Greg didn't wait for the All Clear to sound before he was through the door, bullet-proof vest a familiar weight on his shoulders. Anything to get away from the crowd that had gathered as word spread of the not-dead, not-a-fraud-after-all detective possibly being there himself. (How word had spread so fast, he had no idea. Twitter, probably.)

No, he was glad to get into the bank, even if the hard part had already been done. The men Anthea had sent in already had everything under control. The three robbers were being cuffed and Mycroft Holmes was standing talking calmly to the leader.

And there to the side, John Watson being patched up while Sherlock Holmes watched on.

Because, yes, it really was Sherlock Holmes. Greg had been watching the CCTV video since he'd arrived but seeing him in live, 3D Technicolor? Hell, Sherlock Holmes really was alive, even if his hair was too short and the wrong color.

He exhaled, only then realizing that he'd been holding his breath. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, he thought. Together again. That was a sight he'd never thought to see, and his eyes prickled a bit as he watched the two men watching each other.

Oh, there were changes. John was thinner, more worn than he had been (though some of that could be attributed to the head wound). Sherlock almost looked like another person—different hair, different eyes, different face—but his concern for his friend was familiar and warming. Greg had never seen Sherlock look that concerned over anybody but John Watson. That alone would have convinced him this wasn't a ghost, even without the familiar voice making excuses.

Greg felt a smile pulling at his lips. Oh, he wanted explanations, and part of him was furious at Sherlock's deception, but … infuriating and maddening as he was, the realization that Sherlock Holmes was alive was enough to restore faith in an otherwise mad world. Because even if Sherlock brought his own special kind of insanity to things, Greg had always thought the world was better (if more frustrating) with him in it.

Not only that, he couldn't wait to see Sally's face.

He walked over. "Well, this is all too familiar a sight, though it's been a while."

And, lord, it had been, he thought as the three of them fell into the easy pattern of banter they had perfected years ago. He was furious with Sherlock—he was—but he couldn't help but notice how worn to the bone he was. As hard as the last two years had been on the rest of them, they'd obviously been hard for Sherlock, too, and Greg couldn't quite bring himself to yell at him. Not yet, anyway.

He could hear the press calling from outside the door, trying to get Sherlock's attention and just shook his head as he followed them toward the door.

But then he heard Sally's voice yelling "Gun!" at the top of her lungs and he didn't even think, but dove toward the doorway to tackle Sherlock, knocking both him and John to the side, just inside the door.

A zing of a bullet sounded as he felt a thump at his waist, and then another at his calf as he pulled his legs forward, out of sight. "Are you two all right?" he asked, panting. "Christ, Sherlock, things were nice and quiet before you showed up. Coming back from the dead doesn't mean you have to bring hell with you, you know."

"That's what I said," John answered with a small giggle. "I was having a perfectly normal day before you Holmeses showed up."

Sherlock made a face. "Yes, yes, but have either of you noticed that someone is shooting at you?"

"At us? I thought he'd be shooting at you, Sherlock."

"To my knowledge, everyone who wished me dead is currently detained or no longer a problem," Sherlock said.

"I'm not going to ask what you mean by that," Greg said, crawling forward, closer to the window. He could hear people scrambling behind him, but there was nothing on his radio. He lifted it to his mouth. "Donovan? What's going on out there?"

"Donovan?" John said, eyebrows raised. "I thought she didn't work with you any more, Greg? In fact … what are you doing here? Not that I'm not glad, but it's rather outside your … Christ, you're bleeding."

I'm what? Greg followed John's eyes to his leg and remembered that second zing. "Oh," was all he managed to say as John sat forward and pulled his trouser leg out of the way to take a look.

"It doesn't look bad. Are you sure you weren't hit anywhere else?" John was suddenly there and focused—the army doctor coming to the fore and pushing aside petty, personal concerns like concussions or bruised ribs.

"I think the vest deflected one," Greg told him, suddenly feeling weak even as John grew more alert. It's all in your head, he told himself, but now that he realized, his leg was starting to hurt. "I've never been shot before. I didn't realize how much it hurt."

John was pressing a handkerchief against his leg. "You call this being shot? Barely a graze. You'll be fine."

Greg looked at Sherlock, sitting uncharacteristically quiet. "Anything you want to tell us, Sherlock?"

"I thought I got them all," he said in a small voice. "I thought it was safe."

John's hands paused. "Safe for what, Sherlock?"

"Safe to come back. I must have missed … Moran!" He pressed his hand against his ear and then pulled out his earpiece in disgust. "It's Sebastian Moran, it has to be. He uses a custom-made, long-distance sniper rifle, which means he's probably farther away than you're looking. That's how he got Adair last night."

"Wait, Ronald Adair?" Greg asked, hissing at the pain in his leg. "That's my case."

"Yes, of course, Inspector. I thought that was obvious. But he was supposed to be at Baker Street, but … why is he here?"

