There were very few people who got along with either of the Holmes brothers; even fewer got along with both of them, and yet Greg Lestrade was numbered among this restricted group.
He still remembered the first time he'd met Sherlock – a twenty-something junkie desperate to show off, like a wild Mustang horse trapped inside a narrow paddock. Lestrade had given him the chance to run free, and that had earned him the younger man's perpetual gratitude – in the restricted sense of the word 'gratitude' that applied to Sherlock.
Mycroft was more of a well-trained Irish Hunter, a breed that combined the sense and honesty of the Irish Draught with the athleticism, speed, and endurance of the Thoroughbred. The one thing he was skittish about was letting his guard down enough to allow other people to get closer, but that had never deterred Lestrade from trying.
He liked to think that the turning point in their relationship happened one day as they were deep in campaign planning, and he inadvertently rested his hand on the other's shoulder – a friendly gesture he'd never attempted before.
Mycroft stiffened momentarily, his instincts prompting him to fend off a potential attacker. Greg felt the exact moment the other man willed himself to endure the touch, and a strange sense of elation coursed throughout his body.