"Mycroft, you were the one who wanted to go to the beach," Lestrade reminded him as the car slowed to a halt beside an ice cream truck.

"No," Mycroft said, watching in horror as a pack of children stampeded past towards a terrified looking ice cream salesman. "I said I wanted to do something relaxing. This," he waved his hand at the scene playing out before them, "was all your idea."

Greg rolled his eyes. It was the warmest Saturday they'd seen in three weeks and Lestrade was determined to get Mycroft out of his office which he was, more often than not, locked inside. He fixed the politician with a stern look and pushed open the car door. "C'mon, it'll be fun," he said, grabbing Mycroft's hand and dragging him outside. "I'll buy you an ice cream."

The politician made the same face he used when someone suggested he do something that involved legwork of any kind and mumbled half-heartedly about a diet, but allowed himself to be shoved along towards the sand. At the edge of the pavement, however, he dug in his heels.

"Gregory, these shoes are Italian leather."

"Then why'd you wear them? We're at the beach, Mycroft, what were you thinking?"

"Don't even get me started on my suit," he said, gesturing at his torso. He leaned on his umbrella like it was a walking stick.

Greg was starting to get fed up, but instead of getting cross about it and going home (which was what Mycroft wanted) he kicked off his flip-flops and marched on to the sand. His feet burned, but he didn't care. "Take off your shoes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your shoes," he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Take them off."

Mycroft sighed but did as he was told, slipping off his loafers and socks and holding them in his hands as carefully as if they were a baby. "What-"

Before he could finish, Greg dropped to his knees and started rolling the bottoms of his trousers.

"There," he said in a satisfied kind of way, getting to his feet. "Now your shoes won't get damaged and neither will your suit."

Mycroft glared at him, his toes wriggling and his pale little legs looking like matchsticks poking out the bottom of his trousers. Greg tried not to laugh.

"Come on," he said, holding out his hand. "What flavour ice cream do you want?"

"I'm on a diet," Mycroft grumbled. He paused for a moment of thought then said "Strawberry" and accepted Lestrade's hand.

Greg wasn't sure how, but the next two hours were probably the best of his life. Definitely in the top ten list at least. After the first uncomfortable couple of minutes where Mycroft sulked and complained, he seemed to start to enjoy the feeling of the warm sand between his toes and the sea spray of his face. They ate their ice creams walking along the water with their feet sinking into the wet sand and the water occasionally lapping at their ankles. Greg talked about his childhood jaunts to the seaside with his mother when it was a nice day and neither of them felt like being cooped up inside so they bunked off school and work. Mycroft was appalled which made Greg laugh and Mycroft blushed and blamed the sun. Then Greg stole his umbrella and scribbled messages in the sand and it was Mycroft's turn to laugh.

"Are you having fun yet?" Greg asked. They were perched somewhat precociously on the edge of a rock pool watching the sun set below the horizon.

Mycroft didn't answer.

"It's been a pretty good day, though," Greg pushed, nudging him. "After all that stink you kicked up about coming here. It wasn't an utterly horrible day. Was it?"

"Yes, it wasn't a complete waste of time," he answered finally, not taking his eyes off the golden skyline.

Greg couldn't help but feel a little hurt. "Well," he said waspishly, pushing himself to his feet and jumping off the rocks back on to the sand. It hurt his knees, but he didn't care, "as long as it was a complete waste."

And without another word he turned and started marching back up the dunes towards the car.

"I've never seen the point of beaches."

Greg stopped and, against his better judgment, turned back.

"What?"

"Beaches," Mycroft repeated, looking down from the rocks at Greg with a small smile. "I've never really understood why people are so fascinated by them. They're big and you get sand everywhere and one is expected to swim in the ocean, which is full of things that want to kill you. I don't understand them. But today, I was with you, and I understood."

The politician jumped down from the rocks just as Greg had done and landed with the easy grace of a cat. He shouldered his umbrella and caught Greg's hand in his. "I could have spent today locked in my office again and I would have accomplished a great many things. But I didn't. I came here and I realised something."

Lestrade reminded himself to breath. He cleared his throat. "What was that then?"

Mycroft smiled. "If the government were to crash tomorrow, I wouldn't care," he told him, "because I spent today here, with you."

Before he knew what he was doing Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's face in his hands, perhaps a little more violently than he intended, and pressed their lips together. He felt him smile into their kiss and respond eagerly. "Shall we go home?" Greg asked into Mycroft's mouth.

The politician nod and kept kissing him.

"You left your shoes on the rock."

"I'll get others."

Greg laughed. Neither of them noticed as the sun sunk into the ocean and a hot air balloon floated across the sky.