Title: Burning Rubber
Author: Jessie Blackwood
Pairing: Mycroft/Lestrade
Fandoms: Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Note: For Paia_Loves_Pie.
This is my contribution to the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction raising money for the Trussell Trust. Won by Paia_Loves_Pie. she gave me several prompts, among which was this one. Greg is an excellent driver, which Mycroft learns. I think bonus points were on offer for Greg in a leather jacket. This is far longer than intended, but that's my bad (or good, if you enjoy it) and I also think it begs another chapter too...
Bernard Woolley (Principal Private Secretary - Mycroft's role in this story): It used to be said there were two kinds of chairs to go with two kinds of Minister: one sort folds up instantly; the other sort goes round and round in circles.
Summary: Greg is asked by a friend to help with a driver training course for MI5 personnel. Mycroft has been sent for driving skills assessment. Is this the beginning of a beautiful friendship?

***

"You have done what?" Mycroft regarded his assistant over the rims of his half-glasses and frowned. She glanced across at him, put the last file away in the drawer and slid it shut.

"Booked you in for your evaluations, sir, as we discussed a few days ago. Some of your reviews are overdue. An oversight because of your extended stay in Japan.…"

"Yes, I understand that, but which ones did you just mention?"

Anthea fixed him with a vaguely exasperated look. "You already have your medical and psyche evaluations, so all that is required now are your firearms, self defence and driving…"

"That is what I thought you said. Driving? Since when have I needed driver assessment?"

"Since six months ago, sir. Came down from Langdale. They want to know that all employees can use defensive driving techniques when under threat."

"You may not have noticed, but I do not drive," Mycroft said with frosty sarcasm. Anthea didn't even bat an eyelid.

"Of course not, sir," she replied, matter-of-factly. "However, you are licensed to drive, and in the event of your driver being...incapacitated, the suggestion is that it would be appropriate for you to be able to take the wheel…"

"Take the wheel?" Mycroft said slowly. "Exactly how is one supposed to take the wheel if one is in the back seat, separated by a privacy screen, not to mention being under fire?"

"I'm sure Langdale has good intentions, sir."

"The road to Hell is paved with plenty of those," Mycroft replied.

"I believe in this case it is to comply with company insurance requirements, sir."

"Company insurance?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "How tedious."

"I think it ticks all the boxes for Human Resources, sir," Anthea offered.

"God bless HR," Mycroft murmured, his voice dry as Sahara sand, "because nobody else will." He sighed. "Very well. We must appease the Gods of Personnel, I suppose. When am I to attend?"

0000000

"Luke? What's up now, you tosser?" Greg chuckled into his phone. His old mate from Hendon, Luke Palmer, made a habit of never calling him unless he wanted something. Palmer had quit the force two decades ago, entering the murky world of personal security and close protection work. Now he ran his own business, offering accredited training in those same techniques, and providing competency assessment for insurance purposes. Occasionally, he called on Greg's services on a freelance basis.

"Greg, you wound me," Luke replied, dramatically. "Calling to see if you're okay, you sad bastard. I was going to suggest a catch up, go get a bevy sometime, you know?"

"Bollocks, mate," Greg replied inelegantly, but without rancor. "You know I'm more than happy for a pint any time, but I know you too Bloody well, so come on, spill. What do you really want?"

Luke sighed the sigh of the put-upon. "I've been stood up," he said.

"Well, a pint is one thing, but don't expect me to go on a date with you," Greg shot back. "You're not my type, and anyway, I didn't think you were that way inclined."

"Fuck off, you wanker," Luke said, choking with laughter. "I meant one of my trainers has backed out on me. I'm short an assessor. Then I remembered you had your A1 Assessors' Award. Joe and I can cover the first few days next week, but we'll struggle with the rest. So, are you busy?"

"Just wrapped a case last week, handed it to CPS on Friday. Attending court on Tuesday, but beyond that, I'm free for the foreseeable. I don't doubt I can use up some of my vast lieu time."

"Great.."

"So, which course?"

"Defensive driving. Right up your street, old son. I've got a group booked in from Thames House…"

"MI5? You training spooks now?"

"Not exactly," Luke said. "They're not actually active field operatives, but they're still on the books. Some are higher up the pecking order, but there's a few in IT and support services. They might not be putting themselves in harm's way, but there's still potential for them to be a target, so on the off-chance that the shit hits the fan, the powers that be want to know that their personnel are still capable of taking the wheel and getting themselves out of trouble, or at least to make the attempt."

"I'm presuming they can actually drive."

