Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Because everything that begins must end. What causes us to suffer is not in the past or the future: it is here, now, in our memory, in our expectations. We long for timelessness, we endure the passing of time: we suffer time. Time is suffering.” 
— from L’ordine del tempo (or ‘The Order of Time’) by Carlo Rovelli, 2017

[1985-1993]

Mycroft was two weeks shy of turning 13 when he first met Greg, under the portico of the National Gallery.

Greg, to Mycroft, had then been just an anonymous gentleman, kind enough to offer his umbrella to a youngster trapped by the rain.

“Doesn’t seem to be stopping any time soon,” he’d remarked, with the apologetic air of someone taking responsibility for the British weather, probably having noticed the way Mycroft had been frowning at his watch, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. D’you want to take this? Short daylight hours now. Best not travel in the dark, yeah?”

Mycroft was more than old enough to be vigilant when walking alone after dusk, but he did need to hurry back — he’d promised to watch over his siblings in the evening. He should not have lingered in the gallery for as long as he did, should’ve resisted the compulsion to complete that final sketch. And he was not normally so careless as to be caught in the elements unprepared.

He looked up at the man (a police officer, perhaps, he now observed), thanking him for the kind gesture, and glanced down, hesitant.

“No worries, kid. Here,” he put the umbrella up, reassuring Mycroft with an easy smile, “I’ve got time to wait it out. Not in a rush to be anywhere.”

His smile was warm, and one that Mycroft would not forget.

*

Carrying the classic black umbrella, neatly furled through most of his journey home, had given Mycroft an unexpected sense of maturity. Confidence, even. And the wooden handle was calming to grip on the bustling train.

Mycroft treated it with care, and remembered to take it with him whenever he visited London again. It was quite improbable, statistically, given the city’s size and population — as his mind, ever mathematically inclined, would promptly remind him — but in case, just in case..

* 

Coincidences did occur, after all.

He was tutoring for a family in Hampstead one weekend — friends of his parents, who had a child due to sit the entrance assessment for Eton. With the remainder of the day to himself, and central London a short Underground ride away, it was an opportunity not to be forgone.

Mycroft had spent some time in front of Sebastiano del Piombo’s The Raising of Lazarus, and was about to move on to another piece when he spotted the man across the room, who was studying the caption to a Bronzino painting¹.

He had more silvered hair than in Mycroft’s memory, and looked older by five years at least, but recognition struck instantly, along with a sense of trepidation, and amidst it, anticipation.

The man broke into a friendly grin as he saw Mycroft approach, which was much more than Mycroft had hoped for as reaction to being disturbed by an awkward teen, and he appeared only mildly surprised when Mycroft held out the borrowed umbrella.

Cheeks warming, Mycroft expressed his thanks, courteously as a young man like him should be.

“Call me Greg,” the man responded, a shine in his eyes, “Even at work I’m only sometimes ‘Sir’d. And you can keep it, if you’d like.. It’s yours.”

They ended up walking together — through the next adjoining rooms in the gallery, before strolling outside, across Trafalgar Square, and into St James’s Park. They talked about the National Gallery’s collection. About London, and its landmarks; its museums (Mycroft was particularly delighted to learn that Greg had shared his fondness for the Natural History Museum).

It was a sunless day, the end of an exacting week. And when Mycroft returned home later, those familial problems they’d been having would still not be okay. Yet by the time he had bid Greg farewell, Mycroft felt unexpectedly refreshed, and that bit more positive about the days that lay ahead.

*

There were multiple things — potential clues — he noted on that second encounter, but it was not until after the third that Mycroft acquired enough confidence about his hypothesis. Stress and fatigue might have a visible impact on senescence, but surely nothing could cause ageing and de-ageing to such an effect, within a timescale of a few months.

Greg was a time traveller. From sometime in the future, judging by aspects of his attire and manner of speech. Though he did not seem to have any more power dictating the time and place of their meetings than Mycroft himself.

