Objects should not touch because they are not alive. (Jean-Paul Sartre)

Mycroft sat back in his car, letting the driver take him to where he had to be. Anthea, although she was called Terry this week (Mycroft was sure she'd change it back before the end of the week; Terry was ghastly ordinary), was rattling about his upcoming meeting. It was with some government official from South Africa. He could usually focus on these briefs, but today it felt as though Anthea was rambling. He wished she'd just go back to silently texting and researching on her Blackberry.

His hand ghosted to the wedding ring on his finger and he played with it absentmindedly. When he touched it he could almost feel Greg slide it on his hand, in the private darkness of their bedroom. It was Greg's father's ring, one he had received to wear for himself at his wedding. Now, however, Mycroft got to wear it and the thought made his heart flutter unnaturally.

"Sir? We're here," Anthea informed him.

"Yes," Mycroft said, without making a move, "give me a minute."

Anthea cast him a worried glance. "Everything alright, sir? Do I need to cancel?" Anthea's protectiveness was equally endearing and annoying, but nothing could ruin his mood this week.

"No, Terry, we don't want to needlessly upset the ambassador. Tell the house I will be five minutes and go over the CCTV for me. Standard procedure, please. We don't need evidence of this little meeting."

"Certainly," Anthea answered, raising the phone that had been buzzing in her hand as she slid out of the car.

Mycroft sat back, letting out a deep sigh and let his mind wander. The sensation was new to him, but when he thought of Gregory Lestrade he could only call it 'wandering', it wasn't evaluating or processing. It was mindless imagination.

"My, I want to give you something," Greg muttered. Mycroft could've sworn he sounded nervous and he never sounded nervous. Greg wasn't allowed to feel nervous around him. Why would he need to be? They were in love, going steady for nearly two years and equally sleep depraved from the demanding work schedule they both had.

Greg moved from where he was draped across Mycroft's chest and snuggled into Mycroft's neck with his nose, pushing his body close, as he pulled the duvet up as far as it could go without suffocating himself. He was getting quite adapt at building these little protective nests around both himself and Mycroft, who relaxed into the warmth of the familiar gesture.

"Don't worry, I'm not getting your name tattooed on myself," Greg joked, but Mycroft tensed. He liked Gregs bike and his rock' n' roll past, certainly didn't mind his extensive collection of leather clothing, but the tattoo idea had been discussed and discarded. "I want to give you my wedding ring." Greg whispered with a kiss on his jaw.

"Gregory, I am certain that you are aware that we as two members of the same –" Mycroft started quickly, his mind returning safely to facts. He was overwhelmed and he hadn't even heard the rest of Gregs plan yet.

"Shhh!" Greg interrupted, pushing himself up and placing his lips chastely against Mycrofts, "Listen first, My."

"Yes." Mycroft answered resolutely, ignoring the raising panic in his chest. He loved Greg, but he couldn't make this official. Imagine the gossip that would erupt in his circles! It was unheard of to share one's life with a man, let alone marry him.

"I want the world to know you're mine. And hickeys just won't do it," Greg said, pleased to see Mycroft turn a little pink as he recalled how Sherlock has found out of his relations with Greg. "It was my dad's, he gave it to me when I married Sandra, so I could wear it. Sandra got her grandmothers ring, so we both had family pieces." Greg sat up and placed himself next to Mycroft, so he could softly trace soothing patterns on his chest.

"I don't wear it anymore, because -.. You know why," he smiled. He didn't wear it anymore, because he'd met Mycroft in his office to talk about Sherlock's addiction and one thing had let to another and it had ended in a mutually agreed divorce. The ring held mostly pleasant memories of a shared life.

"You've been wearing a wedding ring since we met and I've always wondered whose it was, but then I realised I would be jealous of her, - him, because I want you to wear my ring."

Mycroft smiled, "I bought it in a store, it's a prop. It wasn't a gift, I was never anyone else's."

"But even if you have been, I want you to wear me around your finger, so I want you to have mine. So you can wear it and avoid all the questions with that one."