"Yeah, yeah, but my problem is there's only one of them booked for defensive driving, and none of my other assessors are qualified in it. They're all firearms and self defence. The course is two days for each attendee, certificated."

"Special snowflakes, are they?"

"I think they just want them processed for insurance' sake to be honest. They've only just added the driving part on to these guys' yearly assessments."

"Okay, gimme the details, I'll see what I can do. Usual rates?"

"Seriously, if you can dig me out of this, you can ask for whatever you want? "

"Don't tempt me," Greg said. "Get me a good bottle of single malt, and make sure it's well past its silver anniversary."

"Done. I'll email you the details. I owe you one, Greg. Thanks."

0000000

"Is this it?" Mycroft's car had arrived outside a large warehouse on the outskirts of London.

"Yes, sir." Anthea was busy tap-tapping a reply to an email on her phone. She glanced up and frowned. "Doesn't look much, I have to agree."

The Chauffeur opened the door and Mycroft stepped out, surveying the anonymous building in front of him. Palmer & Partners Training Company was stencilled in a plain frosted font across the glass window beyond the concrete forecourt. There were vertical blinds obscuring the windows, making the place look like some anonymous facility that could be training anything from typists to assassins.

"There's no need for you to accompany me, my dear," Mycroft said. "This is, after all, going to take all day."

"Tomorrow as well," she said. "I'll be in touch. The paperwork stated they provide refreshments but if things don't come up to standard, text me and I shall come to your rescue. If I don't hear from you, the car will be here at six. Unless you text me any earlier, of course."

Mycroft smiled in spite of himself. "Thank you, my dear. I appreciate your care of me. Now go. Perhaps you could give the Home Secretary a hard time in my absence."

"I wouldn't dare," she said, her lips quirking in a small smile. "You must have something to look forward to."

0000000

Greg paused as he reached for his raincoat. Not today. He lifted his leather jacket off its hanger and shrugged it on. Although he wanted to project a professional image, he also did not want to appear too formal. Underneath he wore a plain back shirt and his black chinos. He did not want suit and tie for this. The address on the outskirts of London was very low-key. Luke kept things simple, at least on the outside. Most people had no idea what went on behind the cream vertical blinds and the plain grey exterior paint of the large building on the edge of an industrial estate situated on an old airfield.

If the place looked plain on the outside, then the inside was the polar opposite. The reception area was the epitome of comfortable corporate elegance, the muted pastel walls neutral and relaxing, peppered here and there with professional photographs of happily smiling staff and their accompanying certificates of excellence. A display cabinet sported a small collection of business awards, interspersed here and there with a few competition medals for advanced driving, archery, and various firearms competitions. Jurgen, one of the firearms instructors, had been a successful Biathlon competitor in his youth. Luke himself was a red belt in Karate, a 9th Dan. All of his team carried impressive qualifications, and Greg often found himself feeling slightly inadequate, despite having reached the exalted rank of DCI.

To the right of the entrance, plush leather sofas and armchairs occupied an open plan area, and nearby, a self-service drinks dispenser offered high-end barista-style beverages, both hot and chilled. Newspapers and magazines scattered around on small tables were a calculated mix designed to appeal to a wide variety of people. Luke had once told Greg that he liked to observe which rags his clients chose to read, just to get a measure of them.

A large reception desk occupied the space immediately to the left of the door, the domain of a small, immaculately-dressed Jamaican lady with dark hair piled high on her head. She smiled on seeing Greg and came out from behind the desk.

"Good morning, Chief Inspector," Farria Fernley said warmly, closing the distance between them for a brief hug. Greg was happy to oblige. "Long time, no see, my dear," she said. "How are you today?"

"Never better, darlin'," Greg replied, equally warm. "How's yourself? Still wowing them with your tango?"

She chuckled, and released him, returning to her post. "Cheeky," she said, but fondly. "Afraid I've not been dancing much lately. I lost my partner to a flamenco dancer from Seville last year."

"That was careless," Greg joked. "Can't imagine why any partner of yours would want to go off and dance with anyone else. Crying shame. Some folks don't appreciate what they've got."

"Oh, it wasn't much of a loss. He had two left feet anyway," she said brightly. Greg grinned with her. Her humour was infectious. Farria was a petite 40-something, but what she lacked in inches, she made up for in attitude. Fiercely loyal, she had been Luke's PA for over a decade and what she didn't know about the business wasn't worth knowing. She also looked after both staff and attendees alike with motherly care and a caustic wit.

"So, is Luke in yet?" Greg asked.