"Adair was supposed to be at Baker Street?"

"No, Moran. The trap was perfect and Mycroft's men were … oh, of course," Sherlock breathed, glancing toward the door and then glaring at his brother on the other side of the lobby. "The press. They spread the word that John was here at the bank. That would have drawn Moran away from London."

John was wrapping Greg's leg with a roll of bandage one of Mycroft's men had tossed over. "Me? Why would a sniper care where I was?"

"Because he was the one who was supposed to shoot you if I didn't jump," Sherlock said. "He's had his eye on you ever since. That's why I couldn't let you know—either of you—that I was alive. Not until it was safe. But now he's slipped through Mycroft's fingers and he's out there. It's not over."

Greg had never heard Sherlock's voice so uncertain.

#

John had only ever heard Sherlock sound like that once before, beside a pool mere seconds after seeing him, before he realized that John was wearing a bomb. He hadn't wanted ever to hear Sherlock sound so uncertain again.

He tied off the bandage on Greg's leg—it would do for now—and then thought hard about where the shots had come from, and how far away the sniper probably was. It wasn't like he had a sniper rifle of his own to shoot, and God knew there was a difference between making a shot across a street and across a city block … but this was Madthwaite-on-the-Sea. The possible options for a sniper were few and far between. Main Street was just one, long thoroughfare running alongside the ocean, after all. There were no hills, no trees. Nothing for cover. If the man wanted to see inside the bank, he had to be in front of the bank.

In fact, thinking about it, there was only one place …

John took one more look at the slightly lost look on Sherlock's face and then saw one of the robber's rifles kicked up against the wall, waiting for proper disposal. He knew Mycroft had a team here, he knew the police were just outside and that they were all probably several steps ahead of injured-civilian-hostage-with-a-limp John Watson, but it's not like Madthwaite-on-the-Sea's police force were used to dealing with armed snipers, and most of Mycroft's men were stuck in here with him.

He leaned forward. "Can I borrow your helmet?" he asked Greg, undoing the strap without waiting for an answer. Sherlock was blinking back to his usual, sharp self, but John didn't have time for that, and he certainly wasn't going to wait until Sherlock started complaining or criticizing. "Good," he told him. "Make yourself useful. When I tell you, lift this above the window sill and hope he shoots at it."

And, without giving either of them a chance to protest, John crawled toward to the door on his elbows, just like his old army days and then stood, groaning a bit, to put his back to the wall. He paused to mentally map the street, thinking of the exact location of the building across the way, remembering the sign for an empty office space for lease that had been displayed for the last several weeks.

Shutting out the sounds of protest he heard from behind him, the sounds of chaos and shouted orders outside the door … and most importantly, the pounding headache that was threatening to blur his vision … he focused. He blocked everything out and just concentrated on the fact that he had a job to do—and the sooner the better.

Besides, he was tired of waiting, tired of being passive, left behind.

He gripped the rifle, getting a feel for it in his hands, and gave Sherlock a nod. Then several things happened at once. Sherlock raised the helmet above the window sill, where it was promptly shot. At the same time, John pivoted around the doorway, smoothly taking aim on the not-so-empty office across the street and firing just past the muzzle showing in the barely-cracked open window.

A roaring silence in his ears, echoed by screams outside the door.

But no more shots.

He slumped back against the wall and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

He hadn't even realized he'd closed his eyes until he was startled by the sound of applause coming from the soldiers (officers? agents?) around the room. He met Greg's stunned eyes. "I knew you were a good shot, John, but…"

"That was amazing." Sherlock looked stunned. "You do realize you just killed a man in sight of the entire British press corp, don't you?"

"Um…"

#

Sherlock was speechless. What had just happened?

He could hardly think of all the things that had gone wrong today. First, John had insisted on coming into this godforsaken bank instead of getting into the car where he would have been safe while Mycroft's trap closed. Then, Moran had slipped out of Mycroft's trap altogether and ended up here because, of course, the press had spread the word that John was here.

And then John … miraculous, always-surprising Dr. John Hamish Watson … had saved the day by shooting Moran.

How was that even possible? The man had a concussion. He was still reeling from learning Sherlock had faked his death two years ago. He probably hadn't even fired a gun in years, much less under anything resembling combat conditions. And yet he had done everything perfectly.

The man was a wonder. "That was amazing," Sherlock said, staring at John with awe. Because that was John all over, ignoring threats to himself to save others, regardless of the … oh no. "You do realize you just killed a man in sight of the entire British press corp, don't you?"

John's face froze for a moment, then he shrugged. "Maybe Mycroft can get me a good lawyer. The important thing is nobody else was hurt. Are we sure we're in the clear this time?"

One of Mycroft's men came up and all but saluted as he addressed John. "Dr. Watson. Excellent shooting. Our team has secured the area, including the office across the street." He looked over at Sherlock. "Sebastian Moran is dead, sir."