Unlike his younger brother, Mycroft had known to be conscious of his spoken words ever since he first taught himself to deduce. He broached the subject carefully, polite and allusive, compelled by curiosity, by fascination, and perhaps a level of trust more than he ought to place on a strange man he barely knew.

The warm brown gaze regarded him with apparent intrigue, “Go on then, tell me what else you’ve deduced about me.”

Mycroft did, and was pleased to have clearly impressed Greg (“Brilliant, Mycroft! Truly.”). He listened attentively as Greg explained the couple of aspects he had overlooked, showing Mycroft further pieces of information he might’ve inferred — if one factored in certain other generalisations.

It was quite amazing, the insights Greg was able to offer. Mycroft was more than a little awed, and permitted it to tinge his reaction. It was seldom he felt this specific brand of respect any more, frequently proving his knowledge and ability to be above the level of any academic curriculum set for him.

Greg merely chuckled, ruffling his hair. “Experience, is all. Can’t be a copper for twenty-five years and learn nothing, ey? And well,” Greg added, a hint of what might be fondness crinkling his eyes, “I’ve had some pointers myself. From the very best.”

* 

By age 14, Mycroft had met Greg — mostly an older Greg, who was maybe from different time points in his forties — on several more occasions.

“Sorry for the erratic schedule,” Greg had indicated his regret as he greeted Mycroft by the Thames once, the Tower Bridge within view, “I don’t choose where I get sent to, or when, and I’ve got no say over how long I’m staying, either. Bit rubbish, isn’t it? Astonishing really, that I still keep running into you, somehow.” Thus confirming Mycroft’s conjecture.

“I do like to think this isn’t just the universe being lazy,” he had heard Greg remark, quietly, and seemingly rather to himself, his gaze far away.

Mycroft was not entirely certain of its relevance, but he could agree with the expression nonetheless. There was a reason behind everything, if not always for a purpose.

Despite his normal penchant for planning, for remaining organised and prepared, Mycroft looked forward to the unexpected meetings nonetheless, and found himself in irrational anticipation each time he had cause to be in London. Anticipation, at the prospect of spotting the familiar silver hair somewhere, in the crowd or across the street, of yet another chance to sit beside the man with gentle eyes and encouraging words.

The man who, as Mycroft became increasingly aware, was also more handsome than any other Mycroft had seen.

* 

“Hey.. You worrying yourself over something again, kiddo? You can ask, you know.. Anything you’d like to know, I’ll answer if I can, hm?” Since when had Greg been able to read Mycroft so well?

“How..” Mycroft hesitated over the phrasing of his question, “How often are occurrences like these, for you?” Have you met many other people in this way, from different times? Spoken with them, spent a half-hour together, maybe up to two hours, once in a while, like we do?

“The time-travelling, you mean? Not very. Started when I was..about your age, actually. Once or twice a year. Never more than five.”

“And..were there any patterns about them, that you could discern? The time and place?” Will there be a time, my time, when you..simply no longer visited? Will that time be..soon?

“It used to vary a lot more. Somewhere new every time, pretty much. But it’s always been in London, in the past — my past. And I’d usually end up being able to..help with something. Somewhere.. But then, that’s just how this world is, isn’t it? People in need, all the time. People who help each other, and those who..do harm, in one circumstance or another. Crimes take place every day. It’s..how I decided I wanted to join the Met.”

A pause, a small smile, before Greg continued, “But that’s probably a story for another day. Going back to your question — recent years, on the other hand.. Well, yeah, there’s been a pattern with the travels all right. Seems someone hasn’t grown too sick of running into me yet, ey?”

Mycroft was not ready to admit how opposite from the truth that suggestion had been, and chose to comment on the other point that had drawn his attention instead:

“You..travel through time and space, helping people.” It was true, then. Greg really was. A light where there was shadow. Where even those who weren’t wanderers might be lost. Those like..Mycroft. 

Greg merely laughed. A rumbling sound, distinctly pleasant to Mycroft’s ears.

