#max irons

You sighed out loudly. How boring this book is... Working as an assistant professor was quite tedious and time consuming, but it was worth the while. Back home, most of your time was spent reading from your father’s library or in the bedroom either painting, dawdling, or again reading. One fine day, your father who taught at the city university, was invited to teach at Candlin College, Oxford as a professor of literature for Her Majesty’s government. To this day, the argument between your parents still rings in your ears, about leaving the family home to live in the very country of the colonists. 

“We would be crazy to move to the country of the angrez! Our whole family is here; our culture is here! How can we just abandon all this and leave?” your mother brought up. 

“Arrey, all these thoughts have come into my mind. I would not have accepted this position if it weren’t a good thing. Just imagine the opportunities that our daughters would have. There’s only so much we can provide for them na?” your father replied.

“Ufff,” she sighed out as she sat next to her husband on their bed, leaning her head on her husband’s shoulder. “I know baba, I know. It’s just… it’s a big change for everyone. And I too only want what’s best for our daughters. I don’t want them to be pressured the same way we were.”

And so, the family had sailed the journey to England almost 15 years ago. It certainly wasn’t very easy moving to the place home to those who did terrible things in your home country. It took years to finally make friends with people who were genuine and kind. People who saw beyond your looks and towards the person you really were. Compared to back home, you were able to get more than a thorough education in Oxford. Your family was well off, and so education was something that was highly encouraged, leading to you and your sister to pursue a higher education. Deep inside, your parents knew their daughters were meant for great things, and given the opportunity, why not take it? 

And so, this is how you ended up with an assistant professor position at the very same school your father taught at: Candlin College. He was an esteemed faculty member at the school, inviting you to teach there as well. They claimed it was to “provide opportunities for the needy of the empire” or somewhat along those lines. Whatever the reason, it certainly wasn’t something to give up, right? Almost like “Steal from the rich, feed the poor,” you thought. You were quite nervous on your first day, the nerves running from head to toe. Waiting outside the dean’s office, surely your heart was going to escape from your chest and run back to your home. 

Yet, it was not as terrible as once thought. You were shown the classroom you would eventually teach in, your room of residence, and most importantly, the library. Filled to the top with books, it seems as if the shelves were never ending. Every author and philosopher you could ever imagine was available in the library. Well, almost everything. There was a noticeable absence of any desi authors. Luckily, you could refer to your personal collection.

Snapping out of your state of nostalgia, you heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” you beckoned.

The door creaked as it slowly opened, with a young scout walking in holding a large crate.

“Good afternoon, ma’am, I was told to bring this crate to your room,” he huffed, out of breath

Chuckling, you replied, “Of course, of course, you can place it wherever, if you can find space in this mess.” 

“Between you and me, I’ve seen worse,” The man whispered. 

A smile appeared on your face. “Thank you for bringing this up. I imagine it wasn’t very light.”

The young man replied, “All a part of my job Miss,” in a language only a few spokes in Oxford.

You were shocked to say the least. “You speak my language?”

He grinned slightly. “Truth be told, I needed something to do with all the free time I had the past six months, and I decided why not learn a new language. On the bright side, it annoys my older brother quite a bit.”

“I know a thing or two about younger siblings myself,” You let out a hearty laugh. “My sister loves to play with my patience when I return home to the country.”

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re from India, professor.” The scout noticed the perplexed look on your face, and continued, “It was the postage of the crate that gave it away. Similar coloring to what is found here in England; however, the text was different. In addition to the portrait of Queen Victoria, the text read, ‘East India Company, Twelve Annas.”

“You're quite the detective, young man. I am from India. Nevertheless, when I meant country, I meant the countryside. You see, my family now lives towards the Lake District.”

The young man stood across from you, with an expression of realization. “Oh. My mistake?” he sheepishly replied. 

“All is well, no harm done,” you said with a smile. “Your brother must be tired of your ‘detective’ deductions.”

“To be frank, I do enjoy riling him up. It is my duty as the younger brother. Well, I must be off, for there is more work to be done for a scout. Good day.”

“Good day to you as well!”

As the young man began to exit the room, you went toward the wooden crate and placed it atop your bed. Taking the lid off of the crate, you were greeted with a variety of smells and aromas. Right towards the top was a letter, sent from your extended family back home. All the pleasant smells came from the pouches of spices and aromatics that were packed, the delicately wrapped bundles of sandalwood incense sticks, and the pouches of loose-leaf masala chai. English tea wasn’t terrible, yet nothing compared to the flavors of chai. Coffee came close to second, but chai was chai, wasn’t it?

