"Under what circumstances is that considered to be chocolate flavoured?" Mycroft's face was a picture as he swallowed a mouthful of the protein drink the Gym Instructor had given him.

"I did tell you they were disgusting." Greg was trying not to laugh. But then it had been a funny morning. John Watson moved quickly it seemed. And by three in the afternoon Mycroft had been booked in for his first, very private, appointment at the Ship's Gym. They were very thorough as well, testing reflexes, cardio, body fat, the whole lot.

"You have one and a half per cent body fat." The instructor smiled nervously as she took the measurement.

"Oh. Is that bad? Too high?"

"Most Olympic Athletes don't have body fat that low. You actually need body fat for energy, otherwise your body has no choice but to eat its muscles. For such a clever man you really don't seem to know a lot about human anatomy." She noted it down on her clipboard.

"How do you know I'm clever?" Mycroft actually smiled at her. His whole face lit up for a brief moment.

"You remind me of my father."

"He must be very proud that you are following him in to medicine, Miss Hooper."

"How did you know that?" She laughed. Again he smiled at her. This annoyed Greg no end. Mycroft hadn't smiled at him yet. Not like that anyway.

"It's a trick he does." Greg grunted and loaded the bench press machine up with weights.

"It's a good trick." She was going to flutter her eyelashes at Mycroft. "Erm, just be careful with that Greg, you don't want to strain yourself."

"It's fine." Greg grunted as he struggled to push the bench press up. Both Molly Hooper and Mycroft ignored him as Molly began to run through a list of exercises with Mycroft. Greg realised after two minutes of straining away on the bench press he was behaving like a teenager trying to impress someone he fancied. Then he realised that was exactly what he was doing. If he had been on dry land, this would be the time to call control and ask for a replacement. But he wasn't on dry land. He was at sea. Literally and metaphorically.

...

The water was grey and choppy, white horses dancing to the sides of the ship. The sky was dirty-hanky white and that thick silence was back in spades. The stateroom balcony overlooked the waves and to a casual observer it might seem as though the two men were enjoying afternoon tea with a sea view.

Greg had been assured the glass was bulletproof. It had been fitted specially. But he wasn't taking any chances. Mycroft had enquired sarcastically as to whether he was expecting an attack by gun-toting haddock. So there was a sense of humour buried somewhere. Greg had muttered the usual about it being his job. So now they were sat awkwardly with tea and cakes between them and Greg's gun on the table.

"More tea, Detective?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Help yourself to cake. The Chef is French, I'm told." Greg accepted the rather twee cup and saucer from Mycroft and looked at the frankly bewildering array of sweet stuff on the trolley that room service had brought in. They were determined to give Mycroft the five star treatment whether he wanted it or not. He picked a slice of chocolaty stuff and took a forkful.

It was delicious. The best thing he had ever tasted. Probably. It was light, and creamy and slightly bitter. Greg made a very undignified noise. Without thinking he loaded the fork up and held it out.

"You have got to try this! This is the best chocolate cake ever!" It was an automatic thing. Him and Russell used to do it all the time. And it seemed Mycroft was on auto pilot as well as he opened his mouth and allowed Greg to feed him. Mycroft looked a little surprised.

"That is fantastic! I had something similar at a state banquet is Paris three years ago, but it wasn't anywhere near as good." He actually sounded enthusiastic.

"Do you want some more?" Greg held out the fork. Mycroft gave him one of those dazzling smiles and leaned in towards him. Greg felt his cock stirring in his trousers and adjusted his position in the chair to try and hide the fact. Mycroft leant further forwards, placing a hand on the arm of Greg's chair to balance himself. The hair on the back of his hand brushed against Greg's forearm. It felt like a small electric shock. Mycroft's eyes closed as he took the fork in his mouth. Greg took a deep breath and leaned in closer.

"Well done Detective, if he's got you feeding him cake it's only three stages off letting you into his bed." Sherlock drawled from the doorway, resplendent in his new clothing. Tight purple shirt and black trousers, jacket slung casually over his shoulder. Mycroft glared at his brother.

"Sherlock get out!"

"Oh I'm not stopping. I just came by to tell you that after your little chat with the Captain I've been given my own cabin. Well. I'm sharing a cabin. Sort of. Turns out Doctor Watson has a spare bunk. Anyway. Came to tell you that. Cabin 221B. Laters!" He slinked out of view, reminding Greg of an elegant spider retreating back into the skirting boards.

Greg sighed. Mycroft stood and looked out over the sea, picking out something in the middle distance.

"Dolphins!" He explained. Greg was genuinely interested, and thinking to himself that Mycroft must have very good eyesight to be able to pick out a porpoise leaping in and out of the grey foam. Greg peered out. He couldn't see anything but waves.

"Where?"

"Over there." Mycroft pointed. Sure enough two Dolphins were leaping in and out of the water.

"Oh yeah!" Greg laughed and watched, before reminding himself he was supposed to be doing a job, not Dolphin spotting. He turned and bumped into Mycroft, who was standing right behind him. Greg took a deep breath and a step backwards unsure what to do. With anyone else he would have kissed them. Or ground his straining groin against them. Or just ripped their clothes off.

"Sorry." Mycroft blushed, taking Greg's hesitation for rejection. "I...shouldn't...sorry...not your job."

"My job is to look after you." Greg smiled. "Now what were these other three stages that your brother was talking about?"