"Half an hour ago. He asked you to meet him in the yard. When you've settled in and had a coffee, of course. You help yourself now, you know where things are."

Greg nodded. "Unless you've redecorated since I was last here."

"No chance of that," she said, rolling her eyes. "Don't forget to sign in for me," she added, spinning the sign-in book toward him and offering a pen. She also handed over a locker key as he wrote the date, his name, his car registration number and his time of arrival. "The new lockers are to the left inside the staffroom. Lunch will be served in conference room three at one. That's the one upstairs, on the left."

"Thanks, Farria. You're a star." Greg made his way across the plush carpet and down the corridor to the right of where the reception desk was situated.

The staff facilities were also comfortable and spacious. There were lockers, a kitchenette, and a relaxing area to sit and eat, with a similar drinks dispenser. Just as Greg was investigating the locker Ferria had assigned to him, the door opened and Luke appeared.

"There you are. Thanks for coming, Greg. I owe you one," he said, extending a hand to shake.

"S'okay, Luke, no big deal. Not like I was up to anything important this week. Besides, it's good to brush up on my skills occasionally."

"Yeah, well, it's appreciated. So, there's plenty of time. Clients won't be arriving until ten thirty, then we have induction for the first half hour or so. Should be an easy couple of days, you'll only have the one guy with you both days." Luke paused, thoughtfully. "Greg?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, try to pass the guy, won't you? I mean, unless he's a total utter tit, in which case…"

"Yeah, I know. Don't worry. What is it? Pressure from on high?"

"Something like that. It's just...reputation, you know.

Work your magic for me?"

"I'll do my best, Luke. Stop worrying. By the time I'm finished with him, he'll be giving 007 a run for his money." Luke's business ran on recommendation and repeat work from big clients. He wasn't well known or important enough to be able to completely call the shots just yet. He couldn't afford to turn away work or likewise fail anyone too important. Greg smiled his most reassuring smile. "Don't fret, I'll get him through."

"Yeah, but I know you. You're a copper. If the guy's a complete menace, you won't allow him on the road..."

Greg allowed his smile to develop into a wider grin. "Let's hope he's not a complete menace then."

0000000

The petite woman who greeted him reminded him of Anthea in her own way. Her grandparents had most likely been Windrush Generation, he considered, given her obvious heritage. Neatly put together and assertive, Ms Fernley, PA to the Senior Partner, directed him to the coffee maker and the seats and asked him to please fill in the forms she was about to give him as comprehensively as possible. He made himself an Earl Grey (he was quietly impressed at the choice of drinks), then sat down and proceeded to dot the i's and cross the t's on the forms as efficiently as possible.

While he was doing so, a large and somewhat loud man entered the room, elbowing his way through the door. He was burdened with an overstuffed briefcase, and juggled his phone in his left hand, into which he proceeded to give instructions to the hapless assistant on the other end. Mycroft immediately disliked him.

A youngish woman arrived just as the man was being directed to the seats and the drinks and given his own set of forms. She was tall, willowy, and blond, a foil for the small dark-haired Ms Fernley. She walked into the room and Mycroft's first impression was of a confidence contrary to her years. This one had obviously attended private school, had parents who were well off, and she, herself, was well paid, in the job no longer than perhaps three years...Home counties, by the look and the accent. She got herself a coffee, found herself a seat and crossed elegant legs, took out her phone and began to text, madly, ignoring for the moment the forms she had been handed.

Two young men half his age arrived ten minutes later, accompanied by a young woman with a mass of flame-red hair, tight curls capping her head above a set of green eyes and a grin. The young men were loud and over-enthusiastic, as young men often seemed to be around young women, and Ms Fearnley waited patiently for them to pay attention before she handed over the forms. They got the same instructions that she had given to Mycroft, and pointed toward drinks and seats.

"Jesus, love," one of the young men said. "What's this, War and Bloody Peace?"

"Consent forms, medical disclosure, Health and Safety Procedures, course details and we require your contact information so we can send out your certificate. Black biro, block capitals please. If those forms are not completed, or illegible," she added, "I'm afraid you won't be allowed to attend the course, m'dear. If there is anything that is unclear to you, or anything you find difficulty in answering, do please come and talk to me about it."