“I’m not The Doctor, Mycroft, if that’s what you’re implying. No TARDIS parked away somewhere, promise,” he joked. Mycroft recognised the reference. Perhaps he might start watching the show.

“And..” Greg began carefully, his expression more serious, “There’s an order to time as we know it, I suppose. You can’t — retrospectively — prevent something bad from happening, if it was going to happen. That’s still in sci-fi only. You can only try and lessen the suffering. Contain the damage.. Rectify the wrong..”

“Or ensure precautions were already in place,” Mycroft offered, “Contingency planning, as much as is possible. Sufficiently in advance. Sufficiently..large scale; universal.. The law. National and international security.” He added, thoughtful.

Greg smiled again. “Yeah. That.”

*

When left undisturbed, Mycroft generally read. History, science, and philosophy — he appreciated their broadening of his perspective, and enjoyed challenging himself to think. He was more selective with fiction, though was partial to a suspenseful story.

Poetry was not amongst Mycroft’s more well-acquainted subjects, and it was Greg who first planted in his mind the enduring words of J. Rudyard Kipling², words he would find himself revisiting time and again:

If you can keep your head when all about you

   Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

   But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting…

“You’re a good lad, Mycroft,” Greg had told him, his voice an anchor in a sea of unknowns, “You’re going to be a great man. Give it time.”

*

Mycroft didn’t have friends, and meeting Greg.. Meeting Greg in those uneasy years, as the weight of Mycroft’s responsibilities became heavier to bear, as he sought to find his way, carrying secrets and doubts, was a kindness Mycroft never expected the universe to bestow.

He did not know how far into his own future that Greg would continue to meet him. If Greg had seen in person the man that Mycroft would become. There were things they did not talk about, though not by any spoken agreement.

The world Mycroft had yet to experience, for instance; England in twenty or thirty years’ time, in any detail (spoilers, as Greg called them). And then there was Greg’s personal life — beyond the obvious, that Mycroft could observe; it was not his place to pry.

Greg wore a gold band. One of two gold bands. Mycroft had mostly seen him with the newer one. Not more than three years old, even when Greg was at the oldest Mycroft had met him.

Mycroft tried not to stare — it made his cheeks warm.

*

At school, his peers had become inclined to take pride in a specific category of topics, a certain type of jokes. Girls. Sex. Mycroft did not join them. He’d surmised he was most likely gay. In concept only — none of the boys at Eton had remotely tempted his interest, nor did any other he had met, younger or older, on reflection.

Until he thought of the one time traveller in his acquaintance. He flushed, and firmly halted that train of thought.

Mycroft did not fantasise, though those involuntary whilst asleep, he could not control. And more than once in his adolescent dreams his mind had taken the liberty to envisage what it would be like to be a man — a man, not a boy. Someone that Greg would regard as his peer. Someone that could..love Greg, in the adult sense of the word, and was worthy of having that love be returned.

He had awoken flustered. Uncomfortable, and ashamed.

*

That warm August day, his A Level results in hand, Mycroft took the train to London, in search of Greg. Somehow having faith that Greg would be there. Greg was always there on days that mattered the most.

Greg had been waiting for him at their bench in St James’s Park. He wore a crisp dinner jacket that accentuated his physique, his attire complete with an emerald green tie and a matching pocket square.

Mycroft found it terribly distracting.

Greg beamed as he saw Mycroft, striding over to pull Mycroft into a hug, before firmly gripping Mycroft’s shoulder as he offered his congratulations.

As Greg naturally enquired about Mycroft’s plans for the ensuing two months, before the start of his university term, Mycroft regretted being unable to recover his full focus, his joy from earlier that morning forgotten, short-lived.

The scent of wine on Greg. And a hint of the cologne Greg rarely wore. The lack of a ring — Mycroft had only seen Greg without one on two previous occasions.

He should be happy for Greg. He was happy for Greg, sincerely.

Yet there was perhaps just a tinge of something unsettling weighing on his lungs, unfamiliar, and unpleasant. Something he refused to identify.

