"... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work..."
That single sentence - and the man who had uttered it - has haunted him for the past... What, a decade already? Not all the time, of course, he wasn't entirely obsessed, but... In the quiet hours of the morning, when one feels that it is too early to awake fully, yet already too close to daytime to justify falling asleep again, he allowed himself to mourn what could never have been.
There had been his marriage, of course. Such as it was. And despite long years of working together and being friends, boundaries defined long before they had known about each other's existence were always kept intact. One does simply not impose one's "simple people" feelings on a Holmes. Really, the two brothers seemed to be and entirely different breed altogether, despite Sherlock having once described their parents as "the most mundane human beings to ever pollute the Earth."
So, the attraction he had given up on denying even to himself had stayed, for ten long years, hidden in his chest. Rains, hails, storms, bullets and children had passed through his heart, some leaving a bigger mark than others, some staying for good, yet this man... This man sat on a throne and oversaw it all, without ever being consciously invited. As rare and unattainable as a The Blue Bird of Happiness.
But then... He shivered with emotion when he remembered the evening everything - and nothing - had changed. Perhaps it had been the age. After all, they were both getting on in years and he himself often felt a pang of sentimentality at the oddest of moments. Or maybe, just maybe, he was finally considered safe enough to be trusted with a bleeding, yet always carefully guarded heart. Either that, or serendipity. If one believes in such things as fortuity. Which he didn't.
Whichever was true, it had been almost a year ago now and-
Mycroft stirred in his sleep, rousing Greg from his deep contemplation. Lestrade was forced to let go of the wedding band he had previously been stroking, unbeknownst to himself, yet their new position was not without its perks. When Mycroft had settled again, Greg pulled his lover closer and splayed one hand over the man's chest, peacefully rising and falling with his breaths.
"Well," Lestrade thought, already half-asleep, "His work can have his hand. But his heart - his heart is mine."