It was the heavy finality of the gunshots that rung from above them that caused a silence thicker than poison to seep into the bank room.

And it was the little message alert that broke it into a thousand pieces.

Mad Dog; bored, and with the intent of embarrassing the perpetrator, reached into the plastic bag that contained the mass of phones and pagers; pulling from it a slim iPhone. He unlocked it smoothly and his eyes skimmed over the text.

Then his eyes sought Sherlock.

"You've got a text." His voice was hushed, but had the same force as if it was screamed. Mad Dog stepped forward, hand outstretched, and held the phone inches from Sherlock's face; it's incandescent light highlighting the smooth panes of his face.

"Read it. Out loud."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then lowered them; heart strumming almost painfully in his chest. It was his reply from Lestrade.

"'We've got… police… surrounding the perimeter, and… a helicopter over head. Just… keep… your trap shut… alright? We'll have you… out of there… in no time. L.' "

With careful movements, Mad Dog sank onto his haunches, until his face was level with Sherlock's; eyes burning within his skull.

"Who's 'L', hm?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." Sherlock sighed. Scotland Yard's Finest, my arse. Well done Lestrade, you've probably gone and gotten me killed.

"And you thought it would be clever to text him, did you?"

"I do believe the fault came from him in texting back…"

Mad Dog pursed his lips, rose back up to his formidable full height, and tugged down his red balaclava. His face was revealed, and he let a leering smile cross his face, which twisted the long, wiry scars that marred it.

"I like you, kid, you've got balls." With a rough hand he mussed Sherlock's hair into further chaos. A completive look crossed that once handsome face, "Y'know… it's almost a shame you might die in-" A flick of his wrist. "-Seven minutes."

"A tragedy."

Smirking, Mad Dog turned, and began to reset the video camera, deft fingers drifting along the console with quick precision.

"Yeah, I'm the absurd one." John scoffed, once Mad Dog was out of earshot. "I'm not the one who talks back to a bloke who just killed a man in front of us."

"His type; they respect those who stand up for themselves."

"His type?"

"Yes…" If Sherlock had had free use of his hands, they would now be steeped in front of him, fingertips touching in thought. "That man there is Sebastian Moran."

John nodded slowly, confused, then shook it furiously; "No, that's not ringing any bells. Who's Sebastian Moran?"

With a sly smile, Sherlock tilted his head in Moran's direction. "Look at him, really look. The scars on his hands and face – battle wounds. You must have seen similar marks, what with you being stationed in Afghanistan-"

"Yes, how did you know about that?"

Sherlock whipped his head from side to side, "We're not talking about you, we're talking about Moran here. Look at how he holds himself; it says military training – the way his hand instinctively curls as if to fit the butt of a gun, the proud straight of his back-"

"He certainly acts like one of my old military sergeants." John smirked jovially under his breath, "Oh dear God, what if he was one of my old military sergeants?"

Sherlock chuckled gently. "I doubt that immensely unless you had special training with snipers and espionage techniques to infiltrate highly sensitive Governmental documents."

"You know what? I can't say that I have."

"Thought not."

Sherlock ducked his head to indicate John's attention back to Moran. "I've had a while to analyse the wrinkles around his eyes; yours, from squinting against the sun, are situated in the outsides of your eyes, but you have accompanying lines around your mouth from where it raised as you squinted." Sherlock's eyes roamed John's face as he spoke. "Where as if you look at Moran, the deepest mark is that between his eyes. Instead of squinting, he was concentrating on something far away for a long period of time. Put that together with his obvious traits as a soldier and what do you get?"

"A sniper." John blew out a gust of breath. His eyes found Sherlock's. "Brilliant!"

"Brilliant…? John, you can hardly say a sniper of all things is-"

"No, no- what you just did then, how you knew he was a sniper; that was brilliant!"

The earnest look of surprise on Sherlock's face was heartbreaking. "Really?"

"Yes!" Shuffling on his knees, the blooded face of John shifted to face his friend. "Bloody amazing!"

"Oh." The smallest of smiles graced Sherlock's face. "That's… that's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Fuck o-"

Both of them looked up simultaneously at the laptop being powered into life once more. Sherlock cleared his throat, determined to finish his deduction.

"…He's after Jim Moriarty; you heard what Myc- the Governmental Official said – that man is the most dangerous criminal in Europe, and Wilf Hudson – America's most infamous serial killer of our time. I think it's safe to say his intents aren't exactly for the greater good. Two years back, there was a huge scandal over in India. A rogue member of Her Majesty's army was using the threat of torturing children to draw information out from an Indian syndicate. He'd tie the children to trees and sit atop a tree with a camera. Their screams would attract animals; if it wasn't the hunger or the tigers that got them – his sniper certainly would. That man's name was Sebastian Moran."

John's face was slack in shock and horror. "Holy shit."

"It worked though. He succeeded in bringing almost forty million pounds of sensitive documents back to the organisation he was working for."

"So… we're being held hostage by a man who has murdered children?"

"It would seem so."

They fell into uneasy silence; John's ragged breathing caressing the side of Sherlock's face.

It was dark outside; the disjointed silhouette of the city black against the deep purple sky. The two of Moran's henchmen returned down the stairs from their blood soiree, jostling each other and murmuring under their balaclavas.

"Hit anyone interesting?" Moran asked as they neared.

"Oh no, we had much more fun with the helicopter." The one with the blue balaclava guffawed loudly. "You should've seen it spiralling out of control – I couldn't breathe it was so funny."

"Right. Good. Now get back in position, their twenty minutes is up."

The three henchmen took up their positions; two of them sandwiching the group of hostages, machine guns clenched threateningly in front of them; whilst the remaining man stood to John's right.