“I am sorry that this is interrupting your date, Greg. I do hope you will have a nice evening when you return.” He said carefully.

“Oh. Uh,” Greg blinked at him, surprised, amused, “It wasn—” he started to say, before seeming to reconsider. “Thank you. I..think we will.”

There was a slight smile tugging at the corner of Greg’s mouth.

Mycroft tore his eyes away.

*

Years passed. Mycroft stood taller than Greg now, Greg who no longer ruffled Mycroft's hair.

He’d graduated from university — Balliol College, Oxford³ — top of his year for the Philosophy, Politics, and Economics course, and accepted an offer to a job of which he was not to speak outside of his employment.

The day of his degree ceremony, Greg, who looked so pleased, so proud, gave him a framed copy of If, the poem that Mycroft had long knew by heart.

 …If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

   Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

   If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—

   Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

In his 21st year, for the first time in his life, Mycroft thought that the notional gentleman that Kipling had described, the man that Greg believed Mycroft had potential to be, did not seem so distant an image after all. 

The same year, as it turned out, would also mark an end to Mycroft’s sporadic crossing of paths with the time traveller, as Mycroft would realise, much later. He was concerned that Greg might have been unwell, and took some comfort reminding himself of the number of plausible reasons for the alternative, that Greg was simply disinclined to see him again.

Greg had admitted to having no conscious control over the time and place he was to be briefly transported into, yet what about subconsciously?

Mycroft had been independent even as a child, and was more than capable of being his own guide, his own judge as well as solace, as he made his way through his adult life and career, finally a man. And Greg, who was kind, so wonderfully, incredibly kind, decided it best that he gave his time and wisdom to those truly in need. 

And, what was more, Mycroft feared, his time with Greg had ended because, in those few final meetings, Mycroft had let his unrequited affection become embarrassingly transparent to Greg. Greg, who was married, and only ever cared for Mycroft like he would a child.

In his 21st year, Mycroft finally moved to London, to find that Greg, had moved on.

But really, as should Mycroft. Greg had a life in his own time.

Chapter Text

“This is time for us. Memory. A nostalgia. The pain of absence. But it isn’t absence that causes sorrow. It is affection and love. Without affection, without love, such absences would cause us no pain. 
For this reason, even the pain caused by absence is in the end something good and even beautiful. Because it feeds on that which gives meaning to life.” 
— from L’ordine del tempo (or ‘The Order of Time’) by Carlo Rovelli, 2017

[2005]

The moment his eyes focused on the man stepping into Detective Inspector G. Lestrade’s office, it was as though all air around Mycroft had been drained away.

‘Greg?’ The name, that name. He could almost feel its weight on his tongue, its shape between his lips.

Mycroft was thankful it was not vocalised, for there were several things he then observed and processed, in the next two seconds. Amongst them, two were of principal importance:

Greg was at least as young as the youngest Mycroft had known — when Mycroft had met him for the first time; possibly younger. And Greg was not pleased to find him there.

It was with years of well-honed composure that Mycroft was able to initiate professionally the conversation that had been the purpose of his trip, managing to keep the tremor away from his voice as he introduced himself to the detective inspector. Mycroft Holmes, minor government official, and brother to Sherlock Holmes who, yes, might well have been going by a fraudulent name, the identification he carried was highly unlikely to be his own.

A handshake was offered at the end of their impromptu meeting. An ordinary enough gesture, from one man to his equal.

Mycroft should not have been so moved by it.

He gripped the detective inspector’s outstretched hand and shook once, firmly, before letting go, ignoring the palpitations in his chest.

Those were unauthorised emotions, upon which Mycroft did not trust himself to dwell.

*

Sherlock was showing signs of improvement. Once again, it was thanks to Greg. Greg, who had occupied a space in Mycroft’s life and Mycroft’s thoughts for a second time, even if the man himself was not yet aware.

What was it about this man? How had he managed it, always happening to appear when Mycroft was most distressed?

[2006]

It was not until receiving the text message from the detective inspector that Mycroft realised he had left his umbrella in Greg’s office.