On the stroke of ten thirty, having collected their forms, Ms Fearnley rose from behind her desk. "Ladies and Gentlemen," she said politely, "if you would follow me." She lead them upstairs to a conference room and opened the door. "Do go in and take a seat. Your instructors will be with you shortly. Pen and paper for notes are provided. Lunch will be served in the room across from this one at precisely 1.30pm. Do enjoy your morning." Scattered thankyous followed her out. Mycroft hung back a little, letting the others position themselves first, and then took a seat on the side near the door and toward the back, slightly apart from the rest. He allowed the younger ones to sit forward of him. It was a few more minutes, during which time the young men tried to impress the young women again—unsuccessfully as it happened—before the door opened and their instructors filed in.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Luke Palmer and I am Senior Partner at this assessment center, so welcome, it's nice to see you all this morning." Ex-police, Mycroft thought, forty-something, ambitious, likes being his own boss rather than taking orders. "So, let's get on. These lovely people behind me are your instructors and assessors for these next two days." Palmer went on to introduce the five people standing behind him. There were two women in their mid-thirties, two men in their forties, from a variety of backgrounds—ex-army, RAF, and security services—Mycroft tuned out a little. He was not particularly interested in their instructors' backstories and experience. After all, they had been passed to assess his abilities, and beyond that he rather felt as though he didn't need to know any more.

"And this is Greg Lestrade," Luke Palmer was saying. Mycroft's head snapped up.. "Inadvisable to piss him off, he's a DCI with the Met in London," Luke was saying jokily. "If you mess up, he might just arrest you." There was a scatter of laughter from the others in the group.

"He can arrest me any time," Mycroft heard the red-haired woman beside him murmur to the blond girl nearby. They had naturally gravitated toward each other, as women do. Safety in numbers, Mycroft considered. Ridiculous that it should still be needed these days…

Greg was looking mildly embarrassed at the introduction, but he smiled good-naturedly, his whole face lighting up with it. Mycroft's breath failed him. "Greg is a fully-qualified assessor, trained in advanced driving techniques and defensive driving." Mycroft blinked. Greg was looking back at him a little strangely. "I think...yes, Mr Holmes," Luke said. On hearing his name, Mycroft glanced at Luke. "You're the only one who is with us for driver assessment, so you'll be with Greg for the duration. So, ladies and gents, the next two days will follow a fairly tight schedule as we have a lot to pack in," Luke continued. "We're going to go through basic health and safety, fire drills, exits, that kind of thing for the next half hour, then we'll break for a drink, and then your instructors will take over. They will go over what we expect of you over the next 48 hours. We'll be running until five tonight, and we'll reconvene here at 9am tomorrow. Right then, here we go…" Luke grabbed a small remote and thumbed a button. A screen came to life behind him, projecting the building plan. "Okay then, here's what we do if our fire alarms go off…"

Mycroft managed to avoid Greg during their drinks, making out he was on the phone, but after that, they were paired off with their assessors anyway and there was no more avoiding the inevitable. Greg was leaning on the doorframe, and Mycroft got a good clear look at the man. Dark trousers, black shirt, dark leather jacket...Mycroft's heart rate increased. He took a deep breath. He cleared his throat. He raised his eyes to see dark brown ones staring back.

"Mr Holmes, nice to see you again."

"I...this is...unexpected, I have to say." Mycroft snapped his mouth shut. Stuttering? Really? He needed to get a grip. "I was not aware you moonlighted as an assessor."

"Hey, it's not moonlighting. I'm a properly qualified and security-cleared staff member. This is freelance work, and I have approval from my bosses. There's no cover up here, I'm legitimately on the books, and I pay my taxes."

"My apologies," Mycroft said hastily. "I had no intent to offend you."

"No offence taken," Greg replied genially. "I'm filling in really. Luke's lost a team member and he asked me to step in because apparently, nobody else has driver training on their resume."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is. So, shall we get on?"

0000000

"So, defensive driving..." Greg began. "Mr Holmes…"

"Mycroft," Mycroft interrupted.

"Mycroft," Greg repeated. "Exactly how much do you know about evasive driving techniques?"

"I have been properly trained in such techniques during the course of my career. I do not, however, get to exercise them very often."

"Which on balance is probably not such a bad thing," Greg said. "Okay then, perhaps we should go over the plan for the next two days first. We'll be going over the do's and don't to begin with. If I tell you something you already know, indulge me, please?"

"I shall attempt to do so."

"Thank you. Helps me so I don't miss anything out. So…" Greg launched off into what he was going to teach. Mycroft did his best to listen, filing it all away. It was obvious the man knew his subject, intimately. He also had a passion for it, going by the enthusiasm. "We'll cover things like route selection and journey planning," Greg explained. "I know you're not necessarily driving yourself these days, but knowing the route and the alternatives is always good sense. I'll talk a bit about contingency planning. It's always good to have a back-up plan. Then we'll go over evasive driving techniques, off-road driving, and hazard identification. I'll go through rapid speed reduction techniques as well…" He paused. "I'm sure you're familiar with embus and debus procedures?"

