Note: I own nothing but my own plot ideas, everything else belongs to ACD and the BBC. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors, as always, are my own.

John looked at his watch. He had a couple hours before his shift started—plenty of time to grab something to eat and run some errands. Not that it would matter much if he was late. Just because he was working in the A&E on a Friday, didn't mean it wouldn't be boring. But then, he hadn't left London because he was looking for excitement.

No, after Sherlock died, he had just wanted a fresh start.

Well … 'wanted' was perhaps too strong a word. 'Needed' was better. He had never imagined himself living anywhere but London, but it was impossible to escape Sherlock's ghost there. In the eighteen months they'd known each other, they had covered most (if not all) the city and Sherlock had left traces of himself everywhere. The memory of the way his coat blew in the wind at Tower Bridge. The gleam in his eye as they'd chased an actor across the stage at the Globe theater (in the middle of a performance). The snarl anytime they were near Westminster (and therefore Mycroft).

Everywhere John went, he was haunted, and finally, he'd realized he had two choices. Either stay in London and try to forget Sherlock, or leave the painful daily reminders behind. Given a choice of forgetting or remembering the most remarkable man he'd ever known, the choice was easy. Giving up London was nowhere near as difficult as giving up what little was left of Sherlock.

He hadn't gone too far, though. Just down to Kent—far enough for trees and fresh air, but close enough to get back easily on the rare occasions he needed to.

For the most part, his friends had been supportive. Mrs. Hudson had cried, but both she and Greg had approved. "Better for you to get away from all this," Greg had said—and considering the media nightmare they were both embroiled in, John knew the words had been heart-felt. He kept in touch with them, but it had been two years now and life in London seemed almost as distant a memory as Afghanistan.

No, he was happy where he was. (Or as happy as could be reasonably expected.) Madthwaite-by-the-Sea* was big enough to have its own hospital but small enough that you recognized most people. He rented a cottage with an ocean view, got a job at the hospital, and told himself that life was good.

At the very least, it had been worse.

The days after Sherlock's death, for example, had been dreadful. These days, it was all about getting through the days as easily as possible. Other than the occasional emergency coming into the A&E, it wasn't exciting, but compared to the dark days right after Sherlock jumped and took the life John had laboriously created with him? He wasn't complaining.

He stopped at Sammy's Shack for some fish and chips, chatting for a few minutes about the upcoming tourist season, and then headed for the bank. Most of his transactions were electronic, these days, but some things still required a physical trip. Luckily, his bank was conveniently close to the hospital, so he could easily walk there. He'd parked his car at the hospital lot earlier and was enjoying stretching his legs in the early Spring sunshine.

His cane tapped on the walk as he strode along. He had been carrying it for a year now. It didn't matter than he knew the stiffness was psychosomatic, his leg had simply been cranky ever since Sherlock had died. He didn't try to argue with it anymore; he was just grateful that the limp wasn't as bad as it had been right after Afghanistan. He could manage without the cane, but it made his life easier.

"John?"

He paused, looking up to see who was calling him. Surely it couldn't be … "Mycroft." What had brought Mycroft here, standing next to a black limousine? He almost never left London, and … here? Why would he be visiting John of all people? Oh, God, no…

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, his voice tight with strain.

"No, John, she's well," the man assured him quickly, taking a step forward. "I just needed to speak with you. Perhaps you could join me?"

John considered his options. He hadn't seen Mycroft since a week after the funeral, when he had told him that Sherlock had left him everything. It had not been a comfortable meeting, with the memory of harsh words and the wraith of Sherlock haunting the proceedings. But still, they had come to a truce of sorts, acknowledging that losing Sherlock was punishment enough for both of them. Both suffered enough guilt.

Glancing at his watch, John said, "I need to get to the bank. I only have twenty minutes before my shift starts and I need to get this transaction done today."

Mycroft frowned. "It's rather a confidential matter, John. My assistant could…."

"That won't work," John said, shaking his head. "They need my signature. You could join me if it's that urgent, or wait here. It should only take a couple minutes."

Mycroft sighed and nodded, stepping alongside him as he turned toward the bank. "How are you holding up, John? You look well."

John nodded politely. "I'm fine. Everything's fine. You?"

"The same." They nodded at each other for a moment, falling back on impersonal good manners to get past the awkward moment. John pulled the door open for the other man and then politely waited for a woman with two small children to come through. "Why, Dr. Hamish. Thank you so much," she said, maneuvering her push chair through the door.

"My pleasure, Mrs. Havelock. How's Jenny's arm, then?" He bent down to smile at the three-year old.

"Right as rain. You'd never know she'd broken it at all."

"That's children for you," he said. "They heal incredibly quickly."

Mrs. Havelock looked like she'd like to stay and chat, but glancing past him to see Mycroft waiting, she excused herself and John finally got through the door. "Sorry about that."

"No apologies necessary, John," Mycroft said as they walked to the counter for a deposit ticket. "But … Dr. Hamish?"

