Fic for oboetheres: Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts, Part 1, Section 3/3

[holmesticemods]

Chapter Thirteen

Mycroft had kept his voice soft, but Greg still started. His head whipped in Mycroft’s direction and he stood. A small smile played at his mouth, and Mycroft offered him one in return hoping to— Ah, yes. Greg’s mouth stretched a little wider. Genuine and charming. His gaze dipped to Mycroft’s bundle, surprise and perhaps a bit of wistfulness appeared on his otherwise disquieted countenance. That wistfulness intrigued Mycroft. What lack in Greg’s life had caused it?

“Dinner,” Mycroft explained as he himself glanced at the items hanging from his left arm. “I’m afraid I don’t actually get to consume much during these events. Plenty of water posing as ale and enough nibbling to keep going, but no’ much sustenance to speak of. Ye don’t mind if I eat while we talk, do ye?”

“Ah, no. Not at all,” Greg said with a shake of his head.

“There’s a small meadow just ahead.” He gestured with his arm and started walking. Greg fell in step beside him, and Mycroft was pleased to note that Greg was only slightly shorter than he was. The reason it mattered would never come to pass, but brought a slight warmth to Mycroft’s face none-the-less. Best not to allow those thoughts to take root. The man would return to his own time soon enough. Better to get a conversation started. “You were quite hostile toward me when you thought I was my alter ego. Tell me about him.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Humble, too. Mycroft appreciated a man who wasn’t afraid to accept correction or take responsibility for himself. “From yer perspective I can understand the desire to lash out; the outburst ’tis forgotten.”

“Great. Thanks.” Greg clasped his hands behind his back and glanced at Mycroft. “You want to know about my Mycroft, huh? Okay. Well. You appear to be the same age, mid-to-late forties, I believe.”

Mycroft canted his head. He very much liked the sound of ‘my Mycroft.’ If only it referred to him and not his future doppelganger.

“Same hair color and hairline, although your hair is much thicker than his. He keeps his hair short, similar to mine, and goes clean-shaven. He wears what we call three-piece suits. He’s quite dapper.”

“Dapper? I take this word to mean dashing?” Despite being a man of few spoken words, Mycroft appreciated a varied vocabulary.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d personally find him dashing. He’s definitely the height of conservative, tasteful fashion. His clothing is always of the highest quality, both the materials and the workmanship. And the man is always flawlessly put together.”

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft grinned to himself. Greg’s tone belied his words. It sounded as if Greg found the man to be pleasing in appearance, if not in temperament. They walked without speaking for a dozen or so steps, the silence a comfortable one. He also appreciated a man who didn’t feel the need to chatter all the time. “Does he have some sort of profession? Duties to perform?”

Some sort of half-laugh, half-scoff escaped Greg’s mouth. “Some sort of State secret, that. He says he holds a minor position in the British government, but his brother claims he is the British government. From some of the stunts he’s pulled, I don’t doubt his power is substantial. That’s why I wouldn’t put something like this…” Greg pointed a thumb over his shoulder and toward the castle and the ongoing revelry. “…past him. But like the Great and Powerful Oz, he’s usually pulling the strings from behind a curtain. So him being you or you being him seems a bit suspect and does cast some doubt on my theory.”

“Who is this Great and Powerful Oz?” That seemed a very odd title and name to Mycroft. Unlike any he’d heard. Although some of the world’s rulers claimed the strangest monikers.

A deep chuckle filled the air and burrowed into Mycroft’s chest.

“The answer to that is going to lead to another question or two. Either we go off on that tangent or we continue. Mycroft or Oz?”

“Indeed a tough choice.” Mycroft smiled. As long as he could keep Greg talking, the topic mattered little. Greg’s speech pattern and storytelling flair amused him. “Let’s continue with my namesake.”

“We might have more fun with the Oz discussion even though he’s just a character in a well-known children’s story.”

“We’ll put Oz on the list of future conversations then,” Mycroft said and stopped walking. “Ah, here we are.” The meadow was perhaps thirty meters wide and twice as long. Rocky, craggy ground stretched on the far side of it all the way to the cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Their current position at this end of its expanse was just a little too far away to be able to hear the waves crashing on the rocks below or to smell their salt on the air. Mycroft spread out the blanket and settled on one end. He indicated for Greg to do the same and then set about unpacking his picnic dinner. “Feel free to help yerself. As ye can see, there’s plenty.”

Greg placed one hand on his stomach as he crossed his ankles, bent his knees, and descended to the ground. The other hand swept the fabric of his kilt under his hind end. “Thanks. Maybe later. I found plenty of things to try earlier and I’m afraid I haven’t got much room left.”

