Lady Mary Crawley (ladycontrary) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2018-02-24 19:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, mary crawley, mycroft holmes (bbc) |
WHO: Mary Crawley and Mycroft Holmes
WHEN: Midday, Feb 4th
WHERE: Cafe
WHAT: Having tea and learning about the place she’s now stuck in.
WARNINGS: Canon puncturing?
STATUS: Completed Gdoc
It had been a strange day, to say the least. First, Mary had woken up to robots manhandling her on a strange ship, forcing her to have a vaccine. Then, she had learned that there were all sorts of beings here - fictional people, dead people, people with magic, people that weren’t even people. She wasn’t sure what year it was, but it certainly wasn’t the 1920s anymore. Now, she was going to have tea with Mycroft Holmes. She fully expected to wake up soon and find that this was all some strange fever dream.
Mary arrived at the cafe Mycroft Holmes had told her about. She was curious why exactly he had heard of her before. That didn’t make any sense at all. The fact that he seemed to be alright being recognized was also strange. Sure Sherlock Holmes was famous, but he was fictional. Did Mycroft know that?
She recognized him from the network and approached his table, holding out her hand. “Lady Mary Crawley,” she said. “How do you do, Mr. Holmes?”
Of course, Mycroft recognized Mary as well, but in his case it was from her television program, the one which he would religiously watch every week, and whose DVDs were his go-to when he needed a bit of a pick me up. The style and manner of Downton Abbey was one which Mycroft longed for, an era of culture and refinement where he knew he’d feel right at home if he were to ever find himself there.. Mary’s exquisite gown, placed her at the end of season five, but here on the cruise ship where Hawaiian shirts were the norm, she looked like the odd duck.
The moment he spotted her, he rose from his seat as a gentleman should, took her gloved hand and placed a delicate kiss there. “How do you do, Lady Mary. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Allow me…” Mycroft pulled the chair out for her to take because Mary was accustomed to such treatment, and he knew in this modern age, nobody else would do it - thus was his further attempt to make Mary comfortable.
A tea set had already been brought to their table, and after sitting down himself, Mycroft poured for the both of them, preparing Mary’s cup the way she liked, remembering that detail, again, from the television show. “You must be very perplexed,” he spoke the obvious to break the ice. Mycroft didn’t need to be told how Mary was faring - one glance told him everything he needed to know. “With your permission, I should hope to make your transition to your new, and highly unusual circumstances as easy as possible.”
“I am,” she replied, taking her seat. She hadn’t met many people aboard the ship yet, but she was pleased that Mycroft seemed to understand the sort of manners that she was used to. It was refreshing. This Mycroft seemed quite different from the Victorian version though, and she found that many of her questions were about him himself.
Mary gratefully took the tea, surprised that he had guessed how she took it, though it wasn’t in a particularly unusual way. “And I’m quite grateful to you for meeting with me.”
“Of course.” Mycroft added a slice of lemon to his tea and raised his cup daintily to his mouth. “It’s usually quite a shock for anybody, being rudely dragged from their familiar surroundings, but I daresay even more do for somebody like your good self, where technology has advanced significantly, and cultural standards have… shall we say? Deteriorated?” His eyebrows briefly rose, giving Mary a knowing look. “Unfortunately you’ll find most people’s manners have become quite informal, and possibly shocking to your sensibilities. If you have any questions, you are more than welcome to ask them. I shall answer to the best of my ability.”
Mary sipped her tea as she listened to the man’s words. They did not soothe her much. “Oh,” she replied, her brow furrowed. “That sounds a bit dreadful. In what ways do you think I might be shocked? I am from 1924, by the way.”
As far as she was concerned, he’d have no way of knowing that other than her telling him. Of course, the expectation that she would live with a man whom she had never even met before was the first thing that had shocked her about this place.
“Christmas of 1924, to be exact,” Mycroft added with a small, sly smile. Then, to ease her surprise, he explained how he came to this conclusion, “The cut of your gown is indicative of the year. It’s obviously formal, so naturally you were attending a celebration just before you’d been so rudely whisked away by the portal. Your shoes, while matching, are still slightly less formal, so you’ve opted for comfort rather than to impress, which means the celebration was held at home where you could get away with such details. At the hem of your dress, the beadwork has snagged a couple of pine needles from when you brushed up against the Christmas tree.”
Or, you know, Mycroft religiously memorized every episode of Downton Abbey.