"Getting out of and into a vehicle when escorted by one's close protection officers? Yes, of course."

"Good, but I'll still go over it again, as it is part of the course. I know you're more likely to be the Principal than the person responsible for a Principal, but nevertheless…"

"It's part of the course," Mycroft parrotted.

"Yeah, it is. Right then, journey planning..."

Forty five minutes came and went, and Greg looked at his watch.

"There's a few minutes until lunch, but after that, we're going out back onto the driving track." Greg stood and stretched. "Come on, let's head upstairs to conference room three." He held the door for Mycroft to pass through. "So what vehicles are you familiar with, Mycroft?" he asked as they made their way to the designated room.

"A few. I own a DB5…"

"You...own...a DB5? An honest-to-goodness 007 DB5?" Mycroft nodded. "Wow…" The response was awed. Clearly the man loved cars. Something we have in common? "Perhaps you would like to come and see it sometime…?" Oh, God, could I have sounded more cliched? Come up and see my etchings, Detective Inspector… Mycroft had to remind himself that Greg Lestrade was now Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. Somehow it did not make things better.

"That would be wonderful. Love the DB10 myself," Greg confessed. "Those Bond cars just keep getting better."

"I have one of those too." The words were out of Mycroft's mouth before he could stop himself. Damn the man…

"Seriously? Wow...I mean, wow…"

"I would be prepared to let you have a drive, if you would find that of interest?"

"Would I? Thank you. I'd love to." Greg grinned again, something of a habit of his, and then mock-frowned. "I hope you're not trying to bribe me, Mr Holmes?" he said, one eyebrow rising.

"Perish the thought," Mycroft said, rising to the bait. "If I wanted to bribe you, I am sure I could think of better offerings than a stint behind the wheel of a DB10."

"Like what? I'm not sure I could think of anything better."

"Oh, I don't know...a visit to their factory perhaps? An experience day on performance cars…"

"You'd best be careful, Mr Holmes, or you'll be on dangerous ground. I should warn you, I don't take bribes."

"Then perhaps my invitation should wait until after you have...assessed me?" Christ, now it sounds as if I am flirting with him...

"Perhaps. Seriously, though, Mycroft, I would love to see your cars."

"Then it will be arranged, no matter the outcome of today. After all, I am sure the result of this...course, should it be unfavourable, will not impact upon my usefulness at work, nor will it prevent me from undertaking my duties…"

"Joking aside," Greg said seriously, "you will pass this course. That's what I'm here for. I've never failed any of my students, because I teach them properly. So...let's eat, relax, and then this afternoon we'll find a car, I'll drive a circuit first, then let you have a feel for the vehicle." He opened the door on conference room three to find a generous buffet laid out, complete with drinks and place settings around the oval table. "I plan to take you through some driving techniques this afternoon, refresh your memory, then tomorrow, we'll play out scenarios and you can respond to them behind the wheel. All the cars we'll be using are dual control, like in any driver training, so don't feel intimidated. I'll be there all the time, and I will override things if I think you're doing something that wouldn't get you through the assessment. Okay with that?"

"Perfectly," Mycroft said.

"Good. Let's eat."

0000000

"Oh, you beauties," Greg murmured on seeing the gleaming cars sitting on the tarmac out back. There was a good selection, which meant different handling techniques. More experience for his student.

Mycroft surveyed the cars critically. He recognised the Mercedes S600 Pullman State limousine as being the model he was used to being ferried about in on a regular basis. Mycroft knew why it was there. It was able to withstand both bullets and explosives and the interior had the enviable ability to function as a bunker if necessary. Surprisingly a Rolls Royce Phantom VI limousine sat beside it, looking perhaps less sleek and more traditionally British. There was also a Range Rover, an Audi A8 (the L Security version), a Bentley Mulsanne, two BMWs—the E39 M5 and a 760Li High Security—and a heavily armoured thing with rugged tires and a jeep-like appearance that bore more than its fair share of military influence in the design department.

"That is the Conquest Knight XV," Greg said, observing where Mycroft's gaze was aimed. "Six tons of armoured luxury and it sounds like something from a superhero comic. I know it's a bit OTT but we teach people how to drive everything here. These are only a few of the fleet." He gestured across the large tarmaced yard to low buildings along one side. "He's got a few others in there. These will do for the purposes of this assessment as they're all dual control. I want you to drive all of them."

