Fic: Marys: 11 - Canon: Nil: G
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holmes_minorTitle: Marys: 11 - Canon: Nil
Wordcount: 500
Characters: Mary Morstan, the various Marys of ACD canon
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: Crack!
Author’s Notes: I swear to you this started off by being inspired by the February 2020 Monthly Prompt: Heart.
Also on AO3.
At the Mary table in the Canonical Arms, Mary Morstan was on her third drink, her second sandwich and her opening rant.
“I just don’t understand it!” She jerked a thumb back towards another table. “Why do the Violets get all the attention? Why are people so fascinated by the four of them, simply because they share a name?”
She gestured around the table.
“I mean, look at us! Eight Marys, a Mary Jane, a Marie and a Maria. Eleven. Bloody eleven!”
“Steady,” murmured Mrs. Mary Maberley.
“Yes, fine, I’m sorry.” Mary Morstan sighed. “But why aren’t scholars analysing the reason Doyle was so obsessed with the name Mary, eh? Tell me that!”
“Because everybody knows why.” Mary, the maid of Elias Openshaw, rolled her eyes. “His mother was called Mary.”
“Fine! But nobody’s analysing the Lucys either, are they…?”
Mary Morstan gestured out of the window, where two giggling little girls, Lucy Ferrier and Lucy Hebron Munro, were playing tag with the teenaged Lucy Parr.
“Or the Victors…”
She jabbed a finger at a table where Victor Hatherley and Victor Trevor were deep in respectful conversation with their guest of honour Signora Victor Durando. Victor Savage and Victor Lynch were, as usual, offstage and letting their curried mutton get cold.
“Or all the Johns…”
She pointed at a densely populated table. Doctor Watson suddenly dashed up, hovered awkwardly about trying to find a seat, and then dashed back to try his luck at the James table.
Mary Sutherland smiled tentatively. “I think we just have to accept that modern readers don’t find our names intriguing. Individually we’re all interesting. Just not as a group.”
“Hmm…”
Mary Morstan was watching Doctor Watson as he athletically sprinted back to the John table again.
“You know… he’s giving me an idea though.”
“And we all know what kind, Morstan!” yelled Mary Holder.
There was a round of raucous cheering from the Mary table.
Mary Morstan flushed. “Oh, shut up, the lot of you!” She waved an embarrassed hand. “I meant I was thinking about contact sports.”
Another cheer went up.
“Like rugby!”
She scowled.
“Why don’t we give those damned modern readers something intriguing then? Eleven Marys—we can form a football team!”
She shrugged.
“There’ll be lots of fascinating little asides in the canon. ‘Of course I can accompany you on your case, Holmes. Mrs. Watson is off playing an away game in Aberdeen.’”
Mary Jane’s eyes lit up. “And you won’t have to fire me! You can tell Doctor Watson, ‘I’m sorry, dear, I know she’s a terrible maid but she’s the best centre-forward we’ve got!’”
A smile spread slowly across Maria Pinto Gibson’s face. “And I can discover new love in my passion for the game.”
“Let’s do it!” cried Mary Fraser Brackenstall.
Mary Morstan looked over her shoulder. “Hoi, Violets! We’re going to form a football team. Beat that!”
The answering buttered bap got her right in the kisser.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be goalkeeper, chérie,” smiled Marie Devine.
Wordcount: 500
Characters: Mary Morstan, the various Marys of ACD canon
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: Crack!
Author’s Notes: I swear to you this started off by being inspired by the February 2020 Monthly Prompt: Heart.
Also on AO3.
At the Mary table in the Canonical Arms, Mary Morstan was on her third drink, her second sandwich and her opening rant.
“I just don’t understand it!” She jerked a thumb back towards another table. “Why do the Violets get all the attention? Why are people so fascinated by the four of them, simply because they share a name?”
She gestured around the table.
“I mean, look at us! Eight Marys, a Mary Jane, a Marie and a Maria. Eleven. Bloody eleven!”
“Steady,” murmured Mrs. Mary Maberley.
“Yes, fine, I’m sorry.” Mary Morstan sighed. “But why aren’t scholars analysing the reason Doyle was so obsessed with the name Mary, eh? Tell me that!”
“Because everybody knows why.” Mary, the maid of Elias Openshaw, rolled her eyes. “His mother was called Mary.”
“Fine! But nobody’s analysing the Lucys either, are they…?”
Mary Morstan gestured out of the window, where two giggling little girls, Lucy Ferrier and Lucy Hebron Munro, were playing tag with the teenaged Lucy Parr.
“Or the Victors…”
She jabbed a finger at a table where Victor Hatherley and Victor Trevor were deep in respectful conversation with their guest of honour Signora Victor Durando. Victor Savage and Victor Lynch were, as usual, offstage and letting their curried mutton get cold.
“Or all the Johns…”
She pointed at a densely populated table. Doctor Watson suddenly dashed up, hovered awkwardly about trying to find a seat, and then dashed back to try his luck at the James table.
Mary Sutherland smiled tentatively. “I think we just have to accept that modern readers don’t find our names intriguing. Individually we’re all interesting. Just not as a group.”
“Hmm…”
Mary Morstan was watching Doctor Watson as he athletically sprinted back to the John table again.
“You know… he’s giving me an idea though.”
“And we all know what kind, Morstan!” yelled Mary Holder.
There was a round of raucous cheering from the Mary table.
Mary Morstan flushed. “Oh, shut up, the lot of you!” She waved an embarrassed hand. “I meant I was thinking about contact sports.”
Another cheer went up.
“Like rugby!”
She scowled.
“Why don’t we give those damned modern readers something intriguing then? Eleven Marys—we can form a football team!”
She shrugged.
“There’ll be lots of fascinating little asides in the canon. ‘Of course I can accompany you on your case, Holmes. Mrs. Watson is off playing an away game in Aberdeen.’”
Mary Jane’s eyes lit up. “And you won’t have to fire me! You can tell Doctor Watson, ‘I’m sorry, dear, I know she’s a terrible maid but she’s the best centre-forward we’ve got!’”
A smile spread slowly across Maria Pinto Gibson’s face. “And I can discover new love in my passion for the game.”
“Let’s do it!” cried Mary Fraser Brackenstall.
Mary Morstan looked over her shoulder. “Hoi, Violets! We’re going to form a football team. Beat that!”
The answering buttered bap got her right in the kisser.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t be goalkeeper, chérie,” smiled Marie Devine.