One amongst many in Mycroft’s possession. And one of several to be carried for daily use, with no weaponry concealed inside.

(Mycroft had all his umbrellas custom-made, replicas of one single template. Not for any sentimental reason, of course, Mycroft assured himself. He simply favoured the quality and its classic appearance.)

Mycroft phoned to assure Greg that it was of no consequence. Mycroft did not need to have it returned.

It was today, then. Today, for Greg. And, through a brief trip Greg was fated to take, for a 12-year-old who had not yet realised that he was going to be saved.

Mycroft resumed scanning through the reports from Andrea at his desk.

He welcomed the incessant background sound of pelting rain falling on window panes. It quietened the swift beats thumping against his ribs.

*

People change. Mycroft changed. The first time he met Greg, he had been a bookish child, smart beyond his years, and much bullied for being plump. He was barely an adult the last time he’d seen Greg — seen Greg. Still quiet, somewhat timid, and prone to worrying.

Some of those concerns had remained with Mycroft to this day, constant, concerns for Sherlock above all, but Mycroft no longer carried them in his demeanour, transparent, aqueous. No, Mycroft’s exterior had cooled and hardened, over time, culminating in an epithet that no one dared to use in his presence.

Logically, Mycroft was aware of the inevitable implications, of all that should be expected consequent of the..entanglement between Greg’s timeline and his own.

Greg had met Mycroft Holmes the man before he had encountered Mycroft as a child. He had most likely not recognised the boy at the National Gallery when the offer of an umbrella was made, but he must have made the connection, sometime during or in between his early meetings with the boy.

Mycroft felt comforted somewhat, that Greg — his older Greg, from all those years ago — had continued to speak with Mycroft, offering his bright smiles and endless patience, having known the man Mycroft was going to grow into all along.

Conversely, it meant that Greg had seen, or would come see, Mycroft’s juvenile blundering, and times when the adolescent was at his lowest ebbs — Greg had been the one to guide Mycroft out of those depressing depths, after all, lending Mycroft the strength to continue his climb.

He did trust Greg — Greg, the most honourable, principled man Mycroft had known — never to hold any of those against him.

Only, Mycroft would admit to himself, to missing the way Greg had looked at him. Missed the affection in the mesmerising deep brown of Greg’s dazzling eyes.

[2011]

Witnessing Greg’s struggles towards the end of his deteriorating marriage had felt like watching a pair of tender hands attempt to piece together broken glass. Painful, even from a distance. And Mycroft could not bear to see Greg further drained of his shine and his warmth under the final claws of his divorce.

This was not the man Mycroft had known. Mycroft’s Greg was someone who enjoyed a romantic evening, someone who entered a compatible second marriage.

Mycroft just wanted for Greg to be happy. He wanted to..make Greg happy. Support Greg through the difficult times, just like Greg had done for him.

As more than an acquaintance, an occasional contact. More than an expressionless man hiding behind an impression of power and position, behind a cityful of CCTVs.

Mycroft was a practised diplomat, a master of effective conversation. He was able to wield social engagement with ease, to favourable efficiency — a skill he had picked up early on in his career. And yet.. He found himself unsure of how he should approach the objective at hand.

Mycroft did not initiate strictly personal interaction. He was grossly unaccustomed to being agreeable company — let alone a warm one — without familial duties or a logical agenda in mind.

Mycroft didn’t know how to be someone’s friend. But for Greg.. For Greg, he found himself ready to try.

*

Greg had accepted his invitation for a drink at the Diogenes, though he nearly spat out his whisky, when Mycroft informed him, with what Mycroft had hoped was a smile rather than a grimace, that it was in fact a social meeting.

“Sorry, I’m afraid you’ll have to spell that one out,” he regarded Mycroft, his frown deepening, “Wait, this isn’t you..pitying me, is it, because I sure as hell—”

“No, no. Greg,” It had been years, years, since Mycroft allowed that name — that name, instead of a title, a police rank — to roll off his lips.