Beneath the pouches and bundles were a pile of shiny fabrics and a small wooden box with a metal clip in the front. You grabbed the fabrics, unfolding them to reveal the intricately woven sarees that were sent for you. Very rarely does the opportunity present itself for a saree, yet you insisted on having some just in case of an emergency. Sometimes you go to the tailor to have a dress made from the fabric of the saree. A simple and appropriate way for you to represent your heritage. The sarees that your family had sent this time were various shades of deep turquoise, magenta, and violet. Each saree had a simple golden border, with delicate golden motifs on the main body. You then opened the wooden box to find small gold jhumkhas with tiny pearls and a variety of nose pins: both for everyday wear and for special occasions. 

You felt incredibly spoiled. It was difficult for you to send a parcel back to your parents, let alone across the continent. 

You returned back to the desk. Leaning back against your chair, you felt the sunlight hit your eyelashes again, and a smile spread across your face. You always loved receiving your “care packages” from your family in India. You always had a piece of home with you.

-----

He hadn’t heard anything about his brother in days. To anyone else, it was a sign of worry. But to Mycroft, it was a sign of relief. Usually, his younger brother Sherlock was always getting into trouble, and god knows what. With much persuasion with the Dean, Mycroft was able to get Sherlock a job at Candlin College even after the fact that he was in prison for six months, although it was the job of a scout. Was Mycroft the happiest about this decision? No. He was not. As much as his younger brother tested his patience, Sherlock was still his dear brother. He might put up a facade of being dark and brooding, but deep inside, he was a sweetheart who was afraid of losing yet another sibling. Not like last time, he always reminded himself every day. With his father away for so many years, Mycroft took it upon himself to be the man of the family. The person who took care of his mother, the person who made sure his brother went on the right path. 

He was an overprotective older brother.

And for this very reason, this is why Mycroft was sneaking into the college. 

Should he be sneaking in? In simple terms, probably not. He just needed the assurance that his brother was doing well. 

“I’ll return in an hour,” Mycroft instructed the carriage driver as he got down. Putting his navy-blue bowler cap on, he poked his cane into the gravel streets of the campus. He took a deep breath, taking in the warmth of the sunny spring day. 

His plan was simple. Find Sherlock and follow him around. If he notices him, hide in the nearest room until he can safely return to his carriage. Simple. Easy. Right?

Mumbling to himself, “Come on Mycroft, don’t be a coward…”

He started to walk around the grounds, trying to seem as inconspicuous as he could. He was just a stranger admiring the beauty of buildings and the greenery. Making his way towards the corridors, Mycroft slightly peeked his head into any open door he came across. He secretly hoped his dear brother would just happen to be in one of the rooms, and having the visual confirmation of his presence would calm him down. It would give him peace of mind that Sherlock had finally not caused any trouble. Having spent 20 minutes walking around every corridor and hallway, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was around at all. Maybe he was in his room? Maybe he was taking the day off? Or maybe Sherlock was back to his mischievous ways… Mycroft shook his head. He mustn’t just jump to conclusions and expect the worst of his brother. 

As he walked away from the classrooms and towards the lawn, he heard a voice call out his name.

“Mycroft? Is that you?” the voice called out.

On hearing his name, he turned around instinctively towards the voice, only to see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Oh dear,” Mycroft let out softly. He did not anticipate getting caught in his escapades. What to do? Where to go? Sherlock’s shouts gradually became louder, indicating that Mycroft needed to act fast. In a panic, he scurried around the corridor of the lawn in a mannerly fashion. After all, he was a gentleman. Spotting a pair of large and furnished doors, Mycroft hurriedly entered the library. Leaning against the door, he let out a deep sigh of relief. He felt as if his heart were to pop out of his chest and run away. He should probably stay in the library for the time being, Mycroft thought. Sherlock would eventually stop looking for him and inevitably would figure out what his brother was doing in the college. That was an issue for another time. 

The library was quiet yet inviting. With everything going on with Sherlock, his mother, Sir Buccephalus, and the job in his Majesty’s foreign office, Mycroft hadn’t had even a minute to pause and breathe. This was refreshing. 

He walked along the rows of bookcases filling the area, with his cane rhythmically clanking on the floor. The cases towered over him, giving the room an air of privacy. He could get lost in the midst of the shelves and for once have an hour to himself. An hour where no one needs him, free of responsibility. He paused in front of a shelf, eyeing the book right across from him. At eye level, Mycroft slightly tilted his head to the right, reading the spine. He had heard quite good things about this book, especially praise about the author. Maybe this is when Mycroft starts making time for himself. 

