Sherlock flew from his chair and twisted, rapt; the sight of four men in balaclavas of varying colours, each of them holding rudimentary machine guns appearing within his line of sight. One of the men had his gun raised to the air, whilst another teetered forward to secure the doors.
"I want everybody down on the fucking ground!" The apparent leader cried; firing with vehemence a few more rounds into the ceiling for added affect.
Screams rung out and the people surrounding Sherlock sank to the floor, whimpering in fright. Sherlock himself stayed upright, deducing all he could with fisted hands. The black hoodies and obscured faces didn't leave a lot for him to go by, so his mind was working slower; trying in vain to pick up the smaller details...
The man with the red balaclava lowered his gun to aim directly at Sherlock's chest. To his shock, he realised he was the last one left standing.
Ah.
"Are you fucking deaf? I said get on the ground, or I'll shoot your head off, alright?" He yelled, storming forward menacingly, with malice in his eyes.
Suddenly, a warm grip surrounded Sherlock's forearm and he jerked in surprise, eyes shooting wide. It was the man from earlier with the kind blue eyes.
"Just do as they say, mate." He whispered as Sherlock watched the bob of the man's Adam's apple with a sudden fixation. "There's nothing you can do."
Sherlock was on the edge of muttering a very detailed, "On the contrary," when the grip on his forearm tightened. Reluctantly, he folded himself onto his knees, and was met with a gentle smile from the other man.
"I'm John," he murmured, having the nerve to stick out his hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Sherlock," came the reply. "Sherlock Holmes."
They shook hands briskly.
"Guess we're stuck here for a while," John sighed then chuckled gently, almost comically unafraid of the four masked gunmen patrolling the bank. "My sister's going to be so pissed off with me…"
Sherlock leaned in closer, so they didn't have to raise their voices as much. John's smell was delightfully intoxicating, he found.
"You don't seem afraid…" He had meant to ask it as a question, but it came out as a statement. John shrugged.
"They've got their faces covered. If they meant to kill us all anyway they wouldn't have bothered with that, right? And besides," John's face lit up with a brilliant smile, revealing a row of perfect teeth. "I didn't really want to meet up with my sister anyway."
Sherlock's eyebrow shot upward, and he found himself smirking. How fascinatingly brilliant. He suddenly had the strangest feeling of wanting to impress the older man.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He queried. John's eyebrows rose so far up his face, they disappeared into his fringe.
"Afghanistan. Sorry – how did you?"
"RIGHT." It was one of their captors. Speaking with more profanities than should really be allowed with a small child in the room, (the mother of whom was clutching her to her chest), they were told, rather forthrightly, to gather in the corner.
As they rose to move, John's face became a blank mask; training from many a day in the army rebooting in his mind. Silently, he guided the women into the corner, murmurs of, "It's alright.", "It'll all be OK." spilling from his pursed lips. Once the women and child were seated, he positioned the men around them, in a protective circle. And as if by complete default; Sherlock ended up next to him.
"OI."
Oh fuck, was John's only thought, as a man in his forties stood defiantly by the edge of the crowd, eyes blazing. There is always one.
"I want to know what the bloody hell is going on here!" He hissed; voice breaking slightly. Tilting his head, John could see his hands shaking, obviously terrified. The man was a truck driver, if the label, "Terry's Trucks" on his shirt was anything to go by; and wore a startling green name badge; 'Hi! My name is: Richard .'
"Do you really?" The man with the red balaclava asked, twisting to face the perpetrator, voice seething with condescension. "Do. You. Really?"
Richard blanched; sweat carving into his paling face. "I am a British Citizen, and I demand to know what is going on!"
No, no, no. John's inner monologue was screaming. You don't want to be doing that.
John's inner monologue was correct. The man who had secured the door with thick chains and the man with the black balaclava, powered forward, equal amounts of malevolence like cold fire behind their eyes. Together, they each restrain one of Richard's arms, and pull him into the middle of the room, kicking and screaming in terror.
The Red Balaclava man prowls forward, then reaches into his pocket.
"This," he addressed the entire room, "is what happens to those who disobey us."
A flash of silver and then a cut off screech.
Richard squirms pitifully as the knife slides eloquently in between his ribs, and crimson red blood spills out onto his work shirt. A jerk as the knife is twisted, and left imbedded in Richard's body. Cruelty in the highest order; the men then began to beat at Richard's body, drawing out screeches of pain and pleas of mercy. Together, they pummelled and ground Richard into the floor, until the sounds recede, and the only noise was the sickening thud of fists against flesh.
The two robbers whom held him release their hold and watch in morbid silence as the lifeless body cascaded to the ground with a sickening thump.
Without entirely knowing he was doing so, John inched himself closer to Sherlock's body until their sides ran flush together, frozen in abrupt shock, both of their eyes fixated on the still lump of what used to be someone who'd simply wanted to draw some money out.
"PHONES!" The red balaclava quivers as he speaks; his voice painfully loud in the silence of the room, which was broken only by occasional whimper and squeal of terror.
"I want all your phones, pagers, anything with an internet connection put in this bag, here!" He indicated the plastic bag he was brandishing in front of him.
"If we find out any of you are withholding your phones from us we will not hesitate in blowing your fucking brains out on to the wall, is that understood?"
Nobody spoke.
"Good."
Slinging the strap of his machine gun over his shoulder, he began to circle the group, nudging the hostages with his foot until they relinquished their mobiles. One or two were more reluctant than others, and were met with a threatening growl.
It wasn't long before he reached Sherlock and John.
John dove into his pocket and pulled out his mobile swiftly and efficiently and handed it over, his face a smooth mask of indifference. Sherlock on the other hand… his subtle fingers already having sent a message to Lestrade about the bank situation, suddenly realised how starved of information he was.
