Sherlock took a breath. He knew it was risky, but there really was no other option, not if he wanted to be sure John (and Mycroft) got out safely. Not now this had changed from a bank robbery to a revenge-driven hostage situation. And, really, they had already recognized John and even with a disguise, Sherlock was standing right in front of them. Even allowing for the fact that he had solved the case without having met Coving in person, the man couldn't be that much of an idiot, could he? Being assumed dead was only so much of a cover.

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

Jagger looked disgusted, as if he were furious that he was being toyed with. "What? Sherlock Holmes is dead!"

"That's what people had to think," Sherlock told him, "But I assure you, the man is alive and I can get him here … if you let these two go."

#

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

Greg couldn't believe his ears. He had spent more of the last ten minutes than he liked trying to pull his jaw up from around his ankles. Sigerson's voice was just too familiar … all too damn heart-breakingly familiar. He had thought that maybe this was a third brother he hadn't known about, but no … now he was sure. This was Sherlock. A very not-dead Sherlock, bargaining to save John and Mycroft's lives.

He pulled his eyes away from the screen to look at Donovan, standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head. He stepped over to her. "You knew?"

"Since just before I called you. I couldn't say anything, but you needed to know. I mean, if the Fr… I mean, if he's still alive. You deserved to know."

"And he just … shared this secret with you?" He couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice.

She shook her head. "Not until I confronted him with it, after I heard him speaking to Watson … but that's suspicious, too. Everybody here calls him Dr. Hamish, like he was undercover. Do you suppose he knew?"

Greg turned back to the monitor, noting the lines of pain on John's face—pain not just from the blow to the head. "No. John didn't know. I bet nobody but his brother knew."

"His brother?" She sounded surprised, and Greg tried to resist rolling his eyes. For a detective, Donovan spent far too much time wearing blinders, so busy being suspicious, she didn't pay attention. (Just like Sherlock had always said, damn him for being so insufferably right all the time.) "Yes, Donovan. The other hostage. The one who just said that he's Sherlock's brother."

"He meant that?" He was gratified at the stunned look on her face. "I didn't know."

"Apparently there are a lot of things you didn't know, Donovan. Haven't you learned not to jump to conclusions yet?"

And, with one eye on the monitor, he walked back to where Anthea was standing with what looked to be a very well-trained bodyguard. "What can I do to help?"

#

"I can deliver Sherlock Holmes himself."

That sentence, said in Sherlock's calm, long-missed voice, sent a chill up John's spine even as his head swum. Wasn't that what he'd hoped for? Asked for in the cemetery two years ago? What he'd been hoping for today, ever since he first heard Sigerson's voice?

But, like this?

No, this was a nightmare, John thought, eyes still closed. Sherlock was just going to get himself killed again, because even if he wasn't dead now he was going to be when he made these angry men even angrier, and jeez, really, how hard had he been hit on the head? It should be easier to think than this by now. All he was sure of was that Sherlock being dead was bad enough—he didn't think he could bear to see him die all over again.

Meanwhile, Sherlock's statement caused an uproar. "What? Sherlock Holmes is dead!"

Sigerson … no,Sherlock's voice was calm when he answered. "That's what people had to think. But I assure you, the man is alive and I can get him here … if you let these two go."

John felt a gun nudge him in the shoulder and opened one eye to see Jackson right in front of him. "Well. You tell us. Is he alive?"

How was he supposed to answer that, John wondered. Until this morning, he would have had no doubt. Even an hour ago, he could have bluffed his way through. But right now? With a concussion and a living, breathing Sherlock standing mere feet away from him? He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think. (Maybe he should have taken up the violin?)

"If he's alive, he never told me so," John said as clearly as he could. "But then, he obviously didn't tell me everything. I'll say this, though. If anybody could have faked his own death, it would have been Sherlock Holmes."

"But he didn't tell you? Doesn't sound like he trusted you much after all, Watson," Jagger said with a sneer.

John pulled a face. "No, it doesn't does it?"

That really was the telling point, wasn't it? Here was living proof that Sherlock really hadn't. And, bracing himself, he lifted his eyes to look at Siger … Sherlock.

The hair color was different, the eyes had contacts, and there was something different about the shape of the face … but his breath still caught as he stared at the man. That look of anguish about the eyes? Just like that moment at the pool. "But that's the question, isn't it? Because if he didn't trust me, then maybe he is alive and never bothered to tell me. Like I said, these days, I'm just a doctor."