Mycroft knitted his brow before answering Mary’s question. “To begin with, we’re surrounded primarily by Americans.” He gave her a knowing look, as if that was enough explanation. “But people have grown much more informal in their dealing between people, even going to far as to express private matters in public forums, on that network device you were given when you first arrived. Why, not too long ago, there was a gentleman boldly soliciting for sex. You may have noticed on your way over that people’s clothes have also become very casual, to the point where some of them look as though they’ve prepared for bed, instead of going out, and the cut of some woman’s clothes? Might be considered scandalous. Imagine, if you may, that the flappers have taken over,
“There is also the fact that several individuals possess extraordinary, even fanciful abilities and powers, which sound impossible, such as flight and casting magical spells.”
As he spoke, Mycroft carefully gauged Mary’s reaction to his words, holding back when he felt that it might be too much for her to process at once. To diffuse any possible worry, he chose to distract her with a question. “How is your tea? If you’re peckish, there’s a menu,” he said, gesturing to the side of their table.
It was a lot to process, from his eerily accurate description of how he recognized her dress, to his proclamations about the people in this day and time. Honestly, the deduction unnerved her more. She tried to remember back to when she’d read Sherlock Holmes as a girl, and if Mycroft had had the same skills.
Mary placed her teacup back on the table. At the moment, she wasn’t feeling hungry and even the tea was starting to make her stomach feel a bit sour. “You said that you knew me. How could that possibly be? You… are from a story.” Was telling him that going to upset some sort of balance in the universe? If she was meeting him here in this strange place though, perhaps the balance of the universe had already been upset.
A smile stretched across Mycroft’s face, one which was meant to be comforting, but tinged with something a little predatory, like an alligator that might snap at you if you weren’t careful. Mycroft didn’t like to be reminded of his literary connection. His appearance in the books was dedicated to a minor role, and in a rather unsavory light. Even though the books admitted his powers of deductive reasoning was greater than Sherlock’s (which they were!), he was described as lazy, having no ambition or energy, and incapable of working out practical points. The book Mycroft was also fat, and this was embarrassing as well as infuriating, since he’d struggled to manage his own weight for years, suffering the taunts of ‘fatty’ while growing up .
“Yes,” he hissed. “Yes I am. At least from your perspective.” He decided that he didn’t need that pastry on his plate, after all, and lifted his cup to drink his (unsweetened) tea. “In my universe, these stories you’ve read do not exist. Instead of being in the late Victorian, early Edwardian era, my brother’s adventures, as they are are referred to in the books, happen in primarily between the years 2010 through 2014. And as such, the events with which you may be familiar, have occurred in quite a different sort of way. If you are indeed curious, in many universes, including this one, there is, in addition to the books, a television program which portrays our lives in startling detail.” Because Mary would have no clue what he was talking about, Mycroft explained, “A television is an electronic device that brings the magic of motion pictures into the privacy of your own home, on a smaller scale. I shan’t go into the exact details, but if you’re curious, I’ll show you later. You might’ve noticed a dark, flat mirror-like object in your cabin. That would be a television screen.”
Mycroft sipped his tea and inspected Mary’s reaction to what he’d just said, waiting to see if she was emotionally ready to be told that her life in Downton Abbey was also a television show. If not, he’d give her time to digest.
Mary had noticed that and wondered what it was, thinking it was the strangest mirror she had ever seen in her life. She never would have once guessed that it was what he had described. “So you.. star in this show with him? Is it a documentary?” That had to be it, right? And yet why was he fictional in her world? It was all quite confusing.
The idea of she herself being fictional seemed patently ridiculous. Who would want to watch a show about her life?
“I would say I have a supporting role, whereas my brother and his colleague, Dr Watson, are the actual stars. From my perspective, yes, I would say it was a documentary, but for most everybody else, it’s considered a form of fictional entertainment, a drama. Everybody on this ship likewise has either a television show, or a book, or a film associated with their lives.” A poignant pause. “Without exception.” Let Mary draw her own conclusion with that statement.
Mary blinked, staring at her tea cup for a moment before looking back up at Mycroft. “So.. other people think that you are fictional and it does not bother you?” Then, of course, his last bit sank in and she actually laughed. “Oh, come now. How could there be one of these television shows about my life if television did not exist in my time?” She wasn’t fictional. That was for certain. If other people thought she was fictional, well, they were delusional.
