AU where Sherlock and John meet as hostages from a bank robbery in their twenties. Will romance occur?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John stepped into the bank knowing something was about to go wrong.

He didn't know why; but as if an electrical current had struck him, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, pricking his skin like static.

Inwardly, he scolded himself. He was a grown man. He'd fought in a god damn war, for Christ's sake. He was the one who kept his cool when his best friends dropped like flies in the onslaught of bullets that rained down on them like an unearthly fire. Fear just wasn't an option, back then. Maybe, he thought, it was the expectation of danger that simply set his nerves alert; he was too used to living on the edge of destruction that now simple things like opening a bank account suddenly warranted a flash of fear.

The room he stood in was sparse of people; yet he analysed them quickly as he stepped up to the queue. Seven people in front of him, four cashiers, a woman and child using the inside cash machines. Eyes darting, he picked out the exits; pure force of habit, and felt his left hand curl instinctively as if he was grasping the butt of his old standard army gun. It was ridiculous – and he knew it – to be so wary of such an open and public place, that buzzed with life and throbbed with people.

Fresh from the war, John Watson was a real sight. His hair, bleached blonde from the pounding sun was slightly longer than he usually allowed it; it hung over his forehead in stylish disarray. Harry had always preferred him with long hair; the short, blunt cut the army had provided him with reminded her too much of their dad, John Watson Senior.

Killed in action, the newspapers had written, a brave and honourable man, who gave his life to protect his squadron.

And if he was perfectly honest; John disliked his own short hair also – remembering the countless times the tips of his ears were scorched red by the harsh Afghanistan sun.

His eyes, although weary, were a piercing blue. They shone out from the hammocks of his eyes and glistened, quite remarkably. His skin; brown, and smooth, was barely wrinkled save to the corners of his eyes, where constant squinting had left deep furrows.

It was safe to say; as a man of only 24, John Watson was a handsome man.

He squared himself, coming to his senses, and followed the queue forward, as they shuffled along in sync. 'Skittish' just wasn't in his nature, and he had no intention of adding it to the list just yet.

But… he was being watched.

A man, hunched over a chair sat not far from where John stood, his grey eyes narrowed in something more than confusion.

Intrigue?

Knowing better than to goad the man, John returned his gaze to the cashiers; just a couple more people to go and he would be able to address one of them. After, he would go and see Harry; she was taking him out for lunch somewhere so he could meet her new beau. Clara, was it? John sighed inwardly, remembering how exaltation would rack his squadron every time letters were handed out; crisp and clean – fresh from the soft hands of their blushing girlfriends back home. He himself had never received such a letter; and often was on the receiving end of the running joke he was too soon be handed a "Dear John,"

It hurt like an open wound to think he had already had one.

Risking a look over his shoulder, he caught the staring man's gaze and raised an eyebrow, as if to challenge him. The man was fairly young, younger than he; perhaps twenty or twenty one years of age. His expression was stern, but not overtly threatening – a soft crease between his eyebrows and the dip of the corner of his mouth displaying his emotions.

The man was also bloody gorgeous.

John caught himself suddenly, and felt a blush rise in his cheeks, realising a few seconds too late that the man had actually winked at him. He shuffled awkwardly, and his mouth twitched into a smile, before he looked away hurriedly, taking interest in the fabric of his too-long sleeves and willing away the heat in his face.

Apparently not discouraged, the man's eyes raked John's body, the slim fit of his jeans, the tight material of his t-shirt, the baggy give of his maroon cardigan; uncaring as to how he looked as if he was practically undressing the older man in the middle of the bank.

John stepped forward with the queue, and when his eyes flickered up to search for the man, he found to his dismay a pillar blocked his view. Fuck it. He blew out a breath, and stepped up to the cashier – a woman with a wide and friendly face, putting on his most charming smile.

"Hello, I'd like to-"

He didn't get much further before a gunshot sounded, and screams ricocheted through the air.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock took his place on one of the wooden chairs adorning the side of the bank, giving him a generous view of everyone who was to walk through the door. Vibration against his leg signalled another, another, text from his infuriating older brother, whom he was enjoying ignoring.

Settling back, his eyes roamed yet another customer.

Lady in her thirties, currently in a civil partnership with a woman she doesn't know is still smoking, the two dogs in her care are not hers; perhaps her mothers? Ah yes, the tired eyes, how she checks her phone, the unconscious way she rubs the bracelet she owns. It's too expensive for her to have bought it for herself, a gift then. The style says bought by a female, there are scratches on the clasp of the chain indicating a previous, right handed owner – the lady here is obviously left handed, as is her partner going by the bite marks on the left side of this woman's neck (her lover would hold her neck with her left hand, leaving the left side of the woman's neck exposed), her mother then. Creases on the woman's skirt say hospital chairs, so it's not looking good…

Movement to the right of Sherlock's vision snaps him out of his revere with blustered eyes; another person has entered the bank. Slightly annoyed at being broken from his train of thought, he reluctantly surveys the newest addition to the bank crowd.

Oh, but yes. He certainly fit the description.

Twenty to twenty five year old man, on leave from the army due to his mother's nervous breakdown and his sister's incapability to look after her due to drink problems.

This was interesting. The man in question took up position in the queue Sherlock was but meters from, his intelligent kind eyes darting around the room with quick precision. Fascinated, Sherlock leaned up and rested his elbows onto his knees, clasping his slim hands in the prayer position and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Was this man capable of robbing from this bank?

Most certainly.

But the real question was; was he about to?

The blue eyed man tilted his head and caught Sherlock's eyes over his shoulder, a faint tinge of pink colouring his cheeks. Testing the waters, Sherlock winked, and raised the corner of his mouth into a cheeky half smirk. The reaction he gained was completely unprecedented; the man looked away in embarrassment? and began to fiddle almost coyishly with his sleeves.

What sort of a bank robber got embarrassed?

Sherlock growled, frustrated momentarily, and looked over the man's body. There was neither tell-tale bump of a gun along the man's muscular frame, nor the nervous twitch of a man whom was about to risk everything in order to raid the tills of an unsuspecting bank.

Scowling, he slumped back; his interest in the man thoroughly quenched.

But…

The gunshot behind him was deafeningly loud – it's echo like an explosion in Sherlock's ears.

He'd been to intend on the blue eyed man; the bank robbers must have come in through the back.

Now he was in trouble.