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"Anthea."
There was a warning tone in his voice - something she seldom heard, because it was very rare that she couldn't quickly and competently deal with the situation.
"I know, Sir," she said, fingers tapping on the tiny keyboard in front of her.
He moved, pulling the gold pocketwatch from his waistcoat yet again. "Fifteen minutes, Anthea, and I need to be sitting in that room, talking to the President."
"I know, Sir," she repeated. Then her phone vibrated in her hand and she smiled. "It won't be a problem."
He looked at her, eyes slightly narrowed. She smiled in return. The car didn't move.
"How exactly won't it be a problem, when we are here, static, in total gridlock, and there seems no prospect of us moving at any time soon?"
"I assure you, Sir, I have the situation in hand." It was almost a dare, seeing if he would question her, or trust her. He did the latter. The pocket watch was stowed away, but his fingers didn't stop drumming on the handle of the umbrella.
She kept a close watch on the time, and precisely six minutes later, just when she thought he was ready to crack and ask her again, there was a knock on the window.
"You need to hurry, Sir," she said, holding up his briefcase for him to take and removing the umbrella from his grasp.
He looked at her, then out of the window where a biker had pulled up next to the car.
"I...what? Who?"
She gave a wave to the biker and then made a shooing motion to him. "Go, Sir!"
Mycroft climbed from the car and looked at the man wearing scruffy leathers, various badges and patches sewn to the jacket, a few worn scuffs and cracks in the leather.
"Here," the biker held out a helmet which had been hooked onto his arm. "We haven't got a lot of time."
He stared, recognising the gravelly tones of Detective Inspector Lestrade, and now noticing the dark brown eyes and touch of stubble visible through the open visor of the biker's helmet.
"I...really, it's..."
"Anthea said it was important - come on!"
And somehow he was reaching for the helmet, and his briefcase was taken from him, dumped onto the fuel tank between Lestrade's legs and secured with two worn old bungees.
He fumbled with the strap under his chin, and Lestrade reached down, flicking a small metal peg out.
"Foot on there, swing your leg over and hang on to my waist," Lestrade called, then moved to release the other foot peg too.
Mycroft obeyed automatically, hitching up his fine wool suit trousers and delicately standing on the thin metal bar, feeling it through the leather soles of his hand made shoes. He settled onto the seat, his groin and thighs pressed against the worn leather of Lestrade's trousers, then slid his hands around Lestrade's waist, feeling the leather straps and buckles of the jacket.
"Now hold on tight!" Lestrade shouted.
The bike revved, then took off, sliding through impossibly small gaps between cars, cutting through the gridlocked traffic. Mycroft's grip increased, fingers digging into Lestrade's sides, pressing his chest against Lestrade's back. He couldn't wipe the smile from his face, though, as the short bursts of acceleration caused his trouser legs to flap in the wind, his jacket to flare out behind him.
Lestrade stood suddenly, hopping the front wheel of the bike onto a curb, avoiding a bollard and dropping back into the gutter to get around a stationary van. Then he switched lanes, holding a hand up in thanks to a taxi driver and then running the same hand along the side of a lorry, just fending it off enough to keep them safe as they slipped between it and a white transit.
"All right?" Lestrade shouted over his shoulder.
Mycroft had to try to control the glee in his voice. "Fine, yes."
The next obstacle was a bus pulling out, attempting to cut into the traffic. Lestrade seemed to lean on it - his leather-clad knee leaving a clean trail in the dirt. Mycroft attempted to make himself narrower, squeezing his legs together, around Lestrade's buttocks. The smell of the leather, vibrations of the engine and feel of a warm, muscular body between his thighs was all becoming slightly overwhelming, and he swallowed, willing away the heat and hardness of his rapidly growing erection.
Lestrade guided the bike through a few backstreets, opening up the throttle and leaning into the corners as they shot along, and mere moments later, as if by magic, the huge roller shutter of the car park was opening in front of them.
Lestrade pulled up the glass and stainless steel entrance, nodding to the two security guards flanking it.
"You've got two minutes," he called to Mycroft, pulling off his helmet to reveal sweaty grey hair standing up at all angles.
Mycroft wondered how he would ever managed to dismount from the motorbike whilst hiding what must be an obvious bulge in his trousers.
Then his briefcase was held up for him to take, and he somehow managed to clamber off the bike whilst protecting his modesty a little. He held out the helmet, knowing his face was probably flushed and his pulse definitely racing.
"And I'll be back to collect you at six on the dot," Lestrade grinned, taking the helmet and smiling - all white teeth and boyish good looks.
"You will?" Mycroft hated that his voice sounded higher - squeaky almost.
"Of course," Lestrade answered.
As Mycroft stood in the lift, his briefcase still held firmly in front of him, he couldn't help but smile. He pulled out his 'phone.
'Indebted to you, as always.' He sent to Anthea.
His phone vibrated a moment later and he glanced down at it as he was stepping from the lift.
'Dinner for two will be waiting at your house. Have arranged for secure overnight parking for one motorcycle too. Enjoy yourselves.'
Mycroft knew that people believed he was somehow omnipresent. He liked the fact that it put people on edge when he knew things about them which they didn't believe possible. He enjoyed cataloguing body language and noting the tiniest glimmer of an eye, or quirk of a lip.
But he'd be lying if he pretended that Anthea didn't scare him a little sometimes, with her apparent ability to read his mind.
~Fin