Mycroft tore apart a small bread roll and laid a slice of cheese across it. He took a bite and raised a brow at Greg to continue.

“Right. Not much left to tell, really. According to Sherlock, he’s rather controlling. But Sherlock’s a handful himself even at his age, so I don’t know how true that really is. The only things you two seem have in common are that you look alike, you’re both powerful men, and you have brothers named Sherlock.” Greg straightened his legs and then leaned back on outstretched arms. “What else would like to know about?”

“Tell me about yerself,” Mycroft said before taking another bite. Mycroft was terribly curious about the man’s life.

Greg shook his head and made a disbelieving sound. “I’m not interesting in the least.”Greg was feeling a bit abashed if the dip of his head and the wobbly smile he fought was any indication.

“Perhaps no’ from yer own point of view, but our lives are five hundred years different. And you have the benefit of history.”

“True enough. All right, let me see…”



Chapter Fourteen

Greg straightened up and tugged a long strand of grass from the ground and proceeded to wind it around his index fingers. “I, uh, I’m a police officer. A detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police in London.”

“I’m guessing that detective inspector is a title that only comes with experience and success.” Mycroft reached over and patted Greg’s knee. “Well done, Greg, well done.”

The pleased expression added to the youthful visage, and Mycroft got the feeling that Greg was rarely praised. A disgrace to be sure. Words from a man he barely knew had lit him up like the moon. Mycroft thoughtfully chewed a slice of apple. As laird, he had learned early on that praise was both a most powerful motivator and a useful tool for getting the best out of people.

“I believe, based on the short explanation ye gave to the boys, that ye and Corc have something in common. He’s my security chief, in charge of investigating any crime around the castle and in the local villages. The village leaders report to Corc and he reports to me. Perhaps, before we take ye back to the standing stones, ye and he can discuss your duties and see if ye can share anything helpful.”

Another gratified look crossed Greg’s face. “Yeah, of course. I’d be happy to. He won’t be affronted or anything will he? Some people can get a bit tetchy.”

“I have every confidence ye’ll approach the conversation with tact.” Again, the pride. Mycroft found himself wanting to keep that look on Greg’s handsome face. “Do ye have family?”

Greg’s expression blanked and Mycroft’s stomach sank. Oh, dear.

“No brothers or sisters. My mum passed several years ago, and my dad’s being cared for in a home for the aged. Barely remembers me.” Greg gazed off into the darkness, looking sad.

“My sympathies, Greg.”

“It is what it is, I guess.” Greg shrugged, glanced at the food, and then returned his gaze to Mycroft’s. “Nothing you can do about it.”

Goodness. Those eyes. Goose bumps formed on Mycroft’s arms and he was forced to take a quick breath. He blinked—what had been the topic? “As true as that is, I can still sympathize. My own mother died in childbirth when I was but a lad of fourteen. Sherlock was seven. The babe, a girl, lived only a few hours. My father died in a hunting accident when I was two and twenty.”

“Now it’s my turn to be sorry.”

“Nay, there’s nothing to be sorry for. My father was a hard, hard man, Greg. Few were sad to see him go.”

“Okay. But it must have been difficult taking on the lairdship when you were still so young.”

“Aye, it was. I had Corc and several other trusted advisers to guide me, however, and I’d long been at my father’s side. I saw what worked with people and what didn’t and tried to rule the clan accordingly. I think I’ve been successful.”

“From what I saw, you’re well respected and loved. That’s no mean feat.”

Mycroft inclined his head, his own pride inflating his chest. “Thank ye fer saying so. No’ many people would think to do as much. They forget the laird is human like everyone else, and it can be a bit lonely.”

“What about Anthea?”

“She’s a godsend, but she’s still just a woman. Her responsibilities are as chatelaine and as mother to our children.”

“Her responsibilities? You make her sound like hired help. She’s your wife. ” Greg suddenly sounded bleak.

Mycroft had hit a nerve. “Have women changed so much in the last five hundred years then?”

Greg laughed although it wasn’t from amusement. “Are they ever…and that conversation would take longer than the story of Oz. But I don’t think the role of wife—helpmate and confidant—has changed much since Biblical times. Isn’t your spouse the one person you should be able to lean on and count on to have your back?”

There was something to Greg’s outburst that Mycroft wanted to explore. That underlying anger he’d heard was coming from somewhere.

“Ye must remember that most marriages in this world, at my level of standing, are about alliances and protection, no’ love and happiness.”

“Right. Okay, so it’s not a love match. But the woman is probably the daughter or the sister of a laird already, right? She’d have a good idea of what being a laird entails. Her responsibilities are to support her husband in his job. To make sure his needs are met. All of them. Just as he makes sure to meet all of hers.”