"It seems a lot of investment for mere training."

"Yeah, well, he has more that he hires out to close protection teams in the UK as well. Liam, he's the guy I'm standing in for today, is the driver on the team. Most of the guys and gals here are also close protection officers, bouncers, self defence instructors with their own careers. They do this part-time, like I do."

"So where do we begin?"

"Well, pick any one you want."

"Would you...care to choose? You did say you would give me a demonstration of driving first?"

"Yeah, I did, didn't I? So...the Audi or the 760," Greg replied.

"Choices, choices," Mycroft murmured.

"Come on, 007, let me show you something." Greg headed for the Bimmer and opened the door for his passenger.

"What on earth could you have in mind?" Christ, my mouth is not in connection with my brain…Mycroft silently despaired. That could not be mistaken for anything other than flirting. What will he think of me?

Greg paused and glanced across the roof of the Bimmer, then he grinned, handsome features alight with it. "Oh," he said casually, "I could show you a thing or two…Get in?"

Is he...flirting with me? Sadly, Mycroft knew he was out of his depth. He was inexperienced in that department. He got in with a sigh. He really had to take more care with what he allowed his tongue to utter, or he would be in deep water. He had no idea if the Inspector actually liked men.

"This thing," Greg said when they were seated inside, "does not have armour added to it…"

"It isn't armoured?"

"Not what I said," Greg replied. "This car was built to be armoured. It isn't a modification or an afterthought. This is an armoured car."

"I see." Mycroft watched as Greg ran a reverent hand over the dash, fingers stroking gently. Is the man doing it deliberately?

"Equipped with an assault alarm, there's a fire extinguisher, and a closed vent system which protects against gas attack. Pumps clean air into the vehicle. Optional compartment to store two machine guns…" He grinned, pressed a switch and the vehicle purred into life. "It doesn't roar. It's more sophisticated. Seatbelt on?"

"Yes."

"Good. Hang on to your hat. Gonna give you the ride of your life." That garnered a raised eyebrow from his passenger. Definitely doing this deliberately. With that, Greg floored the accelerator.

This feels, Mycroft thought, like being on a jet on take off. The g-force was pressing him back into his seat. "Nought to sixty in a bit under six seconds," Greg said, taking a corner of the course at nearly ninety mph. The car handled superbly, and Mycroft found himself watching Greg and not the road ahead. Large capable hands secure on the wheel, Greg's attention was focused completely on driving. His eyes were never still, gaze flicking from the windscreen ahead to momentarily glance into each mirror, assessing constantly for threat or hazard-fore, aft, port and starboard. There was a gleeful light in them though. The man was enjoying himself.Oh, to have even half that focus trained on me, Mycroft considered.

The large training building had hidden a huge tarmac driving range behind it, on what looked like part of a disused airfield. Mycroft was flung sideways as Greg took the car rapidly around some bollards and hit the brakes. They screeched to a halt, inches from some straw bales. Belatedly, Mycroft grabbed the overhead handle to steady himself as Greg threw the car into reverse, simultaneously wrenching the wheel around so the car slewed around to face in the opposite direction, a complete 180 degree turn. He immediately floored the accelerator again and the car surged forward. He took them in a circle, then aimed the car at a series of bollards in a straight line up the course. The car slewed around the bollards, Greg turning the wheel with the unruffled ease of long practice, missing every one of the bollards as he did so. As Greg brought the car out of the other end of the obstacle course and brought it to an abrupt stop again, tires protesting, Mycroft remembered to breath. A heartbeat later, they were reversing around a corner and into a box marked out by cones. Stopping within inches of the back, Greg threw it immediately into forward gear again and accelerated away.

When they hit the skid pan, Mycroft let out an undignified squeak as the car spun out of control, but Greg removed his foot from the gas pedal, and turned the wheel the opposite way, bringing the vehicle under control again in a textbook recovery. He drove away more sedately, mouth in the thin controlled line of a man trying not to laugh.

"Very well, Gregory, I will allow your jest at my expense," Mycroft said, exasperated.

"Sorry, Mycroft," Greg said, trying to sound contrite. "But you did ask for a demo."

"So it is my fault that you nearly killed us both?"

"Hey, my driving is very safe. You're still alive, aren't you?"

"Barely."

"Liar. You enjoyed it."

A short silence followed. "Oh, very well… You handled the car superbly well…"

"And so will you after today."

"What?"

"Now it's your turn…"

0000000

When Anthea arrived to pick up her boss at five precisely, he seemed to be somewhat preoccupied.