I care for you too, Greg. You must have known, surely you must have known..

It was not a string of syllables that Mycroft was capable of uttering aloud. Greg’s eyes widened at Mycroft’s change of tone, regardless.

Neither of them spoke another word for a few moments, allowing the quiet to settle.

“We could, of course, talk about Sherlock,” Mycroft ventured, humour in his voice, “If that is what you would prefer.”

Greg laughed, and the overcast in his expression appeared to be lifting, for the first time in months, “Generous of you to offer, Mycroft, but. Nah. We’ll be all right without.”

Something in Greg’s voice was warming the inside of Mycroft’s chest. A once-familiar tingling.

Odd, was it not, that in this fleeting world of humankind, ubiquitously full of variables dependent upon time, it should sometimes be the smallest things that remained as constant. Secure in their special place, never quite completely tucked away.

[2012]

Mycroft returned to his living room, a decanter and tumblers in hand. Greg was not there. 

It was not often that they shared a meal together, but they were going to watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics on television, and decided it might well be an evening of leisure. Greg and he had both been working without pause for months. They were just back from the restaurant, and—

Oh..

Mycroft had been prepared mentally for weeks, assuring himself the disconcerting sensation in his chest was nothing more than protectiveness for his friend, that he should feel more positive of the eventuality, when Greg’s future spouse would enter the stage.

Any day now, there would be someone who caught Greg’s eye, and be — as Mycroft thought inevitable — unable to resist Greg’s charms. A lovely lady, perhaps. Or a decent gentleman, a possibility Mycroft knew not to eliminate. The subject of orientation did once transpire in their chat.

So certain Mycroft had been in his presuppositions, so determined he was not to long for the unattainable, that he had failed to observe what he now realised were alarmingly plain signs.

That dinner jacket, the patterns on Greg’s tie, the state of his haircut..

Mycroft knew the precise point in time — and space — that Greg was now located. And he remembered clearly, the exchange from all those years ago, remembered Greg’s response.

But.. But.

Mycroft’s mind did not feel like his own, his thoughts in a disorderly state. Knowns, unknowns, known unknowns.. He was not processing any of them.

Ironic, that he was too distracted to be alarmed.

Whether Greg had returned after five minutes or fifty, Mycroft would not have been able to provide an estimate if queried. He knew not what to say, what to assume, how to proceed.

Greg studied him, expression soft.

“Mycroft.. Mycroft, I need to ask. Are you— Are you, you know..” he gestured vaguely with his hand.

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer the question that was not verbalised, and closed it, swallowing, his throat dry. He simply held Greg’s gaze, letting his eyes convey the fervour he could not voice.

Greg seemed to understand.

“God, Mycroft, look at us both, I— I honestly never thought you’d be interested. I’ve..really rather fancied you for a while now, you know. The man you’ve become, I mean,” he clarified immediately, though there was no need.

Greg shook his head, disbelieving, though he could not have been doubting the reality of the moment as much as Mycroft himself had been. When had the air surrounding him turned so heavy?

His upper body had been inclining forwards. Or perhaps it was Greg’s. And then..

And then Mycroft was no longer breathing, for he had Greg in his arms, or he was in Greg’s arms, and Greg’s lips were warm and soft and firm against his, and Mycroft could only grasp onto the fabric of Greg’s jacket like a man about to drown, drinking in the exhilarating taste of Greg’s mouth and tongue with a desperation he had never once felt before.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was just enough clarity that said they ought to migrate elsewhere. Upstairs. There was a more comfortable surface upstairs..

Mycroft wished for time to slow, the universe outside pausing its hectic pace, but for Greg and himself.

*

Breathtaking. Greg was breathtaking. Mycroft’s fingertips brushed over Greg’s body, feeling chest and muscle and belly, pouring what he had felt for Greg into every lingering kiss, every reverential touch, and it was not enough. And it was wonderful.

Greg was breathtaking. Breathtaking, and right here, with Mycroft.

Greg, his dearest friend, his only friend.

