The winter storm buffeted the little taxi as it wound its way through the chaotic assault that was Paris during rush hour. It was late afternoon – almost evening and the skies were on the verge of darkening, a dull metallic grey stretching as far as the eye could see. Inside the slightly run down taxi, it was toasty warm and comfortable as the man driving it picked his way through the streets. A half-eaten croissant in a paper bag lay at his side with a cup of coffee stuffed haphazardly in the drinks holder.

Greg Lestrade was making his way towards the 16th arrondissement. He was tired, having stayed up arguing with his ex-wife about who was going to take couch that once stood in their shared home. Combined with a pre-dawn start, it did not make for a happy man. Today he was happy to forgo larger earnings that came with picking up lost tourists and taking them absurdly short distances. He headed away from the centre of Paris where the sights and attractions were and went west towards the more opulent neighbourhoods. Here it would be quieter and he didn't mind if he got no fares tonight. Here was a man who just wanted to while away the hours until the end of his double shift.

He arrived in the wide leafy avenues that pervaded this area just as evening set in. The people here were rich – very rich and didn't often take taxis as they had their own drivers for that purpose. This neighbourhood never really did appeal to Greg; it was stuffy and slightly removed. The people kept to their own rich circles and the old buildings felt as if the life had been sucked out of them and left as testaments to their owner's wealth. However, tonight it was perfect for an exhausted taxi driver who just wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

He drove around aimlessly along the edge of the enormous park – the Bois de Boulogne that made up more than half of the arrondissement. After a few minutes, an address popped up on his receiver. It was for some hotel in the 16th. He was the only taxi in the immediate area and so he swung his taxi around and headed back where he came until he came to a stop in front of a small, but very posh looking hotel. He glanced up at the sign to double check that this was indeed the Hôtel de Saint-Michel. Greg tapped his steering wheel impatiently as he waited. A few moments later, a man stepped out from the warmly lit lobby and walked towards the taxi swinging his umbrella.


Mycroft Holmes sat on the armchair next to the fire in his hotel suite. His fingers were steepled in front of his face as his eyes drooped in the warmth of the room. The rain hammered on his window outside drumming a steady rhythm into his mind. He was here in Paris to engage with some talks with President Chaveau this week. Though "talks" was a slight misnomer – gentle persuasion with a dash of Holmesian manipulation was probably better. The damned man had pulled out at the last minute on the joint British-French arms program because of some noisy anti-war lobby group in his constituency. Mycroft massaged his temples. Sometimes he despised democracy. It made every feel like they were entitled to their own opinion. He doubted anyone in that lobby group understood the implications of an outdated weapons program. Not all nations were warmongers but citizens needed to be protected from those that were.

He would meet with the President starting tomorrow afternoon, but until then Mycroft Holmes could relax a little – keeping in mind his Blackberry had a 24 hour encrypted link with Anthea back in his office at home should some disaster arise at home. Mycroft glanced outside and saw that it was pitch black already. His usual driver Winston, was stuck sick in his room. It was quite a pain, but it seemed that he would have to take a taxi to go to dinner tonight. Mycroft usually avoided taxis as some of the drivers were unbelievably nosy to the point where he was almost tempted to kidnap them. Mycroft stood up, picked up the phone and dialled for reception.

"Bonsoir Monsieur Holmes. How may I help you?" Said the receptionist, in impeccable English.

"Bonsoir. I require a taxi for tonight in about half an hour."

"Very good Monsieur. I shall arrange that for you straight away. Enjoy your evening."

The taxi arrived just as Mycroft stepped out of the elevator in the opulent lobby. Mycroft had stayed at the Hôtel de Saint-Michel before on his previous trips to Paris. It was luxurious, though not grandly so – it did not feel the need to scream its status at the people who stayed here unlike the huge façade of the Ritz. Comfortably sized suites, fireplaces and a homely charm that reminded him of his own townhouse in London. Set in a quiet part of Paris, away from the eternally honking taxis and the effervescence of the tourists and youth, it was perfect for the "minor" bureaucrat of the British government.