John shrugged, feeling sheepish. "I started going by my middle name when I moved here because, well …" Mycroft gave an understanding nod and John was relieved not to have to explain how the media frenzy following Sherlock's death had made it impossible to use his all-too-recognizable name. "Then my colleagues made me a name tag saying Dr. Hamish instead of Dr. Watson. It's a little too 'Pediatric Medicine' for my taste, but they were being nice and it was … helpful, so it stuck."

Mycroft just nodded again, as John started to fill in his paperwork. The pen chained to the counter was dead (of course), and he fumbled in his jacket for his own, dropping it to the floor when he was jostled by a man coming in.

Bracing his cane, he bent to pick it up, then paused. Was that …?

"Mycroft?" he said quietly as he straightened. "I think there's a problem."

"I saw," the other man said, discreetly pulling out his phone, preparing to send a text. "I think it's best if we leave…"

"I don't think that's a good idea," a rough voice came from behind them as a masked man pulled Mycroft's phone out of his hand. "An observant gent like you? It would be a shame for you to miss anything."

He gave a sharp nod to the man who had brushed against John, and then there was a burst of gunfire and the bank was suddenly filled with screams. For a moment, John saw sand instead of parquet floor, but he shook himself. This was not the time for PTSD flashbacks, he told himself sternly as he let himself and Mycroft be pushed toward the center of the lobby.

Following instructions, he lay down on the floor (his leg, naturally, suddenly feeling perfectly fine). He couldn't help a grin at Mycroft's face as he got down on the floor for probably the first time since he was five, but then, John had always had a slightly manic response to being in danger.

He tried to look around, take stock of how many people were in the room. One disarmed security guard, three tellers and two office staff, still behind their desks, and, what, ten customers? He looked at Mycroft, calm as always. "So, what did you want to talk to me about, Mycroft? The benefits to online banking, perhaps?"

Mycroft gave him a tight smile. "Nothing like that, though I don't think this is really the time for our conversation now." He was scanning the room himself, taking stock in his Holmesian way of things like security cameras and exits, which John also noted.

"Do you think the tellers had a chance to alert the police?" he asked quietly, but the flashing lights outside the window answered his question for him. "Wonderful. This day is just shaping up beautifully."

"Not to worry, John. The bank robbers don't seem too worrying."

"Except that they started with gunfire rather than starting with a demand for money. It's not just a bank robbery, anymore, it's a hostage crisis, Mycroft. Anything could happen." John mentally ran through the tactics he had learned in the army as the robbers hurried to the window, shutting the blinds to block the view from the street.

"All right, everyone," said their spokesman. "Just stay calm and nobody will get hurt. The first thing we need to do is collect your phones. Michael Jackson, here, will come around for them. If you have anything that could be used as a weapon, we need those, too. If you try holding out on us, I promise it is not going to go well, so no funny business."

John saw Mycroft grimace slightly as his fingers tightened on his umbrella. When the masked black man came around to him, he said, "You already have my phone. Do you need my umbrella, too? I don't see how it could possibly be used against you and your two friends, it's not like it's bulletproof."

"Just give it to me," the man practically grunted as he turned to John. "And your cane, too."

"But, I need that," John protested as he gave the man his phone. "It's a legitimate walking aid, not a silly prop. Because, I'm sorry, you know as well as I do that that's what your umbrella is, My … Mike."

He changed the name at the last minute at Mycroft's warning look. He obviously didn't want the bank robbers to know his name. John hadn't missed, though that he'd very clearly stated that the number of robbers and that there was a threat of bullets, so John assumed this was being transmitted somehow—likely through the umbrella, which was about to be taken away. "Look," he said, "I'm not trying to be difficult, but … if you're worried, what if you leave me the umbrella and take my cane?"

He caught an approving glance from Mycroft just as the leader came over. "Is there a problem here, Michael?"

The man quickly shook his head. "No, sir. Just, this man wanted to keep his cane and I said no, but he asked if he could keep the umbrella instead."

"And you told him no?"

"I was just about to, sir," Michael Jackson said meekly.

John was looking up, all innocent. "I'm honestly not trying to cause any trouble here, just … I need my cane. I just thought that since the umbrella was aluminum and not so heavy, it would be a fair compromise. It's not like I'm going to do anything stupid, I just…"

The leader was walking around him, and John tried to look innocent and frightened. He saw the man pause to look at the soles of his shoes and wondered if he could read the uneven wear like Sherlock would have. Then the man asked, "Old war wound?"

John didn't need Mycroft's slight eyebrow twitch to see that for the trap it was. "What? God no. I'm just a doctor. I hurt my leg years ago and it never completely recovered."

"Huh. Not much of a doctor then, are you?" The leader scowled at him for a minute, then said, "Okay, you can hang onto it for now, but if you cause any trouble …"

There was a world of menace in his voice. John just nodded, looking grateful. "I won't. Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"Can't think why, since it doesn't look like you're walking anywhere for a while, doctor, judging by the police out there. How'd they get here so fast?"

