On Mycroft Holmes' list of priorities, watching Detective Inspector G. Lestrade sleep was fairly high. It fell evenly between not starting a war before he got home of an evening and making sure Sherlock wasn't blown up or shot. To Mycroft's logical mind, it seemed strange that something that should be classified as rather dull could be so endlessly fascinating.
Laying on his side and propping himself up on his elbow, Mycroft pondered this idea. He found everything about the inspector fascinating right down to the number of sugars he has in his coffee (none unless it's instant in which case three). But as much as Mycroft enjoyed observing Lestrade's behaviours during the waking hours, which tended to feel like being caught in a hurricane, watching him sleep was like watching a ballet.
After three consecutive nights of keen surveillance, Mycroft concluded that Lestrade usually slept on his tummy with his arms were splayed about at random angles and his legs tangled in the blankets he consistently kicked at throughout the night. His REM patterns varied depending what they'd had for dinner, but on average his rapid eye movement lasted between ninety-two and one hundred and seven minutes. He occasionally mumbled nonsense about strawberry cats and muffin gangsters and Mycroft wished he could just peer straight into Lestrade's strange and wonderful mind and see what he was talking about.
While these observations made Mycroft smile fondly at the policeman, his favourite thing was listening to Lestrade snore. It was an obscene rumbling sound that Mycroft was sure echoed all through the mansion and rattled the windows panes. He was surprised the servants downstairs hadn't complained about it yet.
As he watched the rise and fall of Lestrade's body as he slept, Mycroft wondered why the inspector's snoring didn't bother him. He could recall at least four of his previous lovers (the Prime Minister, for example) whose suffering of the very same affliction had driven him to the very brink of insanity night after night, but with Lestrade it was... different. As if someone were singing him a sweet lullaby.
Mycroft laid his head on his pillow so his face was barely an inch from Lestrade's and scanned his face. Worry lines creased the skin along his brow and around his eyes, but they suited him just like the stubble dusting his jaw. With a smile, Mycroft traced the inspector's cheekbone with his index finger, following the curve of his eye socket, across his brow until he was pushing his hand through Lestrade's hair.
Lestrade made a delightfully contented sound in between window rattling snores and nuzzled into Mycroft's hand without waking up. One of his bizarrely angled arms reached across the bed and curled itself around Mycroft's middle.
"I love you," Lestrade muttered and half a second later the room shook with thunderous rumbles as he fell back into a deep slumber.
But Mycroft didn't hear him. He was far too busy dreaming of watching Swan Lake being performed in a thunder storm.