Chapter Text
Post Epilogue
Midsummer, the following year
Like the year before, three large bonfires crackled beyond the outer bailey. Three over-large behemoths roaring and radiating heat and light. A dozen or so men manned the conflagrations, keeping them in check but also fed.
Greg now knew names and faces, especially of the folks who lived and worked within the manor and the baileys. The people recognized him, as well, after his year of habitation in their world. They waved and smiled as he made his way through the day. His grasp of Gaelic was still rudimentary, but he could exchange greetings, make simple queries. He could certainly comprehend more than he could speak. Pronunciations still twisted his tongue, but he’d made a point to learn the correct pronunciation of Teàrlaidh’s name.
The official events of the day were over. The feasting and drinking had begun in earnest.
“Halò, Greg.”
Greg turned to find Beatan raising a tankard in greeting. “Hey, mate. Enjoying your evening?”
“Aye. And ye?”
“Very much so.”
“Good. ‘Tis good.” Beaten took a swig from his tankard and wiped his mouth with the back of the hand not holding the large, handled mug. His hair was askew and his face ruddy with fresh air and drink.
Greg laughed and lifted his own tankard. “I’m going to go get a refill.”
He made his way into the kitchen, waving at Morag. After all the time he’d spent beating carpets and doing heavy lifting for her, they, too had developed a friendship. She wasn’t old enough to be his mother, so she’d become more like an older sister, and he was grateful for the relationship. Cherished it more and more as the months had passed. Eventually he’d been invited to use her given name.
“Yer picnic be yonder.” She indicated the area near the doorway with a wave of her hand. “Himself has not been through yet.”
“Much obliged.” Greg kissed her cheek. These days, she was a member of the inner circle, although Hugh was not. A group that had grown to four beyond Anthea, Mycroft, and himself. “I’ll be down tomorrow to help with the heavy lifting.”
“Ta.”
“Least I can do,” he offered with a grin. Her use of contemporary verbiage always tickled him. He tossed the blanket over his shoulder and scooped up the picnic basket and wandered out the back and through the now familiar landscape of the Holmes holding. He didn’t know it nearly as well as Mycroft did, of course. Never would, never could. He inhaled the scent of herbs as he passed the herb garden, a calm stealing over him, and he couldn’t help but press his lips to his palm and send the kiss skyward. He noted just-sprouting vegetables as he strolled past the regular garden and rounded the well before crossing the inner yards where the maids usually worked. He passed the large berm protecting the back of the manor from the harsh winds and weather of the North Sea. He crossed to the jumble of boulders where he and Mycroft had had their first rendezvous a year ago. Their first date even if they hadn’t known it at the time.
The roar of the bonfires and the ongoing merriment of the clan drifted over the manor. All was well with the world at the moment and would be, relatively speaking, for several more decades.
* * * * *
Mycroft slipped into the stand of trees and watched his dear friend and precious lover, much as he had the previous year. This year, however, there were no uncertainties. No time constraints. No dark cloud of Greg’s departure looming.
Greg sat as he had the previous year, face turned to the sky, contentment writ upon his countenance, ease permeating his bearing.
Despite the harshness of the life Greg had chosen by remaining, he appeared younger than he had the year before. He was certainly more fit, more virile than he’d been. By his own admission, he was also more at peace and happier. The creases in his forehead and around his eyes that had once signaled anxiety and worry about his job and his friends in the future had smoothed out or disappeared altogether and had been replaced by lines of laughter, of joy and peace.
Some days, Mycroft’s chest hurt with its own fullness of joy. His contentment and happiness were far beyond measure, far beyond what he could have ever imagined. That this man had opted to remain in a time so different and backward from his own was a gift and a blessing. One that could never be repaid.
“I know you’re over there, Lucy,” Greg called. “Stop spying on me.”
Mycroft chuckled and stepped out. “No’ spying. Admiring yer form and figure.”
“Well come admire from less distance.” Greg rose and picked up the basket of foodstuffs, waiting for Mycroft to reach his side. “All well with Clan Holmes?”
“Aye. The pomp and ceremonies are complete for another year, and I have taken my leave from the festivities. Corc, Beatan, Teàrlaidh and Hugh shall remain on duty for the rest of the evening to make sure the merrymakers stay safe and sensible.” Mycroft would enjoy the respite as well as partaking in merrymaking of his own design.
“Shall we?” Greg waved an arm toward the sea.
The sky had morphed and dimmed in the last hour, transitioning from the bright blue of the day to the deeper blues of evening. Sunlight still limned the arch of the sky in raspberry, peach, and gold. Comfortable silence accompanied them across the scrubby expanse until they reached a bare patch of ground closer to the cliffs and the sea. The square of land flattened and bare due to their frequent tarriances. Just ahead, boulders the size of a large woolly sheep stood sentinel at intervals, providing a visual warning of the cliff’s edge some twenty feet beyond, but also indicating the contour of the crag from the southern border of Holmes land to the northern.
Mycroft tugged the blanket from Greg’s shoulder and spread it on the ground.
Greg dropped to his knees and laid out the feast that Mistress Phennel had blessed them with. They sat facing one another, Greg with a view of the manor, should anyone come searching for them, Mycroft looking toward the sea, left legs lined up alongside the other’s. They ate, enjoying the peace and semi-quiet afforded them by distance from the revelers and the noise break provided by the manor. From the very beginning, the silences between them had been easy.
“It’s been quite the year.” Greg knocked his boot against Mycroft’s hip.
