A/N: I know the summary said "bank robbery" and this is clearly not a robbery any more, but I wanted to throw you guys off a bit, and believe what Sherlock and John thought was happening until the reveal. No regrets.

xxxxx

John felt an unyielding hand fist in his hair, and his head was ripped back, exposing his face to the camera. He cried out in sudden pain, then bit his lip, stoically refusing to let go any more. His face was obstinate to those who looked at it.

"What will people think when it gets out John Watson Junior, "He spat the name, as if it was a derogatory term, "The man who stood along side his father and saved the lives of his comrades, only to see his father shot down beside him… What will they think when they find out he died, tragically, oh so tragically, due to the Government's lack of cooperation, hm?"

The hand in John's hair released him, and his head fell forward once more. Where the hand had gripped, a stroking sensation took its place; fingers weaving through strands with a gentle touch. John shuddered.

There came no reply from the laptop.

"What will they think, when the newspapers report him found bloody-" With renewed strength, he backhanded John across the cheek, who toppled down onto his side without the use of his arms, head smacking violently against the floor.

"Beaten-" Mad Dog lashed out and threw his foot into John's side, who arched away in pain, white light shooting over his eyes. In stricken terror he tried to squirm away, but the restraining arms returned and he was held in place as more kicks shunted his body.

"-And degraded?"

Mad Dog's voice, heavy with exertion, drew his foot up over John's face, in preparation to mash it into the ground.

"NO!"

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John's eyes fluttered open. Sherlock stood erect at the front of the crowd, chest heaving. His voice sounded like it had been ripped from his chest.

"Sherlock?" rung a voice from the laptop.

Everyone froze.

With panicked eyes, Sherlock's gaze found the laptop, where from his position the pale, pain-filled face of his brother came into view. Both of them were struck with the enormity of what Mycroft had just done.

"You… know this man?" Mad Dog's pitch rose, his voice a hysterical cackle. "You know him? Oh this is too good. Bring him forward!"

One man remained by John, who wheezed pitifully in pain, and the other two men hauled Sherlock forward. Unlike John, he refrained from struggling; determined to keep his pride. He too was shoved down onto his knees; John was lifted onto his. He tilted precariously, pain racking his skull and stomach. Sensing his unease, Sherlock edged to his right, until John's side ran along his, and John was able to use him to find purchase and hold himself upright. Sherlock's own arms were secured behind him, just as John's were. And yet through it all, Sherlock's eyes never left John's crumpled face. The blood that ran from his mouth dripped deftly across his shirt, and his once kind eyes were swollen and stinging with tears. Bruises the colour of wild flowers were blooming across his cheeks. Catching Sherlock's eye, the strangest thing happened. He smiled.

"Couldn't… bare to be away from me, could you?" John's irises glittered from underneath his drooped eyelids.

Just as a hint of a smile played across his face, a sudden jerk ran through John's frame, as his muscles strained to keep himself upright. Sherlock felt the pressure as his friend sagged closer, and nudged him until he knelt straight. Anger flared and spread like a bush fire across his mind; the state of John dredging up unwanted feelings of, I want to wrap my arms around you and keep you safe.

As the reply started to form on his lips, he was interrupted by the sudden recede of Mad Dog's laughter. Which was probably for the best, as he had absolutely no idea what he would have said.

"I see your Sherlock, and raise you one Wilf Hudson…" Hesitation, as Mad Dog sought his group's approval. They were all nodding furiously.

"OK. Let me put this to you simply. You will free Moriarty." Mad Dog commanded, his hand finding rest once again in John's hair. "Or your Sherlock will die, along with the others. You have twenty minutes to free him and not a second longer. If our demands are met, Sherlock here will be let go. After that, you will have an hour to free Wilf Hudson from imprisonment, and once we are assured of his safety, the beloved little war hero will be set free, along with the others. Understood?"

"… It is understood."

"Then ciao for now!"

Ignoring Mycroft's protests, the laptop was slammed shut, and the video camera paused for the meanwhile.

By now, a congregation of bystanders had surrounded the bank, their wide eyes bobbing and ducking; quiet clamour like the pattering of rain. The earlier gunshots had drawn the attention of the police, whom had worked fast to keep pedestrians from nearing the scene. With only one officer on duty, this had been a step above impossible. But now, as the news began to spread, and reinforcements were called; there began the long stakeout outside the bank – keeping those who watched at a safe distance, and receiving orders from people so much higher than them, there were rumours the Queen herself was hosting the bank hold up.

"We've got twenty minutes to kill..." Mad Dog's voice rose lyrically, and he combed his fingers through John's hair, almost thoughtfully. Sherlock was two seconds away from sinking his teeth into that hand and ripping out a chuck of flesh. It would be worth it to see the look of surprise on that beast's face. "You two-" With a nod of his head, Mad Dog indicated two of the balaclava-ed men who stood vigil to his right, "Go up on the roof; give those bystanders something to look at. We want as much controversy as possible, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Was the joint reply. In sync, they turned; machine guns in hand and took the stairs that lined the wall, up to where they would wreak destruction on the unsuspecting crowds.

Mad Dog gave a final completive tug on John's hair before stalking forward to have a hushed conversation with his remaining henchman, both of them shooting the huddled hostages looks that could spear through concrete.

"So…" It was John speaking. "You got a girlfriend?"

Sherlock stiffened and inched his head to glare at the shorter man. They were on their knees, bloody and beaten, in the middle of a hostage situation; and this man wanted to discuss relationships?

"Just thought I'd lighten the mood."

"You're absurd." Sherlock breathed.

John ignored this. "So… you don't have a girlfriend then?"

"Girlfriend… No, not really my area." Humour him, his inner monologue drawled sardonically.

"Oh. Oh." John's breathing visible quickened, and he blinked rapidly, as if this would draw him confidence. "OK. Do you have a… boyfriend? Which is completely alright by the way."

"I know it's alright."

"So you've got a boyfriend?"

Does this man ever give up? Sherlock steeled himself. No, of course not; he's a soldier. "No."

"OK, cool. You're unattached. Oh, like me! Fine. Good. Whatever."

For a few seconds, nothing was said. And then Sherlock's brain whirled and the cogs began to turn, the jigsaw piecing sliding into place.

"John, erm," He began, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my studies, and whilst I am truly flattered by your interest, we are currently being held captive by masked gunmen-"

"No- no!"John interjected, giggling despite himself. "I'm not asking- no. I'm just trying to make conversation, that's all."

"…I see."

"And besides," The blond man continued, apparently not discouraged, "I don't usually go for tall lanky gits."

"Mm, that's a shame; I've always gone for ridiculously small men with oversized feet."

What started out as a smirk between them suddenly ricocheted into full blown lip-biting laughter. It was ludicrous for two men, to be under a life threatening situation and yet still find time to giggle like schoolgirls, but it seemed they brought it out of each other.

"We can't giggle, it's this is the scene of a crime, stop it." John finally hissed, although his shoulders shook with barely concealed mirth.

"Oh, dull." Sherlock gasped out, his teeth biting ferociously into his full bottom lip. "You're the one who began this preposterous exchange."

"Yeah well…" John shuddered out a breath. "Better dull then dead."