He saw the tiny blink—the Sherlock version of a flinch—at the bitterness John couldn't keep from his voice. Because, yes, right now? He was bitter. He was furious. It wasn't bad enough that Sherlock had lied these last two years, now he had to rub his face in it? Torment him while he was tied, bleeding, to a chair? What had he ever done to the universe that he deserved this?

Jagger, though, was sneering as he turned to Mycroft. "Well, you're his brother. You tell us—is he still alive?"

"My brother and I were never all that close," Mycroft said smoothly.

Stalling for time, John thought, recognizing a Holmsian stonewall, and so he laughed and joined in. "That's for sure. They hated each other. Sherlock would have kept this from Mycroft from sheer spite."

"Childishness," Mycroft corrected.

"True. He liked to play games—and faking his own death? It sounds like something he would do."

John was watching Sherlock and trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding, making the throbbing in his head all the louder, but bringing a clearing surge of adrenalin with it. He kept his hands moving, too, working away at the phone cord that held him in place. He didn't know what Sherlock had planned, but there was something … even after two years, he could tell the man had a trick, a plan, and John needed to be ready.

"All right you two, enough," Jagger snarled, turning to Sherlock. "These two don't exactly seem convinced that Sherlock Holmes is alive. Why should I believe you?"

Sherlock gazed at him, looking altogether unperturbed. "For the same reason that I know you're here for the gems in David Arnett's safety deposit box. That you've only been out of prison two months, Mr. Smithson, and are already having trouble functioning in the real world. You hope to take the money from the gems to get away to someplace quiet, with less chaos. Unfortunately for you, you've chosen the wrong men to help you—Mike Coving here is a hothead who will never be able to keep this quiet—assuming he doesn't blow the entire thing with his temper. And your third partner over there? I haven't identified him yet, but I can tell that he's a professional—more so than you, I'm afraid. He has no plans to share the gems with either of you and plans on killing you both as soon as you've made your getaway. I confess I'm not entirely sure why he's let things get side-tracked with Coving's vendetta against Sherlock Holmes, but there's not much he can do while still trapped in a bank surrounded by the police, so no doubt he's just patiently waiting his chance. I'd be careful how deeply I slept tonight, if I were you."

Jagger looked stunned. "How could you…?"

"Because, Mr. Smithson, I am Sherlock Holmes."

John couldn't help it. He met Sherlock's eyes and said, "That was brilliant."

"Really?" Sherlock's face brightened, even as his eyes narrowed with warning as he looked sideways at a dumbfounded Jagger. "Usually you miss the subtext," he said, lightly accenting the last word.

John drew a quick, deep breath. "You mean … like when we were on that case with that Woman?"

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly like that. You've been known to miss things, John. I've always trusted your intentions, but. …"

"My intentions? What the hell does that have to do with anything?" John said, letting his anger build. Sherlock wanted a fight? That was just perfect. He'd be happy to give him a fight. "You lied to me, Sherlock."

"I had to, John. It was for your own good."

"My own good? How was watching my best friend jump off the side of a building for my own good, Sherlock?"

His hands were free now as everyone watched the reunion unfold. Suddenly the tension in the room had nothing to do with robbers or guns or concussions … it was all about two men fighting over a two-year old deception.

And, well, a two-minute old deception, because while John wasn't sure what why Sherlock needed this distraction, he knew there was a reason. He could see it in the way he was balancing on the balls of his feet, he could feel it in his very bones as he slipped comfortably into the role of Sherlock Holmes' assistant, friend, sidekick, partner. Sherlock needed a distraction, and picking a fight with John was it. For once, John was entirely in agreement, too. A chance to actually yell at this frustrating, brilliant man he was so grateful to see and yet so very angry with? All he needed was his cue…

"Really, John, I told you that was a magic trick," Sherlock said with a meaningful look. "Certainly nothing like that case with the Vatican Cameos."

And there it was.

"Why, you…" John launched himself out of his chair to tackle Sherlock, shouting abuse, startling everyone. The robbers had been so involved in watching them, they had relaxed their guard, so John's sudden move took them by surprise, guns lax in their hands.

As John punched Sherlock, Mycroft tipped his chair over, pushing it against Jackson's legs and causing him to stumble as Mycroft grabbed his umbrella and used the handle to trip him and then pluck away his gun, sending it skittering across the floor. Meanwhile, Sherlock staggered artistically under John's assault and fell into Jagger, knocking him to the ground as he yelled at them to stop.

