'Finding Neverland' fic (m) - (7 Parts)

[tma]

Ok.... I've got to run off somewhere but I HAD to read this. ADORED it (to say the least), and I'm DYING to find out what happens next. Will get to writing proper review later. Thank you Muchly!

[sneezeadorer]

Oh my word.....that was amazing! I really cannot wait to see what happens next!!!

'Whereas for James, there would always be newer, more inventive ways for social humiliation. He was almost allowed to speak, almost; he almost began, half a word, not even knowing quite what he was going to say, but a sneeze overwhelmed him, the worst moment possible. He fought it, turning away, panting, the back of his hand pressed against his nose. The act of trying to suppress the sneeze made him splutter, then cough, which in itself acted as a helpless trigger; he pinched his nose and sneezed, hard against the pressure, and the stifled explosion seemed to echo inside his head. "h'KNXT!" He gave his head a shake, trying to clear the ringing in his ears, his free hand feeling inside his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. True to form, a second bloomed at the back of his throat before he could pull his handkerchief out; a deep breath in, his eyebrows lifted, a fraction of a pause, and - "hr'SSHHH!" - a very wet, fiercely stifled sneeze, this time cupping his hand over his nose and mouth and feeling the wet spray of the sneeze in his palm. The third was too powerful to contain; it wrenched him forward with a thunderous "Hrrrrrrssssssshhhhhh!", just containing it in the damp cloth of his handkerchief. So strong had been the sneeze that a bespectacled gentleman passing to James' left muttered an almost absent-minded 'Bless you' as he went by. Some would say it was ironic that the usually softly-spoken, genteel Scot had such loud sneezes.'

I love this entire section, you always give the best dsecriptions - less actual sneezing with alot of detail is so much better than too much!

And this bit:

'But his nose saw fit to disgrace him again. He drew back away from Cannan once more, this time burying his nose in his handkerchief. The sneeze played with him, agonisingly. It started to come out - "heh - " - and then promptly backed away again. "heh..." He sniffed, trying to coax it, but the sneeze was stubborn, content with merely tantalising him, just out of reach of relief. Finally, frustrated, embarrassed, hating himself, and Cannan, and this damned head-cold that was so laying waste to his dignity, James lowered his handkerchief, reached up and pinched his nose tightly at the bridge to bring the sneeze around on his own. "Hh....hrrrssssshhhhhhh!" At last.'

Poor James!!

Thank you so much for continuing this wondeful story!

[Triosk1]

Well that was lovely to come back to my computer and find (I've been on hols all week and I thought I might be granted a new entry by the time I got back). I agree totally with sneezeadorer: the really detailed description of the sneezing is better than having lots of sneezing that isn't described. You get such a great picture of what's going on that it's loads better. Plus, who hasn't had the inopportune sneeze coming just when you don't need it? Or, of course, if you're on the other end, it's perfect timing. Poor James, I can't wait for the next episode to find out what's happened. (Or to see a little more of Mr Doyle, I hasten to add, but that's just me.)

[count tiszula]

Golly, it's getting really exciting! As are the sneezes. And beautifully done as ever [including the sneezes]

Ah, th e Pall Mall Gazette; always my favourite title; one can only assume that it was supposed to be gossipy and apolitical, hence appropriate for clubland.

[Mistress Quickly]

Once again, I'm thrilled that you're all enjoying it; I wasn't sure how this chapter would go down, but I'm glad it seems to have pleased. Thank you all very much, and I'll see you with the next part

[Mistress Quickly]

A/N: I feel rather guilty turning up with this chapter, as the sneezes are possibly a little thin on the ground; I tried to find more ways of weaving them in, but the nature of the chapter didn't lend very readily to a great deal of sneezing. I do think those that are there are pretty cute, though. All over, I have to say I'm not altogether happy with this chapter; turns out that my abilities as a writer and the cogent portrayal of 'action scenes' are not comfortable bedfellows. Part of me feels that I could have done more with it, but I was keen to move on from this section and felt I was agonising too much over how it was turning out.

