give me any now. At least I ate before I got here.

"Door," he said.

None of them heard him. None of the robbers were watching the hostages, either, but except for Mycroft (cool as always), they all looked too frightened to try anything—which was just as well, John thought. He didn't want anybody to get hurt. Else, that is. Anybody else. Though this barely counted. How many times had he been hit in the head, anyway? Over the years? It was just the one time today, he was pretty sure.

Christ. He definitely had a concussion and it was not helping. How was he supposed to get them out of this if he couldn't hold two thoughts in his head long enough to rub them together? Not that you could rub thoughts, of course. He wondered what they would feel like … slippery little devils, no doubt. Easy to drop or tangle—no wonder people rubbed them instead of trying to tie them … oh, this thinking thing was really not going well.

He was as surprised as anybody when help came from an unexpected source.

"If you gentlemen are finished beating my friend, you might want to consider answering the door," came Mycroft's voice, smooth and strong. "The authorities outside will worry, otherwise."

Jagger turned to stare at Mycroft. "Your friend?"

Mycroft inclined his head. "Indeed. We've known each other for years, ever since he met my brother."

What the hell was Mycroft doing? He was going to get himself hurt, and John didn't like the gleam that he saw in the other man's eyes as he stared at Mycroft. "Sherlock Holmes was your brother?"

Mycroft gave another nod, but the next person to speak was Mr. Keller. "What's going on here? I don't understand. What did Dr. Hamish do to deserve being tied up?"

"He helped send me to prison," Jackson said with a snarl, taking a threatening step forward.

"No, I didn't. Never seen you before," John said, trying to distract them, trying not to slur his words so that he would sound like he knew what he was talking about when his grasp on what was going on was getting fuzzier by the moment. He'd forgotten how much a concussion could hurt.

"Don't lie to me! You helped with all his cases."

John just stopped himself from shaking his fragile head. "Not all of them. There were plenty he solved while I was at work or out of town. I honestly have no idea who you are … of course, the mask doesn't help."

The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wished them unsaid. It wasn't safe for anybody to see the faces of these men, but … too late. Jackson tore his mask off and leaned forward. "You're saying you don't recognize me, Watson?"

John just looked at him, blinking his still-blurry eyes and said, "No, I'm sorry. The man kept secrets, you know. He didn't tell me everything."

"What the hell is going on?" Mr. Keller burst out. "Dr. Hamish? What is he talking about? Why is he calling you that?"

"My full name is John Hamish Watson, Mr. Keller. Before he died, I shared a flat with Sherlock Holmes who apparently sent this mail to jail. He thinks I was involved. But really, I have no idea who he is."

Jagger meanwhile was still looming over Mycroft. "You said 'brother'?"

"Indeed. Surely it can't come as a complete surprise that Sherlock Holmes had a family?"

"And what are you doing here?"

"Just visiting my friend John, of course. What else?"

While their attention was distracted, John twisted his fingers up toward the knots of the … phone cord? If he could just get himself free, or even loosen the bonds enough that he could get out when there was an opportunity … Though the way Sting kept looking at him made him nervous.

There was another, more insistent knock at the door, and suddenly the bank fell into silence.

Jagger stared down at Mycroft a minute longer, and then turned back to the door, looking uncertain even as his hands tightened on his gun.

"It's the pizza," John reminded him. "They said ten minutes, remember?"

A voice called from outside, "I'm here with your food. Can I come in?"

Sigerson's voice. Of course it was. Because naturally Sherlock Holmes would waltz right into a situation this fraught with men who have every reason to shoot him … or to shoot his best friend and brother in front of him to make a point.

Feeling dizzy, John just wanted to close his eyes.

One thing was sure, with Sherlock back from the dead, it wouldn't be boring.

And, despite the nausea curling in his bruised stomach, he couldn't help but smile.

#

Hands full of pizza boxes, Sherlock ran for the bank. How had the situation gotten so out of control? Why had Smithson recognized John?

"Sherlock."

He stopped short, just managing to keep the stack of pizzas from falling to the ground. "Get out of my way, Anthea."

"Of course, but not until you've put this on." She held out a bullet-proof vest. "It's not negotiable."

He looked past her at the bank, eyes burning as they tried to see through the brick façade, but he knew she would be implacable. He handed Michaels the boxes, flung the delivery boy's jacket to the ground, and grabbed the vest from her hands as he heard Sally behind him. "You can't go in there!"