Sherlock felt a wave of relief at the news. At least things weren't that bad. Yes, Lestrade had been shot in the leg, and John had a concussion, but this could have been so much worse.

Which, of course, was the moment that Detective Barnes came in, a solemn look on his face. "I'm sorry, Dr. Hamish, but I'm afraid … you're under arrest."

"What?" Sherlock asked. "For what possible reason?"

"Murder, Mr. Sigerson … or whatever your name is. He just shot a man in front of all of us with a no-doubt illegal weapon."

"He just saved all of us," Sherlock spat out, "Using a gun left lying on the floor. It's not like he carried it in!"

"I'm sure the extenuating circumstances will be examined, sir, but for now, my duty is clear." Barnes looked at John. "I really am sorry."

Again, Sherlock was left speechless. This was a disaster! He looked at Lestrade, who just shook his head. "Not my call, Sherlock. I can't override local law enforcement. I'm not even supposed to be here."

Sherlock didn't know what to do. He had looked forward to this day for two years, and nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. All he knew was that it was his fault John was in this position. If he had taken care of Moran like he'd meant to, John would never have needed to shoot anyone.

He looked at John—so irritatingly stoic and calm—and tried to think what to do. They would get him out, obviously. Yes, he had shot a man, but it had been self-defense. It was just … this shouldn't be happening!

Be calm, he told himself. He reminded himself of the virtues of patience while dealing with the simple-minded (everyone but John … and Mycroft, he supposed). He thought about all the times biting his tongue had actually turned out to be useful these last two years. This could all be fixed, just as soon as they got John out of … jail.

He could feel his face crumple at the thought, and despite all his years of experience and independence, found himself looking at his brother. He wasn't sure what expression was on his face, but within moments, Mycroft had crossed the room. "What's the problem?"

"They're arresting John," Sherlock said, afraid he sounded like a whiny child whose favorite toy was being taken away. Make them stop, Mycroft, he felt like begging, wanting his big brother to fix things like he had when they were children.

Mycroft took in the scene with a glance. "Really? And what possible reason could you have for that, Detective Inspector?"

Barnes looked at Mycroft, taking in the custom suit but missing the air of authority altogether. "He just killed a man, sir."

"Yes," Mycroft said, "Taking out a sniper—one who had just shot a police officer—before he could do any more damage. Last time I checked, that came down under the 'heroic' end of the spectrum rather than the 'criminal' end."

Barnes gave an uncomfortable shrug. "That may be so, but the law is the law. With the best intentions, Dr. Hamish could have hurt someone. There is a reason we don't allow vigilante justice. That's what the legal system is for."

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled. "However, I believe you'll agree that certain members of society have a duty to help those in need, and oft times that must be done with a weapon. Dr. Watson, here, served in the army, you know, and was a marksman, well trained to do exactly that."

"That might have been true, but…"

"Which is also why Dr. Watson holds a license to use a gun to protect Queen and Country when necessary."

"He does?" Barnes said.

"I do?" John echoed.

Mycroft just smiled. "Of course, John. You have since the night you moved in with Sherlock, did I never tell you? I didn't want to burden you, and I knew you would never abuse the privilege, so I felt it wasn't necessary to say anything, but yes. Going on four years, now—not counting your time in Afghanistan and elsewhere, of course."

Sherlock found himself beaming just like when Mycroft had coaxed his kitten down from a tree when he was four. When this was over, he would do three—no, four!—cases for Mycroft with no complaints whatsoever. (Or not excessive complaints, at least.)

"And who, exactly, are you?" Barnes was asking.

Mycroft pulled his own ID from his pocket and smiled gently as the man boggled at his credentials. "Mycroft Holmes. And …" he turned to Anthea, who handed a laminated card to him. "You'll see Dr. Watson's paperwork is in order as well. You'll want to keep this in your pocket from here on, John."

John just nodded blankly and stared at the card once Barnes passed it over. Sure enough, it was dated to the night he'd shot the cabbie and signed by … he looked up.

"Her Majesty is really quite grateful for your service, John," Mycroft told him gently. "Now, are we done here? Detective Inspector Lestrade looks like he could use some additional medical attention. Dr. Watson was working under less than ideal circumstances earlier, after all."

Sherlock watched his brother glance out the window at the crowd of reporters and frown. "I believe we'll take the back exit. All those flashing lights can't possibly be good for Dr. Watson's concussion."

And away he swept toward the back of the building, a bemused John helping Lestrade, as Sherlock paused for one last comment. "Excellent work today, Barnes. I told you it would all work out in the end."

"Are you really …?"

"Sherlock Holmes? Of course. I promise you, though, my credentials were real, too. After all, who do you think gave them to me? Good day," and he turned to follow the others, feeling lighter and happier than he had in years.

#

NOTE: There's an epilogue to come-I was going to wait until the whole thing was done and include it with this chapter, but decided not to make you wait longer to see how that cliffhanger was going to resolve itself. (You're welcome.)