Another important thing I must note here is that a few mild slashy elements crept into this chapter that I really hadn't been expecting; it just jumped in there when I wasn't looking. I'm not at all sure whether to perhaps pursue it as a plot-point; the Barrie-Conan Doyle friendship is barely touched on in the film, but I would find it interesting to explore that potential area of their relationship, and besides, Depp and Hart are rather adorable together. I suppose it depends on what people here think; what are everyone's opinions on my introducing a gentle slash theme to the story? Nothing heavy, just a subtle implication. And be honest. If you think it would ruin the story, I'll kill it before it goes any further.

You must also blame Kastrel for the Arthur-centric-ness of this part. I was looking for ways to explore different view-points and decided that Arthur was an excellent way to play out this scene more effectively. Thanks for the inspiration, luv!

By the way, I've stolen a rather infamous quote from Alfred Hitchcock and flicked it into this chapter. See if you can spot it.

As always, thanks to anyone who reads.

Chapter 7: Invisible Ink.

Arthur regarded the unedifying homage to actorly conceit with some disbelief.

A previous generation's theatrical alumni eyeballed him disparagingly right back.

The spectacle, which was to all intents and purposes a shrine of sorts, a mural of painted and sepia faces gazing contemptuously from within the strangely reductive territory of their frames, had been commissioned by the previous manager of the theatre as a form of appeasement to various thespians of a more sensitive nature than was usual, who had taken offence to an off-hand remark he had made during an interview with the Spectator in which he had ventured a non too distant comparison between actors and cattle: you just rounded them up when you needed them, really. He later claimed that the journalist (one of those ghastly penny-a-liners from Grub Street) hadn't understood his sense of humour. Either way, this had caused such a stir amongst the ranks that civic action had been threatened, a public relations catastrophe which had only been averted by the same manager's decision to spend close to a hundred pounds on the very testament to ego that Arthur was currently resting his gaze on. It occupied an entire wall in the upper gallery, dominating much of the room below and viewable from every direction wherever one stood after entering the east wing of the theatre. Sarah Bernhardt was there, her renowned beauty translating badly to photograph (either that or the fault lay with Arthur's eyes, or at least his taste in the fairer sex); there, Lillie Langtry, prior to any interference from the Prince of Wales, an allusion to the constant whiff of genteel scandal that surrounded her evident in the mink stole curled insouciantly about her shoulders; Wyndham and Irving, both pictured onstage, engaged in an eternal battle of the furrow-browed Hamlets; and then, lurking impressively near the very top of the mural, roosted the likeness of one Eugene Willoughby, formally photographed against a printed bucolic scene, a shock of white-blond hair thriving boyishly on his head.

Arthur's encounter with the thing had been entirely accidental. The old Edinburgh friends who had diverted him away from James had since parted company with him (though not before evoking inglorious memories gladly forgotten from a misspent student rag week), and Arthur had been making his way back to the Oriel Gallery when the spectre that was Herbert Wells had appeared not ten feet in front of him, blocking the route past the service bar. The sight of him had stirred a distant recollection in the nether reaches of Arthur's back-brain of a certain five pounds which may or may not have been settled in the manner of all gentlemen on a harmless wager, and so he had turned a sharp axis on his heel to the right and darted up the stairs. He had only narrowly avoided careering into the path of Lady Drummond, descending grandly arm-in-arm with her eldest son, and checking his path abruptly, Arthur nipped around the curve of the stairway and cut across the landing into the east gallery.

Here, the lights were lowered intimately, only two of the blown-glass electric lamps on the walls glowing softly against the William Morris wallpaper. The room seemed to be positioned so as to effectively insulate against the sounds of jaded conversation and harsh, masculine laughter down below. Standing there, as the doors swung slowly closed behind him, it was almost a physical relief to find himself met by the watchful silence of an empty room, the dim light and purplish shadows softly melting the contours of the furniture into pools of diffused darkness. Slowly, feeling almost as though a pressure was being released from somewhere at the back of his neck, Arthur let his shoulders drop; he hadn't realised how tense he had been out there.