"Did it go well, sir?"

"What? Oh, tolerably," Mycroft replied, thoughtfully. He had thoroughly enjoyed his day, as it happened.

"How was your instructor?"

"Adequate," Mycroft replied, still thoughtful. Gregory had been diligent in passing along his wisdom, taking Mycroft through those maneuvers he already knew, offering insight and improvement, then teaching him new moves, patient and plain in his explanations, encouraging as Mycroft put those new skills to the test.

"And the food?"

"The offerings were acceptable," he said, like a king assessing his tribute.

"You didn't text, so I figured it was at least adequate for your nutritional intake," Anthea suggested.

"It was, yes…" Mycroft reflected that he had spent almost the whole time watching the inspector eat, and interact with everyone around him in a genial relaxed manner that Mycroft found himself envious of. It came naturally to someone like Greg Lestrade. He was gregarious and funny, quick witted and...easy on the eyes. Very easy on the eyes. While Mycroft had no trouble with conversation, comfortable geniality had always evaded him. While he could chat amicably about politics, art, and music, he was stymied concerning sport, or beers, or popular culture. Mycroft loved old black and white movies, old-fashioned romance, elegance and style. Greg, it seemed, loved football, beer, pubs, punk rock, and musicals…and was a very good driver... He had also managed to get on well with the women in the group, instructors and clients alike… Jealousy flared...but then, I have him to myself tomorrow, Mycroft thought.

Anthea took a good long look at her employer. He seemed distracted. Shrugging, she went back to her phone. No need to disrupt his thought processes...yet. She needed to discuss the outcome of her discussion with the Home Secretary, but it could wait, a little.

0000000

"Morning, Mycroft," Greg said when he arrived at the building the next day. It was 8am and he was tired, but not overly so. They had covered quite a lot the day before, and today would perhaps not take as long as he had initially thought.

"Good morning, Gregory. I brought pastries, and I arrived a little early, so we could enjoy them."

"Oh, wow, thanks. You take care now, or people will really think you're trying to bribe me…"

"Perish the thought, Gregory. I believe I said that yesterday."

"You did. We'll just have to make sure nobody finds out."

"What about Ms Fearnley?"

"Oh, Ferria's fine, aren't you? She won't tell anyone."

"That depends," Ferria said slyly.

"On what?" Greg asked.

"On whether Mr Holmes brought enough pastries for three?"

000000

Greg got behind the wheel and the ignition came immediately to life. A few of the cars were equipped with keyless ignition, but not all. "What's your stopping distance at 90 mph?"

"That rather depends."

"on what?" Greg asked. "Seatbelt on?"

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed, "and to answer your question, one of the deciding factors is the driver reaction time."

"Which is?"

"Anywhere between 0.67 of a second and 1.5 seconds."

"Anything else affect the distance?"

"Of course; road surface, weather conditions, the condition of the vehicle's brakes and tires. The friction coefficient can decrease significantly if tires are less than new."

"Have you been reading up on this?" That garnered him a look. "Okay, so what would your standard stopping distance be at 90mph then? In general. Given optimum brakes and tires, road surface, weather conditions, and a modicum of driver alertness?"

Mycroft suppressed a smile. "810 feet, or 270 yards, or 247 meters, equivalent to the length of 26 London buses. Always supposing that one does not employ rapid deceleration techniques that we discussed yesterday."

Greg blinked, and shook his head. He was dealing with a Holmes, after all. Perhaps he shouldn't have expected any less. "Right, this is going to get a little...rough…" Greg accelerated away with a screech of tires. "Skid pan time," he said, and drove them over to it. They spent the next half hour attempting to drive out of a skid. When Mycroft managed it, Greg cheered. Mycroft blushed faintly at his achievement, and hoped Greg did not notice.

0000000

"Okay, let's do a timed lap," Greg suggested. They were at the end of the afternoon, and there was not much left to do. "Up the drive there, around the bend, like I showed you, come to a halt. Reverse, turn one eighty, accelerate away. Turn to the right, stop, reverse into the box, accelerate away to the left, through the bollards, and stop at the line. Two seconds added for every cone knocked over, and every bollard hit. Okay?"

"You first," Mycroft said.

"Okay. Shall we get someone to time us?"

"Ferria, if she's free. She seems impartial…"

"Okay, boys, ready when you are." Ferria had jumped at the chance to time them. Greg accelerated away, leaving smoke in his wake. When he hit the line, Ferria whooped and waved the stopwatch at him, running over to show them. "1.406," she announced. "Personal best, if memory serves."