Mycroft sobered. Greg hadn’t mentioned a wife, but it sounded as though he’d been married at some point. Mycroft doubted he had remained so since a wife hadn’t been disclosed. That explained his fervency. From the little Mycroft had learned and observed, Greg seemed extremely loyal and would value that trait in his relationship above almost all others. Whether it was just its loss or whether it had been absent in the marriage, Mycroft didn’t know, and for reasons surpassing logic, it pained him that Greg seemed to have been wounded in such a way.

Mycroft spoke softly. “Yer notion of marriage is an honorable and noble one, Greg. I hope that one day ye find that person.”

Sorrowful brown eyes turned to Mycroft. “I don’t know that everyone gets a first chance at finding that person, Mycroft, much less a second one.”

He had no explanation, but Mycroft suddenly feared he was looking at his only chance. A chance he had no business taking.

~*~

Greg descended the stairs slowly. His knees were not happy with him, but what could he do?

His conversation the previous evening with Mycroft had saddened him. For a man in Mycroft’s position, it was hard to know who was friend and who was foe. Allegiances could change so quickly. That’s where wives were supposed to come in. But even wives were susceptible to changing alliances, weren’t they?

When Greg reached the dining room in search of breakfast, only Anthea remained at the large dining table, an open ledger on one side. Several dirty trenchers sat on one side of the table. The tapestry had been rolled up and the shutters on the windows opened. Fresh air and the sounds of animals and people alike wafted in.

“I’m sorry…am I late? Not having a clock or a mobile, I’m little thrown off.”

“Nay. Mycroft was up early. Many of our kinsman are departing today, and the boys are out and about as well, saying farewells to their cousins.”

“Your family or Mycroft’s?”

“I have two sisters who also married into Clan Holmes. They live several hours’ ride away.”

“Nice. That’s nice.” Greg took a seat at the empty place to her right. He picked up the pewter pitcher and glanced inside. “No coffee here in 1513, huh?”

She shook her head, glossy brown curls bouncing with the movement. “What’s coffee?”

“It’s a hot beverage made from ground coffee beans and hot water.”

She made a face. “Beans and water don’t sound appetizing at all,” she said and smiled. “But, nay, no coffee here in Scotland yet, I’m afraid. Warm milk, if you like? I can ask Muira to fetch some.” Anthea reached for the bell on the table in front of her trencher.

“No need. I’m fine with ale.” He poured some into the goblet and loaded his plate with golden brown oatcakes, drizzling them with honey. “How about bacon?”

“What is bacon?”

“It’s delicious.”

Anthea grinned again and Greg laughed.

“Bacon is from a pig. I don’t know which part, but usually it’s got meat and a bit of fat, and it’s cured with salt or smoke, and then cut into strips.” Greg used his hands and fingers to indicate dimensions.

“Oh, aye, we call that collops. I don’t think Cook made any today…too many mouths to feed for that. Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll put in a special request for ye.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Mycroft expects me to care for our house guests, to make sure they have what they need.”

Greg almost slipped out of his chair. The similarity to his and Mycroft’s conversation from last evening was a bit disconcerting. Or perhaps fortuitous. He didn’t know this Mycroft well, but he seemed nice enough. Didn’t everyone deserve a chance to have that one person? “What about what he needs?”

“Pardon?” Concern and surprise and perhaps a bit of anger colored her cheeks and brought a hardness to her gaze.

“Listen, Mrs. Holmes, Anthea…about Mycroft…”

Greg glanced around but saw no one. He leaned towards her a little and lowered his voice. “I don’t know anything about your marriage. Mycroft didn’t say anything, I swear. He loves you and knows that what you do is important and that he couldn’t be an effective laird without you, but he seems…lonely to me. I don’t know why. And I know that it’s really none of my business. I know as laird he probably doesn’t have many true friends, but it seems to me that if anyone could help him, it’d be you.”

Anthea looked toward the hallway, in the direction of the baileys where Mycroft most likely was at the moment, a contemplative expression now on her face. “He is lonely, Maighstir Lestrade, and I do ken why.” She looked back at him with sad eyes. “But it isn’t something I can help him with.”

Greg straightened up, not sure what to say. He just nodded dumbly and shoved an oatcake in his mouth.

She patted his hand and rose. “If ye’ll excuse me.”

He stood as she left and dropped back to his seat once she’d gone. Bloody hell. The way she’d looked at him when she’d said she couldn’t help Mycroft—what was that? Like he could, somehow, help Mycroft?

