She had always slept alone. It hadn't ever bothered her that much. She had rather liked having a large surface to sleep on, to stretch out on, but that had been before she had fallen in love with the two most important people in her life. It had taken some getting used to, going from having a bed all to herself to being sandwiched between Greg and Mycroft most nights, moving back and forth between the two men depending on the personal preferences of herself and the men and who needed comfort and warmth each night. Most nights rather ended in a mess of tangles of limbs with hands snaked under clothing and around waists and noses nuzzled against skin in body crevices.

Really, she never understood how she could have preferred sleeping alone, to be quite honest.

The one thing she had trouble with, though, was that both men had the tendency to talk in their sleep and she had always been a light sleeper, and ear plugs were of no use. Either they irritated her ears or they slipped out in the night. So she would sometimes be jarred away by Mycroft's mumbling over rude comments towards their superiors and the many diplomats they have to deal with, the things he wanted to say but bit back, usually only saying in the privacy of their home around the two of them over a glass or two of the premium brandy they had in his study. And sometimes she would be jarred away by the grumbling of Gregory towards his subordinates when they'd muck up, the things he'd love to say to them be, having to appear the benevolent boss who wanted them to succeed, held his tongue. They did it so often, and she would try and soothe them when she could, comfort them as she could.

Sometimes her heart would soar, and sometimes her heart would break. She was never sure what the night would bring when they went to sleep. Some nights she would get an uneventful night's sleep, and others both of them would be restless and she would barely sleep a wink, it seemed. Those were the hard nights, the nights when it seemed like the weight of the world slipped off their shoulders and entered their dreamscapes, causing them trouble. When it wasn't enough that reality was troubling, that they couldn't escape for just an evening. Those were the rough nights.

Like when Mycroft would talk about the other one, his big brother. Oh, the two of them were privy to the whole story, so they knew the details, and she knew who much he desperately wanted to stuff it down and forget the man had ever existed. How much he wanted it to just be him and Sherlock despite all the problems his little brother caused. And when Sherrinford's name would cross his lips, she'd moved closer to him, press her chest to his back, stroke his hair, press her lips to him over and over and try and ease him back into a restful sleep, give him some comfort even if he didn't wake.

And then Gregory would sometimes dream about his life before them, with Linda and with his daughter. Oh, she really was a violent woman, to be quite honest, there was no woman on the face of this earth she wanted to punch more than the former Mrs. Lestrade. She'd hurt Gregory deeply in more ways than one and in all honestly she should be a red speck on the earth, but that would just hurt Gregory more, and that would take away his daughter's mum, and she would never do that to Lisa even if in Anthea's opion the chid was better of if she lived with them full time not with that abusive bitch of a mother but she still would never take away the girls mother from her. So she'd hold him close, tuck her chin into his shoulder, press her cheek into his skin, whisper words of love over and over till he stopped talking in his sleep.

She was the first to hear Mycroft want to refer to Gregory as husband. Oh, she knew he'd never refer to her as wife in public, even if he would in private; that would go so far against protocol, with their positions. Even if the relationship between the three of them was rather an open secret it was still frowned upon, but a relationship between Greg and Mycroft would have more legitimacy. And it made her heart swell with happiness. She knew they would love her still, they wouldn't push her out, and she had been right; after the wedding, they'd had their own private ceremony, their own honeymoon, and it had been spectacular.

And she could feel them both reach for her belly in their sleep, reach for the child the three of them would raise, just to comfort themselves or reassure themselves, or perhaps to comfort her, to resure her that they loved her, that they loved there child. It didn't matter to them biologically who the father was, she knew who it was of course but what did it matter anyway they were both the father and she was the mother and that was all that mattered. But in their sleep, there were mutterings of "my angel" and "my blessing" as they would rub the baby growing inside her and she would smile and touch their face or ruffle their hair or nuzzle their neck affectionately before she would try and drift back to sleep.

She wasn't sure if she spoke in her sleep; if she did, neither of them mentioned it to her. But she never teased them for the things they said, never. She loved it about them, considered it nearly one of the best things about sharing a bed with them. She doubted she could ever go back to sleeping alone again, to be quite honest. She hoped to God she didn't have to. And as she snuggled in between them, curling into Mycroft as Greg's arm slipped around her waist and his nose nuzzled into her neck, she decided there was nothing more perfect than this.