The delicate cup and saucer clattered with a resigned finality to the floor, where they were saved from breaking by the thick carpet. Mycroft blushed a deep red and looked down at the spreading puddle of tea. When he finally looked back up his eyes were watery, as though he was trying not to cry. He looked at Greg. Stared at him for a few moments and then without saying anything he simply walked away, into his room.

Too much. Greg said it under his breath, mentally kicking himself. And not very professional. But his internal berating still didn't stop him wanting to know what the other three stages were. He left it ten minutes, taking the time to clean up the spilled tea. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath and went to apologise.

Mycroft was asleep. Curled up into the same foetal position that he had slept in the previous night, hugging tightly onto the pillow. He didn't look comfortable. He hadn't bothered to remove his shoes. Or any of his clothes. Greg gave himself a mental slap. Then he carefully removed the rather formal, and obviously handmade leather brogues that Mycroft was wearing and pulled the duvet over him. Mycroft murmured something in his sleep and hug the pillow tighter to his chest. Greg sighed and reached out a hand, without thinking, gently touching the side of Mycroft's face and brushing a couple of stray hairs from his temple. His skin was warm and the rough stubble contrasted with his soft hair.

It was tempting to kiss him. It was even more tempting to slip under the duvet next to him. But that was a whole new level of wrong. And there was still the small matter of what Mycroft actually did for Her Majesty's Government. He was certainly important enough to have Greg fired without the chance of appeal or pension.

Mycroft released his death grip on the pillow and relaxed his position a little.

"Okay." Greg whispered it to himself, not quite sure whether to leave or stay. Mycroft rolled over on to his back, his breathing slow and even. Greg wanted to stay and watch him sleeping. But knew he couldn't. He retreated back out into the palatial living area.

Glancing out of the window he could see the dolphins still leaping about. All right for some. One of them did a flip out of the waves, spinning in mid air before plopping gracefully back down into the water. Show off!

Greg settled himself back down in the chair nearest the window. The tea was still hot. He poured himself another cup and grabbed a biscuit to dunk in it whilst he considered exactly what was going on.

Meanwhile, in Cabin 221b, Doctor John Watson was glaring at his new room-mate. Said room-mate was stretched out on the small sofa, feet hanging over the edge and taking up far more room than someone so lacking in body mass should be able to. Sherlock Holmes was reading the print out of his brother's medical records with morbid interest.

"And you say his blood pressure is normal?"

"Yes. Which considering what he's been through is a miracle. And you shouldn't be reading those."

"He's my brother."

"He's my patient."

"I was here first. What about his kidney function? Heart rate? Lung capacity?"

"They're all within normal ranges. Why do you want to know? Do you inherit or something?"

"I am a concerned member of his family."

"Really? Concerned family members usually go out of their way not to upset the patient. Usually by not stowing away so that the patient has to pull strings with the ship's captain. I know your brother is a VIP. That's why he's got the Queen Elizabeth Suite. And why you haven't been set adrift in a lifeboat. His security clearances are quite impressive too. Who is he? Really?"

"He works for the government. Although it's more accurate to say at times he is the Government, and the secret service, and the CIA. When he's not being a fat pain in my arse. He's dangerous. The most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"And yet he seems lost." John was busying himself making tea. There was something sticky in the bottom of his mug.

"He is lost. Literally all at sea! And then they've dumped a handsome body guard on him. Someone in Security's idea of a joke I expect. My brother is known as the Iceman of Whitehall. He doesn't have relationships. He has arrangements."

"What about you?"

"Me? Well I'm flattered that you are asking but I'm married to my work."

"I wasn't asking, actually. Married to your work? This is the consulting detective thing?"

"Yes."

There was a knock at the door of the cabin and John opened it to reveal a thin, ratty looking man with a flustered expression on his sour face.

"Mr Anderson? Are you allright?"

"Captain's compliments Doctor Watson and could you attend the Churchill bar at once? We have a situation."

"A situation?"

"Yes, Sir. It's Lord Gresham. I think he might be dead..." Anderson paused. "And i think he may have been poisoned!"

"Poisoned?" John and Sherlock said it at the same time. John grabbed his bag. Sherlock pulled on his shoes.

"Where do you think you're going?" John asked

"A poisoning of an aristocrat on board a ship? I wouldn't miss this for the world!" Sherlock was running off up the corridor before anyone could say anything else.