How the hell could he do that when he would be going home in a few days?



Chapter Fifteen

Greg passed through the courtyard and the inner bailey to the outer bailey in search of Corc. Hugh had given him instructions for finding the man. Well, Corc could find him at the stable. It seemed the likely spot to start riding lessons.

The occasional wagon still rolled through the bailey, but perhaps only a dozen tents and wagons remained in the field beyond, where there’d been more than a hundred the day before. Three blackened circles marked the locations of the fires and thin wisps of gray smoke still drifted from the charred rubble.

Greg perused the various structures that ran along the outer bailey wall. One of them was supposed to be a stable. And sure enough, he spotted a handful of horses in various stages of tending. A couple of young lads wheeled a barrow of horse manure out of the open door and toward the main gate. They were probably headed for some sort of rubbish pile or a compost heap. He’d wager the latter.

A large wagon rattled into the bailey and Greg slowed as it passed. He nodded to the driver and smiled at the woman sitting beside him. Three little faces grinned at him from the back. He waved and the girls giggled.

He continued across the dusty expanse and his heart stopped for a beat. He ducked behind a horse and looked back. Shite. It was the bloke who’d set fire to that cottage and had knocked him out. God, in his outrage and confusion over Mycroft and time traveling, he’d completely forgotten about that poor family, who now, it seemed, really had been burnt out of their home. Could Greg get justice for them? He stopped in his tracks. At the time, he’d wondered at being the only person at this odd scene for a re-enactment. Him being the sole witness to that event—what seemed to now be an actual crime—was just more proof that he’d traveled through time. Christ on a cracker. He scrubbed his scalp with his fingers. He needed to find Corc and find him asap.

Greg ducked between people and horses and dodged children and dogs as he made his way to the stable.

He entered the structure and called out, “Corc? Corc, are you in here?” Though not too loudly. Of course, the chances of Pyro hearing him above the din were small. But still, Greg didn’t want to chance the man becoming alerted to his imminent arrest.

“Aye.”

With a sinking stomach, Greg turned around to see Burly Bloke. “Corc?”

“Aye.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Really?”

Corc looked perplexed, as if he didn’t recognize Greg. “You know who I am, right? The one you tied up and brought to Mycr—to the laird a few days ago?”

He nodded. “Maighstir Lestrade, aye?”

“Yes, that’s right. Greg, you can call me Greg. But listen, there’s a man out there.” Greg pointed into the bailey. “He burnt down a cottage the other day.”

Corc frowned. “Who?”

Greg moved to the doorway and looked to the last place he’d seen Pyro. Corc stood beside him, waiting. Aw, hell, Pyro wasn’t there. Greg scanned the immediate vicinity of the man’s last known location, increasing the search in concentric circles until he spotted the dark head. He pointed. “There. Dark brown hair, 170 centimeters tall, dirty tunic, and torn kilt.”

Corc pushed past Greg and strode through the crowd. He grabbed the man by his upper arm before he started talking to him. Greg could barely hear Corc from this distance, though he wouldn’t have been able to understand him even if he had been standing right next to him.

The man chattered back at Corc, but Greg couldn’t tell if he was protesting his guilt or claiming his innocence. Greg had no idea if the family who’d lost their home belonged to the Holmes clan. If they did, there was no way to know if they’d been here for the Midsummer’s event. Seemed fishy that the perp had shown his face though. Since Greg was the only available witness at this point, he hurried after Corc.

He caught up with them in Mycroft’s big office, with Mycroft holding court. The perp stood to the side, hands tied behind him. His ankles were bound too and attached to a ring in the floor. If the man had been innocent, Greg might have questioned the overkill.

“Ah, Greg, Corc’s telling me ye identified this man as one who burnt down a cottage.”

Greg nodded. “The day I traveled. When I came to, I had no idea which way to go, so I just took my best guess and started walking. Anyway, I finally saw smoke—but you know, just from the chimney—so I headed for it, knowing I was going to find people. But as I got closer, the smoke got thicker and blacker. I started running and soon saw the cottage on fire. When I reached the yard, your prisoner was holding back another man, the owner of the cottage I suspect, while two others held onto a teen-aged boy. A woman and two young children were under a nearby tree, just watching, crying and scared.”

“Thank ye,” Mycroft said to him.

Turning to Corc, he conferred in Gaelic and then spoke to the rest of the assembled men. From the length of the conversation, Mycroft must have been relaying Greg’s testimony. There were many nods and ayes. Mycroft spoke again to Corc who nodded. Pyro looked pissed off and started blabbering. Corc issued some sort of command and he shut up immediately. Two other men came forward, officers or deputies, if the uniform look of their clothing meant anything, and took custody of the prisoner. They hauled him down the narrow corridor and out of sight.