"Damn it, Liam managed it in 1.385…"

"My turn I believe," Mycroft said smoothly.

The car accelerated away smoothly, and Mycroft was focused on the task in hand. Greg said nothing, gave no critique or instruction, just let him get on with it. They screeched to a halt with no faults, no bollards clipped, or cones knocked over…

"Oh, well done, Mycroft," Ferria crowed, showing him the result.

"1.384?" Greg said. "Bloody Hell, Myc. You are point zero zero one faster than Liam, and he's an ex-rally driver…" Mycroft tried not to preen.

"That goes on our wall of fame," Ferria said.

"Wall of fame?"

"Yeah, you know," Greg said. "Like Top Gear…"

"I am not familiar…"

"Top Gear, the car show on tv. You know…?"

"No, I do not. I have never seen it."

"What, never? Surely you know the one, with Clarkson, Hammond and May?"

"Sounds like a firm of solicitors…"

Greg laughed. "Couldn't be further from the truth… No, it's a tele program. It's...never mind, it's about cars, okay? They have a competition for celebs to drive an ordinary family saloon around the airfield they're filming near, as fast as they can, and they record the distances."

"I see, and you have a similar leaderboard? Is this part of the course then?"

"Nope, just fun. You completed the course ages ago…"

"I did?"

"Yes, but honestly, too good a chance to miss. I get the feeling you don't ordinarily do things for fun, do you?"

"Not much, no."

"Was this fun?"

"I'm not certain I would use that classification, but...yes, it was...for want of a better descriptor, fun, as you put it. Besides, I won."

Greg smiled. "Well, far as I'm concerned, you passed. With flying colours, I might add. I am now confident of your abilities. Your knowledge is good, and your technique is excellent. So...well done, mate. You passed."

"Thank you, Gregory...So this is it, then? We're done?"

"Yes, we are. You can go home. You won't need to renew this for a few years."

"That is...good, I suppose. Right, well...home…"

Greg caught up with Mycroft as he was donning his coat. Greg was wearing his leather jacket again, ready to go.

"I wonder…" Mycroft began.

"Sir?" Anthea appeared by the door. "Emergency meeting, sir. Sorry to hurry you. Brexit," she said succinctly.

"Yes, thank you, Anthea. A moment…" He turned back to Greg, held out a hand to shake. "Thank you too, Chief Inspector. It has been most...illuminating."

"Yeah. Honestly, I've enjoyed it. You were a very quick study, but you knew all this already. Just needed polishing up a bit, making sure you were up to speed on all the salient points in the instruction manual. Brush up your skills a bit. That was all."

"Yes, thank you. I…" Mycroft found himself under scrutiny from those eyes again. Velvet brown, dark and inviting…He mentally shook himself. Get your act together, he berated himself internally. Acting like a moonstruck teenager will just not do.

"I wonder, are you free this weekend?"

"I'm free until Tuesday. I was only helping Luke out for these two days, otherwise I'm using up lieu time."

"Oh, well, in that case...would…would you care to come to mine this weekend? Meet the boys?" Mycroft asked hopefully.

"Boys?"

"Affectionate term for my cars. As well as the DB5 and DB10, I also have an Audi Q8, and a Jaguar XJ220. You are welcome to try them all."

"What, really? Wow. Of course, I accept…"

"Good. I'll send a car?"

"Where do you live, Mycroft? Am I going to need my passport? Overnight bag? What?"

"I live an hour out of London. No passport required, unless they've recently set up a border crossing into Guildford. Although...should you wish to stay...you would be very welcome."

"Oh, I couldn't impose…"

"Why not? I would be happy to have you as my guest. Look, bring a bag anyway. Make your choice on the day perhaps?"

"Okay, okay, I'll bring a bag, and possibly the aged whisky that my good mate Luke has promised me for bailing him out at such short notice. If he pays me before the weekend..."

"So, Friday then? After lunch? Let's say two?"

"Two it is. I'll be ready. Oh, hadn't you better take my number?"

"I..um...I already have it. Sherlock passed it on to me."

"Ah, he did, did he? Right then, I'll see you Friday."

Mycroft nodded, and moved away. Greg watched him get into his car and the door closed.

"Greg? You ready for off then?" Greg turned to say goodbye to Luke. When he turned back, the car had gone. He sighed, thinking about visiting the Holmes home, and his cars, at the weekend. Excitement stirred in his belly. This weekend. Visiting Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps not that unexpectedly, cars were the last thing on his mind...

***