That was what he was going to do. Read. 

Decidedly, he grabbed the book off the shelf only to be met with the most beautiful eyes. He was entirely entranced by the warmth that the kohl-lined eyes offered him. Yet past the warmth, there was an underlying intensity within the depths of her eyes. They looked at him through the gap left by the book, studying him with a sort of curiosity, almost as if they were trying to figure out what Mycroft was doing here. He found it improper to stare at someone for so long, yet he couldn’t look away. There was something to these eyes which drew him in deeper and deeper.  

“You are aware that it is quite rude to stare?” the voice whispered through the shelves.

Mycroft was gently startled. 

“M-M–” he cleared his throat. “My apologies, Miss. It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.” He looked down at his shoes, breaking eye contact as he responded. Finally opening the book, he read the first few lines until his sudden “interest” in the book was broken when the young woman again broke the silence.

“I do not want to come off as forthcoming, but I do not think I have seen you here before.”

“Ah, yes. You see, I’m just… visiting.”

“I take it that you know a student here?” the voice asked with genuine curiosity.

He left out a hearty chuckle. “Not exactly. Though I think my dear brother would somehow still find a way to learn here.”

From the gap, Mycroft could see her eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

“It is a rather long story, I’m afraid, and unfortunately one that would bore you to pieces.”

“No story is boring; it all relies on how the story is told.”

“Ah, if that’s the case, then I am no storyteller.”

Her gentle laughter echoed through the silence of the library. 

“What brings yourself to this library?” Mycroft asks her.

But before she could answer his question, the loud ringing of the bell went off across the college campus, startling both Mycroft and the stranger. The woman began muttering under her breath, remarking that she was late for class. He heard the book across the bookshelf close in a slam, and the clicking of heels as the woman quickly gathered her papers before speeding towards the door.

“Good day to you sir!” the voice beckoned behind her as she exited the doors.

Mycroft remained very still in the very position he was in before, almost in a trance. Actually, the better word would be entranced. Whatever it may be, Mycroft too headed towards the giant doors of the library, making his way back to his carriage with his cane once again clinking against the gravel. 

As he approached his carriage, the driver questioned, “Back so soon sir?”

Mycroft, caught aback, replied, “Y-Yes. It seemed that the meeting did not go as long as expected. Please take my back to my flat Charles.”

“Very good sir. Heeyah!” the driver shouted at the horses.

Mycroft softened a little bit in his seat, knowing that his troublesome younger brother was doing well for once. Alas, maybe perhaps I can finally rest from all his shenanigans… As he leaned back, Mycroft relaxed, the tenseness sprawled all across his back, and his jaw finally disappeared. As he closed his eyes just for a moment, all he could see were the warm eyes that he was met with in the library. He felt an eventual warmth hit his cheeks, the sensation unknown to him. Mycroft tried to shake the feeling away, yet he could feel that the apples of his cheeks were still a little warm. How peculiar…

------

THUMP! went the papers and notebooks which you dumped on the desk. What a long day… It never felt like it was going to end. Having finally finished up with two back-to-back classes and four total classes in the day, you were exhausted beyond your wits. None of the other professors ever had as many classes as you had and it almost seemed as if there was an expected understanding that you had to prove yourself twice as much as your colleagues, however that was a conversation for another time… One that would startle many feathers at Oxford for they believed they were fair and just to everyone, something that you could very much disagree on. There was somehow always a blind eye towards how much work you were assigned while your English counterparts were not…

The sun was slowly dying down bathing the room with a deep glorious shade of orange, the warmth in the room filling you with some relief. Teaching was not one of the easiest professions yet at the same time it felt so soothing to the soul. You were constantly riveted by the intense academic conversation happening around. There was always something to keep the mind awake. Walking towards the edge of your bed, the mattress slightly dimpled as you sat yourself down on the soft cloudlike material whilst undoing the unnecessarily lengthy laces of your shoes. Shoes and beds do not go together. 

Ahhhhhhhh…. Finally, some well-deserved rest. 

Exhaustion had finally creeped itself upon you, immediately claiming your consciousness as you soon entered the land of dreams. 

And it just so happened to be that a mysterious figure soon appeared in your dream, gently caressing your hands, glancing at you with the most affectionate eyes. The face was a blur and unfamiliar, and yet the eyes were a striking shade of blue, ones that you could not shake off so easily. But the question still remains, just who was the owner of these blue orbs?

this is my first ever fic! i'd love to hear y'alls thoughts <3

photo credits!!! (from Pinterest)

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Dividers made by yours truly!