“Where are they taking him?” Greg asked.

“He’ll be kept in the oubliette until Corc can locate the family and the cottage to confirm your account. After that, he’ll be executed.”

Greg swallowed. It was a harsh sentence. But this was 1513 and Greg well knew it. Mycroft’s clan had to have confidence that their laird would provide swift and harsh justice to deter others. Greg wasn’t opposed to the concept in principle, but the reality of it was a little more difficult for him to deal with.

“I have no choice,” Mycroft said softly.

The room had cleared and it was just the two of them.

Greg stared blankly at the door everyone had exited through. “I know. I understand. I do. I have the benefit of history, but the future justice system is a kinder gentler place most of the time. And that’s my world. So this is just a reality check I guess.”

“I hope ye dinnae think less of me.”

Greg looked at him and saw a vulnerable man, not an implacable laird. “No, of course I don’t.” Greg shook his head for emphasis and placed a hand on Mycroft’s forearm. He remembered the Mycroft of last night. The sensitive, lonely man who needed a friend. Greg let go of any remaining misgivings and squeezed his arm lightly. “Those people needed justice and I’m certainly glad they’ll get it.”

“And they’ll get help. I promise,” Mycroft said and smiled, and his eyes shone a bit brighter and bluer. Greg’s breath hitched. He’d done that.

“Good, I’m glad. Now…I’m supposed to be learning to ride a horse. I was on my way to do that when I saw the perp.”

Furrows creased Mycroft’s forehead. “Perp? You mean the prisoner?”

“Short for perpetrator, yes, the guilty party.” Greg chuckled and shook his head.

“Ah. I can never get enough of yer words. As for the riding lessons, I think Corc is going to be a bit busy for the rest of the afternoon. I suspect your lessons will have to wait for the morrow.”


Chapter Sixteen

Greg and the others crested the hill and Mycroft called the party to a halt. Mycroft had ridden by Greg’s side most of the trip, peppering him with questions. He’d said he’d wanted to learn as much as he could while he had the chance. Greg hadn’t minded overmuch as it kept his mind off his arse.

He’d spent stretches of time in the mornings and in the afternoons of the last two days learning how to ride properly, as well as how to instruct the horse with both physical cues as well as verbal ones. Corc had been the hands-on instructor, but Mycroft had always been close by to provide translation services where there were gaps in Corc’s knowledge. It hadn’t been as embarrassing as it could have been. They’d given him a gentle and obedient horse, and he’d kept his seat. He wouldn’t win any races, but he could get where he needed to go.

And he’d gotten to where he’d needed to go.

The sun was high in the sky and there was little breeze to dry the sheen of moisture that now coated his forehead. Riding horses all day everyday was hard work.

Greg pulled in a deep breath and stared at the nine stones that had caused all this trouble. He glanced at Mycroft. “Let’s do this. I’m sure you’ll be just as glad to get me out of your hair once and for all as I will be to get home.”

Mycroft’s smile was tinged with something Greg couldn’t quite name. Regret? Sadness? Sympathy? He nodded and called, “Hee ya.” The horses cantered down the slope and across the meadow, finally coming to a stop once more. Greg slid from his saddle and almost collapsed. None of Mycroft’s men, nor Mycroft, offered any help, but they didn’t laugh. Mycroft dismounted as well.

They’d been riding for four and a half days straight, and for a guy who’d barely learnt to ride, it was hell on horseback. His arse felt chafed, his head throbbed, his thighs ached, and his bits were exhausted from not only living in a nervous expectation of disaster, but from dangling without support for the last week. He’d be just as happy to never set his arse in a saddle again. That was by far the worst aspect of 1513 for him. Give him the Tube any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Mycroft and Greg handed their reins over to Corc. Mycroft spoke to Corc for several minutes before he and his men took off.

Mycroft watched until they disappeared from view. He started walking toward the standing stones and Greg fell into step beside him. They entered the circle and stopped.

“Do ye remember which stone it was?”

“The largest one I think, but 500 years of weathering… And the trees there…” He pointed. “…they’re youngish now. In my time, they were twice as high and much larger in diameter.”

They stood there as silence filled the space between them. Greg wanted to go home. He most certainly did, but now that his return was imminent he felt a tiny bit bereft at the thought. This Mycroft, this laird, this man—he touched a place in Greg that had very much needed touching and now he had to walk away.

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

Greg snorted. Where had that cliche come from? He couldn’t be in love with Mycroft. He barely knew the man.