Sting was the only robber who kept his head. "That's enough!" he shouted, pointing the gun at Sherlock (or trying to, as he and John rolled on the floor) but it was already too late. A team of men in black were already storming into the room, taking advantage of the distraction to subdue all three robbers.

John knew that. He heard them, but just then, he couldn't think. He was unaware of anything but the fact that Sherlock was there, living and breathing, under his hands while John felt a hurricane of emotions—anger, relief, frustration, joy. He'd never felt such a maelstrom of feelings—all strong, all valid, all contradictory—just like the (living, breathing) idiot on the floor underneath him.

"John. John! You can stop now." Sherlock's voice was breathless and strained, with a tone that John had never heard before.

"I've told you, Sherlock. I was a soldier, remember?" John gritted out as he struggled to get the upper hand, to pin this frustrating genius of a madman to the ground so he could tell him exactly what he thought about this deception, this betrayal.

But Sherlock was strong and slippery and had obviously learned a thing or two while he was away. "Yes, I know, you had bad days, but John … you're bleeding."

The concern in his voice swept over John and melted away the familiar adrenalin, so that suddenly John felt every minute of this very long day—every hour of the last two years of totally unnecessary grief. With a grunt, Sherlock gave one last roll so that he had John pinned, the victor in a wrestling match that John was never going to win. No matter what he did, Sherlock was always going to beat him.

He lay there, panting for a minute as his head throbbed and his heart ached. "Why, Sherlock?" He finally asked, hating the way his voice broke, hating how pathetic he sounded.

"Moriarty was going to kill you, John."

"Yes, I know that," John said, fighting the familiar surge of frustration at Sherlock speaking as if he were an idiot. "But why didn't you tell me? Afterward? It's been two years—surely you could have found the time?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels, oblivious to the fact that the two of them were lying in the middle of the bank lobby, surrounded by commandos and police officers, most of whom were trying not to stare. "I thought you'd be better off without me," he finally said.

John closed his eyes again. How could anyone be so brilliant and so stupid at the same time? Luckily for Sherlock, he was just too tired to argue at the moment, and so he said, "Well, that just makes you an idiot then, doesn't it?"

Pulling himself to his feet with the help of Sherlock's warm (alive) hand, John held on for a moment, soaking in the solid pulse beating beneath his fingers. "We're not done talking about his, mind you. But … I'm glad you're alive."

"I could say the same," Sherlock said, eyes scanning him in that long-familiar, long-missed way. Then he nodded, eyes concerned as he called over a medic. That probably wasn't a bad idea, John thought, feeling the warm, sticky trickle of blood running by his ear. Now that the adrenalin was gone, he felt wobbly on his feet—though both legs felt equally solid (un-solid?) under him. Limp's gone, he thought, but still needed Sherlock's wiry strength supporting his elbow to move to a chair so he could be patched up. This adrenalin crash was going to be bad, he thought. He'd been running on nerves and stress for far too long.

He sat quietly, grateful for the chance while the activity around them wound down. Before long, he was holding an ice pack to his bandaged head and feeling grateful that his ribs werenn't cracked.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes off him the whole time, and after a while, the surveillance grew too much even for John. "Go ahead, say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're trying to hold in. You're going to burst."

A flicker of … something … crossed his face, but before he could say anything, there was scrape of a shoe behind them. "Well, this is all too familiar a sight, though it's been a while."

John looked up, surprised. "Greg? What are … When did you get here?"

"An hour or two ago—just ahead of the press. Somehow, word leaked out that not only was Sherlock Holmes' former blogger being held hostage in a bank robbery, but there was a rumor that the man himself was alive and there. You should brace yourselves—it's crazy out there."

Greg looked over at Sherlock. "Where the hell have you been?"

John smiled. "If you're going to punch him, now's the time, Greg."

He just shrugged. "Nah, not with so many reporters right outside the door. I'll wait until I've heard his lame excuses later."

Sherlock just looked hurt. "I would have thought saving your life was an adequate excuse, Inspector?"

"For the jump—which I'm very curious about, by the way—sure, maybe. But not for the two years of silence since then. Look at poor John, here. You've only been back for a couple hours and he already needs medical attention."

John laughed but Sherlock only sniffed. "It's hardly my fault, Lestrade. If he had gotten into the car in the first place instead of coming into the bank, none of this would have happened."

"So, it's my fault then?" John asked, heaving himself to his feet and heading toward the door. "Your resurrection wasn't exactly on my schedule, you know. I was supposed to be at work this afternoon, and I never did get any of that pizza."

He had just stepped into the doorway when a voice outside shouted "Gun!" and a bullet came flying through the door.

#