"The more observant members of my society will notice the change of model," Mycroft said fondly as he remembered the beautifully shaped Greg had been wearing when they'd met. Greg raised an eyebrow, wondering why Mycroft was protesting, even if it was only half-heartedly. Then he observed the soft expression on Mycrofts face, as if he was about to burst into tears. Greg was certain he'd hold it back, but he felt his own expression twisting in reaction.

"I love you so much," he said softly.

"And I love you," Mycroft whispered, unable to trust his voice at this moment in time, "of course I will wear your ring, Gregory."

Greg's heart fluttered at the sight of Mycroft trying to control his façade; he looked like a fourteen year old boy who discovered he is becoming an uncle, but couldn't show how overwhelmed he was with love for his family in front of his peers. He was quite possibly more affected by that than by the fact Mycroft had just accepted his offer.

Mycroft sat up against the headboard and took to working the plain wedding ring he was wearing off his finger.

"Let me," Greg said as he reached out, linking their lips at the same time as grasping his hand to take off the ring. The kiss turned more heated as Greg feverishly worked on the ring, without success. Mycroft leant his head against the wall to gasp for air.

"G- Gregory, I've been wearing that since I was 23. It won't come off that easily."

"Why twenty-three?" Greg asked conversationally as he turned away from Mycroft to grab the lube from the nightstand, chucking it inelegantly at Mycroft. Almost chuckling, Mycroft opened the tube to spread it on his finger as he continued wiggling the ring.

"We're nearly out," he said, as Greg searched through the drawers of the night stand in search for the ring is was about to give to Mycroft.

"Why twenty-three?" Greg repeated.

"I had graduated and moved into higher... 'circles'," Mycroft answered, deliberately staying vague, "Work gets uncomfortable when sexual tensions arise, so I decided to be married. I was the ever faithful and adoring husband to a fictional wife."

"And it helped cover up quick fumblings in the men's rooms, right," Greg asked. Mycroft turned pick once more.

"Gregory! I would never –" he was cut off as Greg turned back to him with a Cheshire grin on his face, "oh."

"Just joking, My, I know you don't do that," he chuckled triumphantly as he shuffled back across the bed to Mycroft, "is it off yet?"

"Almost," the man answered as he finally worked it off and put it on the bed next to him, expectantly raising his gaze to Greg as he finished.

They held the gaze, simply looking at each other for a few minutes. Greg reached forward with his empty hand to cup Mycroft's jaw and started muttering jokingly.

"With this ring, I thee wed..." he encouraged Mycroft to repeat after him, but he seemed hesitant.

"You just said this wasn't a wedding," he said reluctantly. He knew it wouldn't break the mood between them, but the underlying fear never quite went away.

"The sentiment is the same," Greg answered smilingly. It had been a silly idea anyway.

"With this ring, I thee wed."

Gregs gaze sprung up from where he was reaching for Mycroft's hand to his face in search of something. He found Mycrofts doubting expression that was somehow so filled with love he couldn't wait. He reached again, this time meeting the mans lips half-way and searched for his hand by touch. Mycroft, offering his hand willingly, draped his other arm around Gregs shoulders so he couldn't move away.

"With this ring, I thee everything," Greg whispered giddily and he slid the ring on Mycrofts finger, crowding him into the headboard.

A knock on the window startled Mycroft and he was awake within seconds. He hadn't even realised he had drifted off with his head full of Greg.

"It's been fifteen minutes, sir," Anthea said unbelievingly as she opened the door, "Are you sure you don't want to cancel?"

"No, no," Mycroft muttered, feeling one more time for the ring around his finger.

The dimensions seemed to fit perfectly between his digits. It weight a little more than the one he was used to, but he was comforted by its constant presence. He could still feel Greg engulfing him as he slid the ring on, he could still feel his heart growing impossibly bigger. Most of all, he knew all this sentimentality was meaningless, but it somehow meant so much to him.

What meant the most was that the meaningless ring he had worn for years, because he was ever afraid of intimacy, was now, ironically, placed on the finger of the man who he shared his life with.