John had his own ideas about that, but didn't feel like pointing out that at least one member of the British secret police had been sitting in a limo outside when they barged in. He was too busy trying to look harmless and innocent as the two robbers gave him and Mycroft another measuring look before moving on to the next hostage.

John looked over and met Mycroft's eyes, acknowledging the tiny tip of the head as he laid the saved umbrella between the two of them. At the very least it had a distress button or a tracker, he thought, but he was willing to guess at a microphone as well. Knowing Mycroft, it probably had a sword or a laser or some kind of Star Trek phaser, too. Sonic screwdriver, perhaps?

He glanced around at his fellow hostages. Everyone seemed nervous, but nobody looked to be in distress. No signs of panic or heart attacks. The robbers looked calm as they patrolled around the room, weapons at the ready.

The more he watched, the more he felt like this had been meant to be a hostage situation from the beginning, but why? What possible reason could there be? Unless there was one particular person they'd hoped to snare? But if so, they would have focused on him or her by now. If they had just wanted the money, they would have at least tried for a quick in and out approach instead of starting with gunfire. From Mycroft's comment before, it didn't sound like this had anything to do with either of them (which was a relief). After life with Sherlock Holmes, John automatically assumed that attacks were somehow directed towards him—especially if they happened the same day that Mycroft rolled into town—but that seemed not to be the case.

After a while, the robbers allowed their hostages to sit up and move to the center of the room, where it was easy to keep an eye on them. John tried not to be amused as Mycroft made a point of introducing himself ("I'm Mike, and was just in town to visit my old friend Hamish."). He then went around the room, asking everyone's names while John absently fiddled with the umbrella, keeping the handle close to the speakers.

"What do you suppose they're up to?" one of the tellers, Susie, asked. "They don't seem like they're after the cash."

"Safety deposit boxes," Mycroft said. "I assume they're through there? They keep heading in that direction, and one of them is always out of sight through that door."

Of course. "Which is why they started right off with a hostage ploy—they knew it would take time," John said.

"Exactly."

"How do you know all this, Dr. Hamish?" Mr. Keller asked quietly as the rest of the group leaned forward.

John shook his head. "I probably watch too much telly; I'm just trying to figure out what's going on."

They had been there for an hour when the bank phones started to ring. Their current guard, called out, "Jagger! Phone."

The leader came out of the back room. "Finally," he said, striding forward. "You. Doctor. Let me see this famous limp of yours. Answer the phone."

John felt his eyebrows lifting. "Me?" he asked as he started to struggle to his feet, leaning on Mycroft's umbrella and then moving toward the robber with his usual limp, grateful that sitting on the floor had made him stiff since his leg (of course) felt perfectly fine. The man waved him over to the phone on the desk nearest him and John concentrated on looking as unassuming and calm as he could. "You're sure you want me?"

"I don't want them to ID my voice," he was told, "So you'll do the talking. Go ahead, answer it."

With a glance back at Mycroft and the others, John picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"This is Sigerson, I'll be helping you through this hostage situation today. Who's this?"

For a moment, the world spun and John was suddenly grateful for the umbrella's support. That voice … honey-drenched baritone that had haunted his dreams for two years now. He looked back at Mycroft, whose face held a blend of compassion and irritation. As if he knew the man on the other end of the phone, as if he knew … as if …

John swallowed hard as Jagger prodded his shoulder with his gun. Recalled to the matter at hand, he said, voice shaking slightly, "This … I'm Doctor Hamish, one of the customers."

"Doctor Hamish," the smooth voice repeated, and John thought he could hear the faintest hint of relief in the man's voice. "It's good to talk to you. Is anybody hurt?"

At the robber's nod, John said, "No, nobody's hurt."

"Glad to hear it. I assume this call is being monitored, yes? Of course it is. How can we help you all today? Because we will do anything we have to get all of you out safely."

John looked over at the man holding the gun. "What should I tell him?"

"Tell him we'll be in touch, and then hang up," he was told.

He obediently repeated this into the phone and then looked at the leader, who was staring at him. "You looked a little pale there, doctor. Is your leg bothering you?"

"No more than usual," John said, "But it's kind of you to ask. This is all just … intense. I'm nervous, is all."

"Not a good thing for a doctor; it doesn't exactly inspire confidence."

The man was testing for something, and John wished he knew what. "I'm not nervous in the emergency room, or when performing surgery or any other kind of medicine. That's what I do. But this? I've never been caught in a bank robbery before." And that was true, he thought. He'd been a hostage more times than he could remember, but never at a bank.

"Let me see your leg."

"What?"

"There's something about you … I don't think I trust you, doctor. I want proof that this so-called limp of yours is real. And if it isn't …" Jagger pointed the gun at John's knee. "I can change that."

#

(* And yes, I totally made up the name of this town.)