"You're not stopping me, Donovan," he snapped as he pulled his own jacket back on over the vest. With a sigh, he took the earpiece from her as well, and jammed it into his ear, twisting it in so it couldn't be seen beneath his hair. "Michaels, we've got our people ready?"

"At the word, sir."

Sherlock nodded, took back the boxes and without a word to anyone, sprinted to the door.

He could hear yelling inside as he knocked and paused, listening, before trying again. In his ear, he could hear Anthea's voice, telling him that John's old identity was very definitely out in the open and the bank robbers apparently remembered Sherlock all too well.

From inside, he could hear Mycroft's voice, "Surely it can't come as a complete surprise that Sherlock Holmes had a family?"

Wasn't that just like him, making everything about himself, Sherlock thought as he pounded on the door again. "I'm here with your food. Can I come in?"

There was a pause, and then the door was cautiously opened and he was waved in.

In the minutes since he had watched the video feed, the situation inside the bank had deteriorated greatly. John was bleeding from the head and tied (phone cord) to a (basic, swivel office) chair. Coving was standing behind him, mask off, holding his gun steady at the back of John's head. To the right, the hostages were gathered on the floor, with Smithson standing behind Mycroft as he, too, trained his gun on Sherlock. The third, unidentified robber was in the corner, where he had the best view of the room, as well as the most cover.

That made him the most dangerous, Sherlock thought, as he edged over to the nearest table to put down his pile of pizzas. "You all must be hungry. I know how hard waiting can be. The van should be here in fifteen minutes."

"Good," Smithson said, "I hope it's big enough for five."

Sherlock tried to look innocent as Sting came over to pat him down. "I thought there were just the three of you?"

"Oh, we'll be taking two hostages with us … just until we're sure we're safe, you understand."

"That wasn't part of the deal," Sherlock said calmly.

"Situations change," Smithson said, voice hard. "It turns out that one of my men is interested in two of our hostages and wants them to come along."

Sherlock glanced again at John. "Dr. Hamish, I presume? Are you all right?"

"Mr. Sigerson," John said without opening his eyes, voice slightly blurred. "I'm tolerably well. Pleasant weather we're having."

Sherlock didn't show the smile that threatened to bubble up. Instead he turned back to Jagger, eyes skimming past his brother, calmly sitting on the floor. "This man is injured. He requires medical care."

"No," Jagger said. "But we'll look after him when we leave."

"Not negotiable. You bargained for a van for you and your team—nothing was said of additional hostages."

"Plans change, Sigerson. I'll tell you what I will do, though. I'll let all those other people go, right now. But Watson here, and Mr. Holmes over there, are staying." Jagger leveled his gun at Sherlock. "And so are you."

#

Greg Lestrade pulled his car alongside the crime scene with the ease of long practice. He still wasn't sure why he was here, but Sally had said John Watson was in trouble and … he couldn't help himself. He'd left his current team working on the Adair shooting and … here he was. It felt like an old instinct reasserting itself, reminding him of the days when he'd been chivied along by Sherlock Holmes.

His career had barely survived the man's death, and while Greg had always been confident of his work, he was sure Sherlock's brother had had a hand in keeping his career from sinking out of sight. If there had been a public scape-goat for the affair, it had been the Chief Superintendent (whose black eyes and broken nose had never failed to make Greg smile—John Watson's last hurrah before being broken by the thud of Sherlock's body hitting the pavement).

Now, while he might be held to a slightly higher level than his fellow DIs, at least he still had his job. Unlike Donovan, who'd been essentially exiled from the city for her own part in that day's events.

Walking over to the command post, eyeing the bank and the surrounding area, noting a pizza delivery at the door. He still wondered what had made Sally so insistent he come. He might have come for John, anyway, but that hadn't been it. She'd been urgent about something else. Something she couldn't tell him over the phone.

Holding up his badge, he ducked under the tape and blinked in surprise at a familiar-looking woman wielding a Blackberry. He touched her on the arm. "Is Mr. Holmes here?"

Glancing up from her screen, she gave a short nod and then pointed him to a group clustered around a laptop—a group that included Sally Donovan. He gave a brief, polite smile and moved to join them. "Donovan? What's going on?"

She almost looked relieved when she turned to see him. "It's a disaster. We've got hostages in the bank, three gunmen, and apparently one of them holds a grudge against the Freak and is taking it out on Watson. But that's not all."

He couldn't help it—his eyes were drawn to the familiar figure tied to a chair, and blinked when he heard an even more familiar voice asked, "Dr. Hamish, I presume?"