Mycroft’s glance skimmed the stones before he softly cleared his throat. “Here we be. I have been verra honored to ken ye, Greg Lestrade. I thank ye for sharing so many amazing and wonderful details about yer time.”

Greg fought the tingling at the bridge of his nose and held out a hand. “I’m honored to know you, Laird Holmes. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I apologize for being such a giant pain in your arse.”

“Ach. It sounds as if haphazard time travel tapered off at some point. I understand why ye were so disbelieving.”

“Thank you for your hospitality too. I’d return your tartan, but…”

Mycroft smiled knowingly. “Indeed.”

“It’ll certainly be a unique souvenir.”

“That it will.”

“Well…”

“Go,” Mycroft said softly. “Touch the stones. Each one in turn.”

“Right.” Greg nodded and headed for the nearest one.

He skimmed his hands across its surface, which was more textured than he remembered, but then again…500 years. He closed his eyes for a moment, but felt nothing. After another few moments, he moved to the next one. Same lack of noise and wind. He approached the third one. Still nothing. Maybe he needed to be more patient at each one. He left his hands in place and his eyes closed for a bit longer. Not a sound, not a stirring of air. What if this didn’t work? A bevy of disgruntled bees buzzed in his stomach. It had to.

He glanced at Mycroft, standing at the center of the circle, who nodded and then gestured with a lift of his chin for Greg to continue.

Greg’s heart fluttered as he neared the fourth stone. Relief coursed through him, warming him. He placed his hands on the surface, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out. Oh, good. This stone was warm like he remembered. He waited. Breathed in and out deeply. But there was nothing. He swallowed against the thickening of his throat, the churning of his stomach. What was he going to do if this didn’t work? He slapped the stone and pushed away from it. He wasn’t going to think like that.

Though Greg didn’t look at Mycroft directly, he noted that he was still where Greg had left him in the center of the circle. He appreciated the support.

Greg repeated his little procedure at the fifth stone, the sixth, the seventh, going colder and colder inside with each failure. Two stones left. His hands trembled now and his knees were going to collapse at any moment.

The eighth stone was the largest, both in height and circumference. Please please please…

This stone was warmer than the others too. Heat suffused his hands while a cool breeze rushed up his arms and over his neck making him shiver. Yes, this was it! Thank God. He was going home. His stomach lurched. He wanted to yell one last good bye to Mycroft, be he didn’t dare make a move.

The sound of rustling leaves surrounded him and he swayed with the force of the wind. He didn’t know if he should fight against it or let it sweep him up. A high-pitched keening sound brought his shoulders up as he fought to protect his ears. He scrunched his eyes against the pain of ice picks to his eardrums. He was just about to cry out when the sound morphed into the deep bellow of a freight train.

The air pressure changed and he felt as if his whole body were being compressed. He struggled to breathe, gasping for air, and then he heard his name being called.



Chapter Seventeen

Dark shadows hurtled past Greg and he tumbled around in a whirlwind of warmth and moisture.

A far away voice calling to him penetrated the whooshing din. There was something familiar about it, something warm, something enticing. His gut said to move toward it, but his mind screamed no. Somewhere deep inside him he knew he needed to listen to his head. He just wasn’t quite sure how to make that happen. The voice seemed to come to him from all directions.

He knew where he needed to go though. London, ultimately, but the standing stones outside of Dumfries were his first stop, so he focused his thoughts there. He imagined the meadow where he’d sat to watch the dancers. Then he pictured the stones and the trees. The little green lights. The twilit sky.

Then he pictured his hotel room and the belongings he’d left there. He pictured Dumfries’ cityscape and the train station.

The fog thinned, grew lighter, the air calmed, the voice grew louder, became clearer.

“Greg, are ye all right? Be ye hurt?”

Greg’s eyes popped open to find Mycroft’s face hovering over him, the brilliant blue sky a backdrop to concerned gray-blue eyes and a furrowed brow.

Oh no no no no no! Coldness poured over Greg like a bucket of ice water. He came to his knees, his head throbbing mildly, while Mycroft scrambled back and away from his sudden movement in order to avoid knocking their heads together. Greg scanned his immediate surroundings, spinning in a circle on his hands and knees. Once, twice, three times, looking farther and farther afield with every revolution. Young trees, no roads, no power poles, no mobile towers.

Oh, God, he was still in 1513.

He hung his head, scrunched his eyes closed, his breathing was ragged and harsh as if someone were squeezing his lungs. This couldn’t be happening.

Greg snapped his head up and skewered Mycroft with his eyes. “You said this would work.”

Mycroft shook his head slowly. “Nay. I never said such a thing.” His voice was soft. “I said I would bring ye here.”