Stillness ran through the group as the video camera was switched back on.

Moran was the first to speak: "Has it been done? Is Moriarty free?"

"He's free." Mycroft's tense dulcet tones sounded from the laptop. "Mr. Moriarty is currently on a private jet travelling from the isolation unit Scotland. You have to understand that twenty minutes is not enough time for a plane to get him to your chosen destination, but his release forms have all be signed. He's a free man."

"And you'll have him dropped off to the coordinates we sent you?"

"Within the hour."

"Your cooperation is most enjoyable." Moran's gaze drifted to Sherlock's knelt form. "You must really mean something to this guy, eh, kid?"

John felt Sherlock stiffen, and nudged him gently, in a pathetic attempt at comfort. It was welcome all the same.

"We have upheld our side of the deal," Only Sherlock, who knew his brother better than he knew himself, could identify the waver in his voice. "Are you upholding yours? The original deal was that Sherlock would be freed with Moriarty."

A reluctant pause. "Of course, straight away. But first, how are the plans to free Wilf Hudson coming along? I'm guessing the American's weren't too pleased."

"That's one way of putting it."

"But he will be freed?"

"By the end of the hour."

"Excellent."

Moran took a step forward to end the video call, but Mycroft was insistent.

"There will be police officers outside ready to receive Sherlock into their care. They have orders not to approach the door, or engage in any contact with you. It will be up to Sherlock to walk out of the bank where he will be transported to safety."

"Yes, yes-" Moran waved a hand, as if this was all trivial. "Bye!"

The laptop was pulled to a close.

Spinning on his heels, Moran spat out orders for the two henchmen to return to their station on the roof, ready to pick off any police officers that even thought of advancing. Moran gripped Sherlock's bonds and heaved him to his feet. John, still slightly disorientated, swayed violently at the loss of something to lean against and almost tumbled to the floor. He stared in anguish at Sherlock's retreating figure as he was led towards the door, and swallowed back his fear.

Suddenly, he felt very alone.

Sherlock was pushed forward roughly, hands still secured by the zip tie. Moran fumbled in his pocket for the key to the padlock, and effortlessly slid it in. On a final thought, he turned to his remaining henchman.

"Point your gun at the hostages. If any of them make a move towards the door, shoot to kill."

This was met with a nod.

A clunk as the key was turned, and the chains unravelled. Moran slipped to one side, his body hidden and guarded by the door, and pulled it open, shoving Sherlock through then slamming it shut, all in the space of a second.

The last thing Sherlock had seen was John's ardent face, covered in blood and bruises, watch him leave.

He was met with the sight of a semi-circle of police cars, their headlights half blinding him. The dark of the bank was such a contrast, it left his brain swirling dangerously. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, stumbled, but caught himself, and then another. Slowly progressing, he finally reached the line of cars, and was instantly met with the loud roar of voices, orders, the buzz of movement and shouts, a shock blanket was gathered over his back, and he felt cold metal slide over his hands as they were cut free. On instinct he rubbed them, feeling the groove where the plastic had sat, and rolled his shoulders, feeling the burn of having them strained back for so long.

With weak legs he was guided forward, into the back of a black Ford Transit van. There, opposite, sat his brother with a solemn, hollow expression, but nonetheless a sight for sore eyes.

"Sherlock, are you alright? Did they do an-"

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me." Sherlock flailed weakly and knocked it off, but a kind set of hands replaced them.

"It's for shock." His brother explained, in the tone of a long suffering wife.

"I'm not in shock!"

A sigh. "Is the wound to your face the only-"

"Why is everyone moving away?" Sherlock inquired, catching the smallest glimpse of the police returning to their vehicles before the doors to the van were slammed shut.

"Because of the bomb." His brother replied patiently, checking his Rolex from beneath his sleeve. "We've had everyone in the area evacuated."

"But why? Moran would never set it off until he and the others were clear. Really Mycroft, you shoul-"

"Because of our bomb, Sherlock."

Once again, the cogs in Sherlock's brain shifted into position. He opened his mouth to question, but Mycroft had already opened his.

"Our only objective was to get you out of there. As you are now free from danger, we can do what we were going to do originally and simply bomb the bank. We can't risk freeing Wilf Hudson as well as Moriarty. We just can't. There are too many double agents in the business to have not let Moriarty go; and so he will be freed as planned, unfortunately."

This took a few minutes to sink in; the words, "bomb the bank" spinning sickly inside Sherlock's skull.

"You can't do that!" Sherlock exploded suddenly, flying from his seat in the van until he could almost feel Mycroft's nose against his own. "The hostages in there will die as well as Moran; are you seriously suggesting you are about to kill them all?"

"Sit down, Sherlock." There was that long-suffering tone again. "You can't save everyone all the time."

"No, no!" Sherlock threw himself at the door of the Transit, but it was locked tight. He growled in frustration and tried again, ramming it repeatedly with his shoulder, blind in anger.

"Sherlock, it is a necessary sacrifice. Moran will perish, and Wilf Hudson will not have to be freed, the economy would suffer greatly with them and Moriarty all free to wreak havoc amongst society-"

"Screw society!" Sherlock spat, now attempting to unjam the door using only his hands. "John is still in there, we can't just leave him!"

"And he will receive a hero's funeral, I assure you."

The punch Mycroft to the face received was well deserved. Running his hand along his now throbbing knuckles he took a step back and lifted a leg to kick at the door, just as the van rumbled into life and he was knocked off balance. The engine revved, and the Transit began to move away.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screeched, pounding at the door with his fists. "JOHN!"

And then the van swerved around the corner, and the street was left deserted.