#

Sherlock looked around the room. The hostages on the floor were looking frayed and emotional, several—like that young teller—looked on the verge of hysterics. Coving was glaring at John as if thinking of ways to make him hurt. Even if Sherlock hadn't been inclined to get the innocent out of the room, that alone was enough to decide him. "Fine, we'll stay for now—let the others go. But you're not taking hostages with you when you leave."

Jagger just gave an evil smile. "We'll see. You want to tell your friends out there that they've got people coming?"

Sherlock nodded and reached for the nearest phone. "Barnes? Sigerson. We've got hostages coming out. Two are staying behind, as am I. ETA on the van?" He listened for a moment and then hung up. "The van will be out front as soon as the rest of the hostages are in clear."

"Okay, people," Jagger said to the room. "Everybody out. Thank you for your business. Have a pleasant day. Now … move!" He fired his gun at the ceiling and, on a wave of fresh tears and hysterics, the hostages stumbled to their feet and towards the door, clearly expecting to be shot down before they left. Sherlock saw one girl pause as she walked past John, but she was hurried on her way by an older man.

Within five minutes, the bank was quiet again—three robbers, three hostages. John hadn't opened his eyes, which was making Sherlock worried. He'd made eye contact with Mycroft, though, who'd nodded in the direction of his umbrella.

The third robber had pulled Mycroft to his feet during the exodus and had thrust him into another chair by John's. Jagger pulled out a third for Sherlock, but he refused. "We're still negotiating. Why are you interested in these two men?"

"Let's just say it's a personal matter, and leave it at that."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think so. My job is to make sure all the hostages get out safely. I can't just write off two civilians just because you've taken a liking to them. Why don't you let them go and keep me instead?"

Jackson was shaking his head. "No, not gonna happen. This man owes me."

"No, I don't," John said. "Just because you were caught fair and square by Sherlock Holmes—working without me, I might add, which he did whenever he felt like it because he apparently thought nothing of leaving me behind even before he killed himself—doesn't mean I owe you anything. I'm just a doctor."

"I don't know about that, Watson," said Jagger. "I've heard stories that made you pretty bad-ass. Are you saying they were lies?"

"No," John said, finally opening his eyes, but not looking at Sherlock. "I don't know what stories you mean, but I'm not that man anymore. My best friend jumped off a building and might as well have killed me. These days, I'm just a doctor. I work at the hospital up the street, I live alone, and I walk with a cane. By my reckoning, that makes me pathetic, not bad-ass."

Sherlock tried not to flinch as he listened. He prided himself at telling when a person was lying or telling the truth, and there was no question John was telling the truth.

He'd known he'd hurt his friend, but hadn't realized how deeply.

He caught Mycroft watching him and blinked, uncertain what expression had just been on his face. He rallied, though. "Sherlock Holmes? What does he have to do with any of this?"

Jagger just looked at him. "The robbery? Nothing. But Michael Jackson here holds a grudge and it's just Watson's bad luck that he happened to be here. With his connections to the police, though, it makes him more valuable as a hostage, so that's all to the good."

"Connections to the police? And why are you calling him Watson?" Sherlock tried to make his voice as unthreatening as he could.

"Didn't you know? He claims he's not trying to hide anything, but Dr. Hamish here is actually John Watson."

Sherlock gave a short laugh, ignoring the way the air was catching in his lungs, hating himself for what he was about to say. "And you think that will make the police out there appreciate his value more? After the way things ended with him and that detective? So far as I know, he's still a wanted man."

John closed his eyes again. "Those charges were dropped a long time ago. And anyway, all they wanted me for was for chinning the chief superintendent. Sherlock took me hostage in his escape and in light of the … the trauma … they dropped the charges. But that doesn't mean the police care two pegs for me these days. Other than stitching up accident victims, I haven't done anything worth noticing in years."

"Okay…," Jagger said, "But this is Holmes's brother."

Sherlock shrugged. "Again, just a civilian, so far as the police are concerned. Look at him. Does he look like he's ever done anything away from a desk in his life? He's the kind of man you want to do your taxes, maybe, but not exactly leverage in a hostage situation. No. Let the two of them go, and keep me."

"No!" Jackson shouted as Jagger stepped forward, gun pointing at Sherlock. "You're worthless to us—like you said, the police are more concerned about the civilians. If you get shot in the line of duty, you're just doing your job."

Sherlock tried not to react to John's flinch. He looked at the three men, mentally calculating risks and probabilities. "Let them go, and I can do you one better."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

#