Mycroft curled a hand around Greg’s calf and squeezed before sliding it up and around his knee, the wool of his trousers coarse on Mycroft’s palm. “It has, aye.”
He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sky, felt the brush of the salt-laced breeze on his cheeks. Events of the previous twelve months cycled through his memory, all starting with the arrival of a man from the future, looking dirty and tattered in a kilt claiming he’d been abducted, to the many hours spent in Greg’s company, listening to his voice, his tales of the future, and enjoying physical closeness in its many variations, from moments of friendship and conversation such as this one to the fulfillment of being joined in sexual congress.
Along with the pleasurable moments, however, there were the distressing ones. Greg’s disappearance, Mycroft’s injury, and worst of all…the horrendous battle last fall and the loss of his clansmen.
“Thanks to ye, we lost fewer men in a bloody, costly battle than we might have. Clan Holmes is in yer debt.”
Greg nodded, expression solemn. “I’m glad the losses were mitigated. I wish we could have done more.”
“Aside from eschewing our duties as Scottish citizenry and being tried for treason as a result, there was little else to do.” The deaths had stung. They’d not just been clansmen, but friends and family members.
“No. I know.” Greg sighed. “Still…”
“Aye.” Mycroft clasped Greg’s hand across the bridge of their legs and held his gaze, and they sat in a reverent silence to remember and honor those that were no longer with them. At some interval that they both somehow came to—Mycroft with a nod and Greg with a sigh—Greg released his hold and the moment ended.
“We made it through injury.” Mycroft rubbed his thigh. Thanks to Greg’s quick medical ministrations, his limb had healed with minimal repercussions. It’d taken a good four months to recover, and his leg still ached and the limp returned when he’d overdone or when the weather was exceptionally turbulent, but he was grateful. He could walk, he could run, he could fight when needed. Most importantly, he could lead his clan.
“We made it through the flu.”
“Again, thanks to ye.” During a bad stretch where so many had fallen to illness, Greg had taught the healers and the women about germs and general cleanliness and sanitation, and about the healing powers of a hearty chicken soup.
Mycroft had aided the transition by providing facilities for washing and for sanitation for even the smallest gathering of dwellings. Time would tell how his people availed themselves of the new procedures and how they fared as a result.
“Are there always so many new babies this time of year?” Greg asked.
Mycroft grinned. New souls could never take the place of the departed, but life continued. “Aye. As a result of the last midsummer revelry, there’s always a batch of new bairns come the spring equinox.”
“Including your own.”
“Including my own,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Although her creation happened just prior to the midsummer celebrations last year.” Ellen was now three months old, looking very much like her mother with dark brown eyes, dark brown curls, and an impish expression, even at her tender age.
“I’m honored you named her after my mum.”
“Ellen is a strong Gaelic name. It was Anthea’s idea.”
“Was it?” An expression of please surprised crossed Greg’s dear face.
“Aye. Seemed a good way to thank ye for all that you did last summer as well as the way ye’ve taken Owen under yer wing.”
“Well, how could I not? He reminds me very much of the Sherlock I left behind. And for now, at least, I can best his logic. He gets much older and smarter, I’m in trouble.”
Mycroft laughed. “Indeed. Another smaller crop of bairns will be making their appearance over the next couple month or two, maybe three.”
Greg nodded. “Right. Good-bye sex or you-returned-home-alive sex. Had either of us been able to conceive, we might be in a similar state.”
Mycroft made a face and shook his head. “I’ll leave the hard tasks to the women.”
Greg grinned at him, but as the moments passed, his expression turned solemn once more. “I traveled through time and then opted to stay.”
Mycroft glanced at the sky and then took Greg’s hand once again. “I fell in love for the first time.”
Greg squeezed and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I fell in love for the last time.”
A fullness that Mycroft had never known filled him. “And what of Lucy and Ricky?”
“I assume our fictional Ricardos lived happily ever.”
“And the real life Ricardos?”
With a shake of his head, Greg said, “Sadly, the real Lucy filed for divorce right after the final episode of “I Love Lucy” aired.”
“Ah.” Mycroft deduced the meaning of divorce and a weight settled in his gut. In the beginning, Greg’s tales of Lucy had bonded them. If Lucy couldn’t make her relationship work… “What of us then?”
Greg cocked his head and offered Mycroft a tender, loving smile. “As for us, my beautiful red-head, we are far different personalities than they were. The universe, in its infinite wisdom, sent me here to you because I needed you and you needed me.”
“Indeed it did, and indeed I do.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s hand this time. A star winked into being in the far eastern sky. “Now…tell me about house elves.”
“What?” Greg’s eyebrows arched, and his mouth curled up on one side.
With a tug of Greg’s hand, Mycroft leaned across their legs and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Earlier today, ye mentioned in passing that it would have been nice to have house elves to transport the food from the kitchen to the bailey.”
“Heard that did you?” he asked and chuckled.
“As ye meant me to, mischief.”
Greg’s hearty laugh rang out, echoing across the meadow. “Yes, I did. Had to tee up the summer’s confabulation.”
“So...house elves…”
The deep timber of Greg’s voice washed over Mycroft as he explained the notion of house elves and by the time he’d finished, the sun had finally set and a full complement of stars glittered overhead. Mycroft had a laundry list, as Greg often called it, of additional questions about Harry Potter, about Hogwarts, and about He Who Should Not Be Named. All questions would be answered in due course as the summer marched along.
But right now, it was time to take Greg home, time to take him to bed.
In the darkness, they walked hand in hand back to the manor.
And they lived happily ever after.