sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 12:02ᴘᴍ
Mycroft was hosting the search at an old safehouse, one with ample space and utilities for his people to set up and go about their business.
Mycroft checked his watch, Sherlock should be here any minute. On schedule, a cab turned the corner closing the distance and pulled up to the curb beside him. Mycroft stepped aside as the door opened.
John was the first one out of the cab. They exchanged greetings. Next was a woman who Mycroft had to guess was the one who allegedly saw the killer's face. And finally Sherlock.
"Pay the man won't you?" Sherlock told him as he brushed by.
Mycroft rolled his eyes in annoyance. Nonetheless he pulled out his wallet, bent down and asked the driver, "How much?"
After dealing with the cabbie, Mycroft headed inside and was pleased to see that his people had already took the woman to see the sketch artist. He walked to where Sherlock and John sat, separate from the ones working.
"Hello." Mycroft greeted as he approached.
John gave a wave, Sherlock's eyes flickered up to acknowledge his presence.
"How long do you think it'll take?" John asked, addressing the sketch.
"An hour, maybe more, maybe less." Mycroft vaguely gestured to refreshments that were situated on a counter and a mini fridge. "Help yourself."
John shook his head. "Oh I'm alright, thank you."
Sherlock didn't bother commenting, and remained both silent and unmoving until they had an update from the sketch artist, thirty-five minutes later.
A woman came to retrieve Mycroft, they exchanged hushed words and his features drew tight before both of them walked away.
"Wonder what's that about…" John's voice drifted off. His attention snapped to Sherlock as the man stood up and walked over to the hallway Mycroft had gone down, glanced down it, then hastily followed. John stared blankly after him for a few seconds, then decided he should probably go after him in case he needed to attempt to reel him in so he wouldn't get in any more trouble.
John was able to see the Sherlock down the hall as he turned into a room. He jogged to catch up, then hesitantly gripped the handle and pushed open the door.
Inside was a one-way mirror looking into an interrogation room. Which piqued his interest, as this was supposed to be a safe house so why would they need an interrogation room? Ms Jones was sitting facing us, on the other side of the table was Mycroft. He was bent over the table, a hand jabbing at a piece of paper.
The speakers that carried sound between rooms were off as whatever Mycroft was talking about only reached them muffled. Moments passed, then Mycroft stood, brushed down his coat and left the room.
John nodded towards the door. "Aren't you going to ask him what's going on?"
"What a brilliant idea." Sherlock replied with a hint of sarcasm, already moving to leave. In the hallway, they weren't that far behind the elder Holmes. "Mycroft!" Sherlock called out, causing the brother to spin on his heels.
"Yes?" He replied, curt.
"What was that about?"
Mycroft fingered the paper he held in his hands, glanced at it, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "The woman you brought in. Our sketch artist recognized who she was drawing."
"Well that's good, right?" John prompted. The hope in him dwindled after seeing more than the usual gravitas in the man.
Sherlock ventured to ask, "Who was it?"
Mycroft met eyes with his brother. "It was you."