His anchor in a storm. His North Star.

His intoxicant, and remedy. ..His love.

Greg. His Greg. He was Mycroft’s.

As Mycroft had been Greg’s, always, all along.

*

“Mycroft,” came Greg’s voice in the still-faint light just after dawn, barely above a whisper behind Mycroft’s ear, as he felt the strong arms around him tighten, ever so slightly. Mycroft leant back further into the warmth, turning his head to seek the press of Greg’s stubble to his cheek.

“Mycroft.. Even then?”

It was something of a non sequitur, but Mycroft understood the question.

“Greg—” Mycroft did not know how to explain the depth of his sentiment to someone who had meant so much, for so long, who in this moment made him feel overfilled simultaneously with hope and despair. Hope, as he was at last able to care for Greg the way he had wished to in his most daring dreams; despair, for fear of not quite knowing how, as though he had been a half-blind man, suddenly seeing the world in its full colours and vibrancy, for the very first time.

How was he supposed to convey all of that to Greg, when he could not quite put it into words himself, nor find the voice to say it?

Gazing into Greg’s enquiring eyes — most beautiful eyes — Mycroft settled for a simple truth:

“I have admired you since I was 14, Greg.”

[2014]

The pleasingly decorated hall was filled with melodies, one transitioning into the next, each meticulously chosen.

“Music could not have existed, were it not for our perceived ordering of time,” Mycroft remarked as they danced; he looked to their clasped hands, openly and completely fond, “As we register the notes, in a succession of ‘present moment’s, our minds join them sequentially, based on memory and anticipation.”

A minute increment in the warm weight of Greg’s right hand on Mycroft’s waist, “We owe it to time for this song, then. Thank the bastard for not messing it up.”

“Hm, absolutely. I have had cause to believe, however, that a song with its notes rearranged, though initially forlorn, could discover its own tune. And the result may just be,” Mycroft’s gaze found Greg’s, “Enchanting.”

“Mycroft,” Greg said slowly, as they continued to sway to the music, “Does anyone else know that you’re a closeted romantic?”

“Greg,” Mycroft warned, pausing to steal a kiss, and felt a mirroring smile against his, “I could still have you deported for disclosing classified information.”

“You could, yeah. But know that my husband would not be pleased.”

“Hm, no. He would not.”

Eyes closed, they leant into each other, foreheads touching, noses and breaths brushing. At their proximity, Mycroft could almost sense the heartbeat in time with his own. That of his new husband. He was comforted, impossibly content in their moment.

Feeling, and hearing, the gentle flow of time.

[2017]

A concussion. That was what made Greg lose the ability to loop across spacetime. A perturbance to neurotransmission on a quantum mechanical level, perhaps, and this was how it manifested as a macroscopic effect, Mycroft surmised, though he was no physicist. 

“I’m fine, love,” Greg insisted, a soft smile curling his mouth, “Some bruising, is all. ’ve had much worse.”

“You were injured. And darling, kindly do not remind me.”

“Here, you should get some rest.” Greg gestured with the arm that was not bandaged, which appeared to remind him, “Was the suspect—”

“All taken care of, I have been led to believe. Detective Chief Inspector.”

He brought the back of Greg’s fingers to his lips — a lightest of contact — and continued to hold his husband’s hand in his own.

Their timelines had truly coalesced now, superimposed into linearity. There were no glimpses of a future Greg that Mycroft had already seen, nor time points ahead where Greg would leave to join a younger version of Mycroft instead. Everything that time still had in store for them both, they would be memories for Greg and Mycroft to create, in partnership.

Mycroft knew no greater honour that he could possibly be privileged enough to receive.

*

Two men, crossing paths. Crossing paths like countless others, around this planet, with its every turn. Their story had a twist, their music with its notes transposed as they composed. Music that harmonised nonetheless, in a resonance, even whilst out of temporal align.

In the fabric of spacetime, in a universe of happenings, of tending towards disorder, every once in a while, time — it seemed — had its own logic on how to shuffle the threads about.