Mycroft shrugged. “No, it doesn’t bother me.although I’ve always worked behind the scenes. The anonymity suits me. However, the others from different universes… the Displaced is the term they use to refer to ourselves… they know I’m real, and that’s more than enough.” He paused, thoughtfully. “I do miss the privileges I once had; it’s not like I can take tea with the Queen, anymore,” or for that matter, decide on the fate of nations by pulling the strings, “but one adjusts.”
He smiled warmly at Mary, and continued, “In these different universes, there are actors that look and sound precisely like us. If we had internet service on this ship, I’d show you now, but perhaps later, if you would like, I could show you by playing something on the television. My actor is a gentleman named Mark Gatiss, who has done other roles, elsewhere. Therefore, you may find the unique occurance of people coming through the portal sharing the same face… face twins, as it were. For example, my brother Sherlock is played by the same actor that portrays a character named Dr Stephen Strange, who just so happens to be present, and so they bear an uncanny resemblance, although the doctor is an American with a respective accent.” He regarded her for a moment, then revealed, “Your actress is Michelle Dockery, who has also played the leading role in a movie adaptation of Anna Karenina, among other things.” Roles and television shows that would mean nothing to her, so Mycroft didn’t bother to mention. “The specific television program you’re from is, unimaginatively called ‘Downton Abbey’, and aired from 26 September, 2010 to Christmas, 2015. It follows the lives of you, your family, and the household’s domestic servants from April 15, 1912, the day the news came out that the Titanic sank, to December 1925. To say it was a popular series would be an understatement. Known for its historical accuracy and attention to detail, it won many awards and had international acclaim.”
Mary just stared at him as he went through his speech, the look on her face growing more alarmed. An actress who played her? Some sort of show about her life? The whole thing sounded even more mad than waking up on a random ship in the future. “I don’t… I don’t believe that I know what to say,” Mary replied. “That other people might know things about my life is very unnerving.”
She thought back to the particular scandal with Pamuk. The fact that it might have played out for an audience as entertainment made her nauseated. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go back to her room, even if it was inhabited by a strange man.
Mycroft didn’t feel guilty about causing Mary such mental distress. She would find the truth sooner or later, and it was best she found out now. It was like removing a stubborn bandage - you could either pull it off slowly, or yank it off at once - either method is painful, but the latter one gets it over with quickly. He watched the expression upon Mary’s face, and having watched the show, deduced what particular event in her life she was horrified to think people knew.
“Yes,” he agreed with her. “It is unnerving.” Fortunately, when he watched BBC’s Sherlock, the spotlight wasn’t on him, but the show did reveal aspects of himself that he’d rather keep undercover, including the deal he’d made with Moriarty whereby he became his own brother’s Judas. Not exactly something he was proud of. “However,” he continued, hoping to find some bright side, “All the Displaced are in the same situation, and most use their discretion upon bringing up the unsavory portions of our lives, lest the same thing happen to them. There is in-house fighting amongst those from the same universe, but those sort of arguments are avoidable. As for the rest of the world… they’re under some sort of influence that prevents them from recognizing who we really are. Nobody in the street will ever point to me and identify me as either Mycroft Holmes or Mark Gatiss, so there’s a certain amount of animosity there.” He sighed, then lifted his teacup for another drink, pausing to add, “It’s not much of a consolation, but it’s the only one we have.”
Mary rubbed at her temple for a moment, still trying to process all of this. Between waking up on a strange cruise ship and then learning that she and her life might be fictional to other people, it was a lot to take in for one day.
“Thank you for the information and your hospitality, Mr. Holmes.” Hospitality, as it were at least, despite the disturbing revelation. “You’ll understand, I’m sure, that I’m feeling incredibly tired right now and would at least like to try to return to my room and rest. Hopefully Mr. Kirk is out.”
Then at least she wouldn’t have to introduce herself right now and find out if he knew everything about her life.
Mycroft could tell their conversation was over even before Mary said anything, the way she set down her teacup, and how she shifted her weight in her chair to position herself to stand up. He was not offended, and perfectly understood.
“Of course.” He rose to his feet when she did, wearing a polite smile. “Should you have any other questions or concerns, feel free to contact me. It would be my pleasure to oblige.”
"I'll do that," she said with a nod. "Thank you." Her rest would surely involve her sobbing into her pillow in her room, getting out all of the anguish that today had brought her, but she certainly wasn't about to start crying until she was safely ensconced in a place where she might have some privacy. With a prim smile, she turned and walked back out of the cafe.