Doctor Wells crouched down over the prone figure on the floor. The grey-headed man was bleeding from a scalp wound and appeared to be unconscious. He looked up at Maryanne. "Who is this? What happened here?"
"You don't need to know," she replied absently. She was busy watching Mycroft's progress on CCTV. "Just make sure he isn't going to die on me. Not yet." She might need him as leverage to get Mycroft to behave.
Wells didn't like Maryanne. He didn't think she was stable. Something about this was off. He hadn't been put on standby. There were no active covert operations involving the woman. The whole situation was highly suspicious.
Upon examining the man on the floor, he found no reason for him to be unconscious. Looking around, he noticed that neither the guard nor Maryanne were paying him any attention. He bent forward and whispered into the man's ear. "I will try to get you help."
The man opened his eyes. They were perfectly clear and unclouded by concussion. He nodded minutely, then closed his eyes.
Well stood. "He is in no danger. He doesn't have concussion and there is no sign of internal bleeding."
Maryanne waved an acknowledgement.
At that, the doctor headed for the door, hoping he would be allowed to leave. Unfortunately, he was stopped by the guard.
"What's this," Wells complained. "I have work to return to."
"Mm, no," Maryanne said absently. "I don't think so. You'll be staying with us until this is over. Make yourself comfortable and keep quiet."
Wells' heart sank. This couldn't be good. Maryanne had obviously bent under the pressure. He just hoped someone found them before it was too late.
Mycroft made his way down the street towards the designated rendezvous site very much aware that his every move was being watched on CCTV. Outwardly, he appeared calm. Inwardly, he was quite worried. Not for himself, but for Greg. He knew if he did anything wrong, the DI would pay the price, so he was behaving very carefully.
It was difficult not to look up, but the government official managed it. He knew John and Sherlock were following him. By his deductions, they would have taken to the rooftops along this section of his route.
Up ahead, Mycroft saw the waiting sedan. It looked much like one of his own. Before long, he approached it. The driver held the door for him without saying a word. Without a backward glance, he got in. The sound of the door closing sounded ominous. Checking it, he found it was locked, not that he had expected otherwise. He sat back in his seat and tried to relax as he began to memorise the route they took to their destination. It might prove useful.
John and Sherlock clambered to the street and flagged down the next taxi to come by, the detective urging the cabbie to, "follow that car". The cabbie laughed, but did as requested. He started talking about how it was just like in the movies and how he had always wanted something like this to happen. He kept on talking until Sherlock shot him a scathing, "Oh, do shut up."
They kept falling further and further behind, both the doctor and the detective straining to keep an eye on Mycroft's sedan. "Can't you go any faster?" John asked before Sherlock got the chance. "We're going to lose him."
At the next traffic light, they both got out and started pursuit on foot. They were able to keep up reasonably well for several blocks, but then the sedan increased speed and sped away.
John swore, arms swinging as he came to a stop. Sherlock spun in place, angry and frustrated. "This is not over yet," the detective swore. "This is not over. Think!" He grasped his curls and pulled. "Think! Think!"
Sherlock paced the pathway, oblivious to the passersby. His sense of urgency was obvious. It was only a few minutes later that he stopped, a small 'oh' upon his lips as an epiphany hit him. "His umbrella, John. He took it with him!"