In his brain, Greg replayed every pertinent conversation they’d had as best he could. He gave his head a hard shake and issued a pained cry when he came up empty. “Then why? Why did you bring me here? You wasted your time, your resources. Why?” he cried.

“Because ye needed to come. Ye needed to try to get home. I could have told ye it wouldn’t work, but would ye have believed me?”

Greg pressed his lips together, before shaking his head. “Probably not.”

“Ye came on Midsummer’s Eve. We haven’t a had a Midsummer’s visitor in decades. Usually we just get them with the full moon. All records indicate that a traveler can only return via the same means they arrived. In yer case, the standing stones, aye, but only at the next equinox or solstice. I’ll bring ye back at the full moon however If it is your wish.”

“But I’m not going to get home then, am I?”

“’Tis highly unlikely, Greg.”

All the fight, all the drive went out of Greg and he collapsed on the grass, arms crossed above his head and his cheek resting on his forearm, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft remained quiet and kept his distance.

“So…I’m not going home. Not for another—” He did the math in his head. “—two and a half months. I doubt anyone even realizes I’m missing yet.”

“No?”

“I was only in Dumfries a day. And let’s say I was out of things for a day when I traveled. I was at Bassendean for four days. We rode for five days to get here. That adds up to eleven days. My scheduled holiday was for a fortnight, so no one’s going to miss me for another three days.

“And that’s assuming there’s no time offset.”

A deep sadness welled up inside him and he buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He took deep breaths trying to stave off the tears that would solve nothing. But dammit, like a great big mama’s boy, he wanted to go home. He sucked in a breath and let out a shuddering sob. He let himself cry for several minutes and then hauled in a cleansing breath. He wiped his face and looked up at Mycroft. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. ‘Tis honored I am that ye trusted me with yer sadness and grief. ‘Tis I who am sorry that ye cannae get home.” He got to his feet and held out a hand.

Greg sat up and placed his hand Mycroft’s. Long tapered fingers closed around his hand. A tremor ran through him and he looked into Mycroft’s eyes. Mycroft looked a little stunned, as though he’d felt it too, whatever it was.

Mycroft took one step backward and tugged Greg to his feet. The momentum wasn’t much, but it carried Greg forward into Mycroft’s chest. His hands came up to clasp Greg’s upper arms, the imprints of his fingertips searing through the thin fabric of Greg’s shirtsleeves. They stared at one another for long moments, the gray blue of Mycroft’s normally placid eyes suddenly a storm-tossed sea. Greg’s breath shallowed. Mycroft blinked and then crushed his mouth to Greg’s. A groan of surprise escaped him. Oh, God, they were kissing. Mycroft took advantage of Greg’s now-parted lips and canted his head sideways to fit their mouths tighter together. His tongue slid across Greg’s lips and Greg shuddered in base want. He gripped the folds of Mycroft’s kilt at his waist and held him close, opening his mouth wider and deepening the kiss. He never wanted it to end. Their breathing came in harsh inhales and exhales as their tongues slipped and slid against each other. He slid his hands around to Mycroft’s back, clasping him closer still, and he whimpered at the feel of Mycroft pressed against him from chest to knees. As if they were two missing pieces of a puzzle.

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Mycroft stiffened and delicately ended the kiss, but rested his forehead against Greg’s. Greg wanted to cry at the interruption.

“My apolo—”

“Don’t you dare,” Greg growled and stepped back. “Now send your answering call.” Mycroft looked as wrecked as Greg felt, which was something at least. He turned away and wiped an arm across his eyes and mouth, and then bent at the waist, bracing his hands on his knees as he got his breathing under control. Fuck. That had been…better than…

Mycroft’s answering trill sounded behind him.

“Did anyone see that? Are you in danger?”

“Nay, Greg. Corc and the men, they were scouting a place to set up camp. I knew this would be hard for ye and I told them no’ to appear unless I responded in the affirmative.”

Horse hooves thudded as the group, with Corc in the lead, crested the small hill and cantered towards them. Mycroft touched his shoulder and herded him between two of the stones and toward the riders.

The men exchanged greetings and conversation with their laird for a few minutes.

“They’ve found a nice meadow with a nearby cave.” Mycroft said to Greg. “They’ve caught dinner and Earc is guarding the camp and the meal while the rest of them came to fetch us.”

Greg lips turned up at the corners, but that’s about all he could manage. He felt mostly hollow inside. But also amazed. The man had kissed him. And it’d been bloody brilliant.

“We can double up with two of the men or we can walk.”