"You had better careful with my phone, it's a present from my brother." He huffed; as if this whole thing was a minor bother, "I'm sure wouldn't be pleased to know some fucked up robber had his hands all over it."
A beat of silence.
At first, the man didn't seem to know how to react, perturbed by Sherlock's blatant act against him. Then, with one abrupt movement, he struck Sherlock's thin jaw with impressive strength and accuracy. Sherlock sprawled backwards, pain exploding across his face, and blood bursting from his mouth. He rolled onto his side, coughing as the bloody trickled down his throat, and breathed deeply through the pain. Pressure on his lower body – the robber forcefully taking his phone from his pockets. The room was stunned into further silence.
Slowly, as the man moved away, John leaned forward, and ran his hand across the fallen man's face, checking the cut with medical precision.
As he did so, he missed the way the robber's dark eyes skimmed his face, in sudden recognition. If he had realised so, he might have been able to escape his fate; but, it seemed, he was too intent on Sherlock's face to notice.
The fallen man in question had cut the inside of his cheek against his teeth, and on further inspection John saw the jagged mark of a cut running along the pale expanse of Sherlock's cheek, where the robber's ring had sliced through the pale, unmarked territory.
"Bloody hell, mate." He hissed, rummaging in his pockets for a hankie, then demurely dabbed away the rivulets of blood on Sherlock's face. "What the hell do you think you're doing goading them like that?"
Sherlock murmured noncommittally, none too bothered as to the pain, and more intent on the way John's touch sent scorches of heat along his skin like a branding iron.
"Thhthhh-" He began, then hacked up a mouthful of blood before continuing. "Needdehd more… inforhmantion." He rasped, eyes locking with John's. To his surprise, his heart started to thrum just that bit faster when it came to his attention that John's blue eyes were wide with apparent worry.
John… cared for him? This was entirely new information; but he had no time to process it, currently.
"Hhthh ring."
"His ring?" John echoed, eyebrows drawing together.
"Yethhhh."
Sherlock heaved and tried in vain to pull himself into a sitting position. John, alert as always, slid his arms around the younger man's waist and heaved him upwards, eyes widening with repressed delight as his hands came in contact with wiry muscle and delicate hips.
"Anthhh, his punching technique." Sherlock finished; as if he had been continuously speaking all along.
"Sorry, what?"
"Youhh-"
A loud bang disturbed the moment, and John's arms unconsciously tightened around the dark haired youth's waist, instead of dropping them like he perhaps would have normally.
Explosives; stream upon stream of the fire-red wires enclosed the walls of the bank room with horrifying finality. A small, portable video camera on a tripod was being set up with careful attention. The four men moved purposefully; darting from place to place like quicksilver – each with their own personal intent.
The tallest of the four called for silence, and the room's hushed murmurs lapsed. The red light on the portable camera blazed, and beside it, a laptop hummed into life.
"You can address me as Mad Dog." It was the man with the red balaclava speaking. He stood as if he was addressing the Queen; back straight, hands clasped behind his back in what appeared to be a polite notion.
Withering adrenaline coursing through his veins, Sherlock sunk into John's side, head finding rest on John's shoulder.
After he received a nod in the affirmative from his accomplice working the video camera, Mad Dog continued, "Our demands are simple," His dark eyes bored holes into the circular glass of the video camera. "Jim Moriarty is to be freed from the Government's control, and to be handed over today at six o'clock sharp. Otherwise…"
Mad Dog stepped smoothly to one side, his intent to reveal the mass of bewildered hostages that lay behind him in clusters to the camera.
"…We detonate the explosives and all these people get blown sky high. We have already sacrificed one of our hostages for our cause…"
A step in the opposite direction, revealing the crumpled, bloody body.
"… And we will not hesitate to torture, or murder them one by one, should you try to stop us."
There was a pause; the blinking lights of the laptop the singular movement. On closer inspection, John could see they had opened some sort of web-cam interface, which they were using to contact whomever they were addressing. The laptop was too far away for John to see clearly the man sitting, receiving this conversation on the screen, but he could make out the fine lines of a suit, and the pale globe of a face.
It was a moment before the reply came.
"You have to understand, we cannot simply free Jim Moriarty into your hands..."
Sherlock's uninterested ears suddenly pricked up, and he raised his head. "I know that voice."
"… He is the most wanted man in the whole of Europe – to let him go for the sake of a few civilians…" The sound of a muted whisper and the rustle of paper, "…is not something we would be willing to carry through."
Heart-felt sobs rack the woman who is nursing her child to her side, and the assortment of hostages shuffled closer, each evaluating their own lives, whilst pitying this poor woman, who was now faced with the death of her child as well as herself.
Almost in glee, a repulsive sneer like a knife wound spread across Mad Dog's face. It was as if he'd anticipated such an answer. He clapped his hands to one side, and two of the balaclava-ed men surged forward, their eyes singling out John amongst the crowd; who stiffened in shock.
Together, they systematically detained an arm each. As they dragged him up, he kicked out, trying to wriggle free, and received a blinding punch in the stomach for his efforts. Pain exploded in his gut. For a short man, he was undoubtedly strong, but there wasn't a hope in hell he could take two men twice the size of him.
And if he could; where would he go?
Slumped in pain, the men dragged him forward and forced him onto his knees beside Mad Dog. His arms were wrenched behind him and tied together with a zip tie. Head against his chest, John's breathing spiked, and he worked to calm it before ruefully passed out. What did they want with him, of all people?
"When you say 'civilians'…" Mad Dog drawled, beginning to stroll in lazy circles around his captive. "Do you include the son of a war hero in that category?"