Mycroft strode across the lobby, his umbrella swinging slightly in the crook of his arm. He gave a slight nod to Pierre, the elegantly aging gentleman who manned the reception with the well-worn, understated efficiency of a man who lived and breathed hospitality. Stepping out onto the pavement, he opened his umbrella and strode towards the black taxi which was waiting. Mycroft opened the door and ducked inside expertly folding his umbrella whilst doing so.

"Bonsoir," said the driver who seemed to be in his forties with greying hair. Mycroft noted the accent. English. Not a native then.

"Bonsoir Monsieur. 29 Avenue George V please."

"English are you?" replied the driver with a slight Cockney accent as he glanced at Mycroft through the rear-view mirror.

"Yes." Mycroft replied and looked out the window, not wanting to engage in conversation with the man.

"I'm from London myself you know? Got some family down in Dorset though. My parents are here though. What about you?" The taxi driver's voice was warm and friendly and Mycroft couldn't help but reply.

"London."

"A man of few words eh?" The driver asked, a grin flashing on his face. "You'll be one of them business types then – fancy suit and all that."

"Yes. I suppose so." Mycroft said. Oh if he only knew the truth.

"Never really liked you kind of blokes, no offence. Making your money trampling on the backs of others. There are more honest ways of making a living. Used to be a cop myself back in the day." The driver seemed rather proud of the fact and Mycroft detected a hint of nostalgia in his tone.

"Oh really? Did you enjoy it?" Mycroft asked, for some reason genuinely interested in this complete stranger.

"Loved it. London's the place to be for a cop. None of that wishy-washy small town, who-stole-the-carrots-from-the-church-garden business. Real stuff. God it felt good chasing down a nutcase." He smiled at the memory.

"Did you ever have a case you couldn't solve?"

"Nope. Not whilst I was there. 'Course there were a few that had us stumped for a while, but we had a trump card. A bloke by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Complete nutter and drove me up the wall, but I've never come across a smarter man in my life. He had this thing where he could look at you and tell you everything about yourself – in embarrassing detail."

Mycroft looked up at the sound of his brother's name. Joining the dots wasn't too difficult then. Sherlock consulted for Scotland Yard's homicide division so this man must've worked for them. He thought back to his rare conversations with Sherlock. Sherlock had never mentioned the names of any of the Yarders that he had worked with and Anthea's background checks had never brought up anything significant. Mycroft berated himself for the security slip up. Though he knew none of the Yarders bore any threat to his younger brother, it was unlike Mycroft to miss out the details like their names. He cast his mind back and remembered the Turkey crisis that he was trying to avert at the time his brother was getting clean and using his skills more productively working for the police. However, an international crisis was not an adequate reason to neglect family, as much as Sherlock liked to insult Mycroft about his apparent lack of concern.

"So what about you? What kind of business are you in?" The taxi driver asked, ignoring the lull in conversation.

"Oh, this and that. I dabble." The driver snorted. "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name?" Mycroft asked, determined to steer the conversation away from his "business".

"Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Your parents are French then?"

"Yeah. Mum and Dad moved to England before I was born. They moved back here once to retire. I met my ex-wife here on holiday. Moved here after we got married. Closer to Mum and Dad and everything."

"So you gave up your job with the police?"

"Yeah. Worst decision of my life mind you. I'm thinking I'll move back once the aftermath from the divorce settles down a bit. You married?"

"No."

"What. Never had the time? Never found the right woman?"

"I've never really felt the need."

"Fair enough. Every man for himself."

Mycroft smiled and they drove on in silence through the lit up streets.

A while later, they arrived at an expensive looking restaurant whose lights spilled onto the street. Mycroft paid Greg and told him to keep the change. He received a big smile and a nod of thanks in return. Taking his umbrella, he stepped out into the night and strode purposefully towards the restaurant. Just before he entered, he glanced back expecting to see the little rundown black taxi but it had merged into the distant traffic in the Parisian night.