Greg’s arse throbbed in complaint and he groaned. In the aftermath of his failed attempt to get home, not to mention that kiss, he’d forgotten how sore his arse actually was. “Considering I’m looking at another five days in the saddle, I’ll walk if it’s all the same to you.”

Mycroft chuckled and relayed Greg’s sentiment. Everyone laughed in good natured amusement and took off at a gallop toward camp. Corc rode on ahead, giving them privacy, but he stayed in view for them to use as a guide to their temporary lodgings, such as they were.

“About before…” Greg half-turned, waved a hand back toward the stones.

“Let’s leave that particular conversation for another day, Greg.”

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft held up a hand.

“’Tis no’ that I don’t wish to speak of it, I do, I promise, but ye’ve had a great shock today. Let’s return to Bassendean. Let’s recover from our travels and then, when we’ve both had time to consider, then we’ll talk.”

Mycroft was right. There was a lot going on inside of him. Disappointment. Anger. Shock. Confusion. Worry. Want. Had he mentioned confusion? What about want? And what about the tiny part of him that was glad to have more time with this Mycroft?

But now that his adrenaline levels were falling, the throbbing and twinging going on throughout his body made it difficult to think about anything other than a hot bath and twenty-four hours of sleep, much less a kiss that had rocked him to his boots.

He nodded. “Yeah, all right. You’re right.”

“Ach, of course I’m right,” Mycroft said and chuckled. “I’m the laird. Let’s go home now.”

The End

To be continued…

Comments

[nia_kantorka]

Oh, that was the most enticing story and I read Mystrade fics only every once in a while. I'm fascinated by your historic setting and Mycroft being so amiable. Your Laird Mycroft is adorable, MA. And I wish he and Greg would find a way to be both happy. But I fear been thrown back in time is quite an obstacle. Well, let's see what the 2nd part will bring. I'll suscribe to your fics as soon as I know who you are. Wonderful story, indeed. Thank you very much for sharing!

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for reading and your very kind words.

[saki101.livejournal.com]

This is a wonderful premise and so beautifully brought to life. The state of mind of both Greg and Mycroft is completely convincing and the descriptions were a pleasure to read. I am very much looking forward to the posting of Part II of this story!

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much for reading. Your kind words totally made my day.

[oboetheres.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I've really enjoyed reading this, and I'm so glad that you were able to really get into something based on my requests!

I really enjoyed the way you painted the relationships in this fic, especially the one between Mycroft and Anthea. They aren't 'right' for each other in some sense, but they still have such a sweet relationship.

I'm certainly looking forward to an eventual part two!

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

I'm so happy you liked it. Thanks for your kind words.

[oboetheres.livejournal.com]

You're welcome! I hope at some point I'll have a chance to comment in more depth.

I really, really enjoyed this fic, but this time of year gets really overwhelming; I wasn't able to sit down and put as much thought in as I would have liked.

Again, thank you so much for such an awesome fic! Where would one follow/subscribe to have the best chance of catching any subsequent parts when they are posted? (eta: Whoops. Should have scrolled down a bit and read all your other replies. I see that you'll be posting on AO3.)

[dioscureantwins.livejournal.com]

I'm not a Mystrade fan at all and yet I kept reading this. I love how everyone is so IC and I love the world building which is wonderfully done. Thank you for writing such an intriguing fic, a great premise for part two.

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

Wow, thanks so much. Your comments tickled me pink.

[sanguinity]

I like this new sixteenth-century Mycroft you created: far more accessible, far more willing to experience his own emotions, far more willing to form bonds with others. Still recognizably the same man we knew from the 21st century, but with a very different set of social pressures/expectations on him, which have shaped him accordingly. The clans don't run on bureaucracy and hyperrationality, after all, they run on loyalty, charisma, and personal leadership, and Mycroft has grown to fit that accordingly.

And Greg being a time-traveller from five centuries on... It is very clear what the appeal is, and how they might be evenly matched.

And someone else also said, but I'll repeat: I appreciate how you handled Anthea's and Mycroft's marriage. She and her husband each genuinely want the best for each other, and are determined to be as kind as possible in the meanwhile, despite the mismatch.

...midsummer of 1513, hm? I'm curious, are we about to see Mycroft become the Scottish government, so to speak, as a regent for James V?

I'm looking forward to reading the sequel. :-)

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

Aw...Thanks so much for taking the time to not only read but comment. Your words completely made my day.

As for Mycroft becoming the Scottish government...great idea, but that wasn't my original end goal. :)

[sanguinity]

Heh, I shall look forward to seeing your end goal, whatever it is. Where will you be publishing the continuation?

[jagnikjen.livejournal.com]

AO3, same author name. Thanks!