With some of that same delicious, wicked thrill that children feel when they find a crack between the curtains through which to secretly observe the grown-ups, he went further into the room. The doors hadn't quite closed properly, and a narrow strip of light fell across the carpet to the opposite wall; there it caught a pair of eyes which in life would have been blue, if Arthur remembered correctly, but which the photographer's art of sepia and grey had rendered a soft, hazy almost-violet. The late Helen Willoughby, Ransome as she had been then, stared implacably from the frame, several actors down from her husband. She had not been a beautiful woman, but even from the confines of stopped time, a print over ten years old, her face shone with a kind of soft, alluring strength and there was a calm intelligence in her eyes. Her arms were bare in the photograph and there was an elegant spray of diamonds at her throat, hung along the pricked lines of her collarbone. Her dark hair was pinned in the twined chignon of 1891, exposing a long slope of white neck.

Arthur met Helen Willoughby's solemn gaze and stood appraising her for several minutes, allowing his writer's mind to muse at a distance on the last moments of this woman's life, while the part of his brain that still remained very much a physician contemplated the possibility of fatal strangulation not producing any bruising on the throat. The more gruesome details of her death had long been leaked to the press, and it was difficult to avoid speculation. For many, the truth was already clear, but that was the nature of gossip. Arthur, however, was aware enough of the convoluted tracks taken by the human mind when it came to incidences of sensation to know that, left unchecked, conspiracy theories had a dangerous habit of flourishing into hysteria, when in fact the correct solution to any mystery was almost always the most obvious one. Holmes wouldn't have liked it, but what did that pompous blighter know about anything, anyway?

Still. Mrs Willoughby and her Turkish Delights, in the bath. Willoughby downstairs at the time, or so he claimed. He had said she had had a convulsion. There was a great deal of water on the bathroom floor...

Arthur felt the tremor course beneath his feet.

In the moment that followed, he had the oddest conviction that someone must have dropped a tray of glasses outside on the landing. That, at least, was how his ears initially interpreted the sharp report that came from somewhere outside the room, a strange, disconnected crack like a crowd of a hundred clapping their hands together as one, but then a deeper sound rolled out, a roar was was both noise and sensation that made the photographs on the wall rattle where they hung; the portrait of Helen Willoughby trembled, tilted, and fell forward, plummeting face-down towards the floor where it smashed utterly, its frame breaking and its glass shattering to pieces.

Bad luck, a voice in the back of Arthur's mind noted vaguely, but he was already turning away, moving towards the doors. He put out both hands, and pushed them open.

At first, all he could see was movement. There seemed to be a great deal more people on the landing than there had been before, and then Arthur thought there must be a fire, because there was smoke - wasn't it smoke? - and the same sound was being repeated over and over again, and he was puzzled, almost, trying to work out what it was, and then - yes - it was a woman's voice, a shriek, thin and high-pitched like a rabbit caught in a trap, and another noise, violently clanging, a siren or - yes, there was a fire - that was the fire bell, wasn't it? Feeling almost as though he were moving underwater, Arthur walked forward onto the landing, pushing between the crush of people that was blocking the way to the top of the stairs. His brain was beginning to discern and make sense of the other noises now, cries of alarm and confusion, voices raised in fear, a furious shouting. Looking down into the room below, he saw it, shattered -

It was impossible to tell how much of the wall had fallen. It seemed as though part of the room that ran adjacent to the street outside had collapsed, rent and split inwards, plaster and brickwork still falling down from where a gaping hole had been torn through the masonry. The arch of the nearest window was still supported by the beam in the ceiling, but the other two were buckled completely, even their frames destroyed to leave nothing but two jagged, ugly rips in the wall. The glass frontage that separated the bar area from the Oriel Gallery had been reduced to atoms by the impact; in the bar itself, pots, glasses, jugs, plates and bottles had been hurled from their shelves to the floor; the mirrors lining the inner walls were cracked into spider-webs; along the wall where the windows had been blown in, the gaseliers and brackets had been wrenched asunder, twisted beyond recognition. It was dust that was smoking up from the floor, rising in a great cloud that drifted over the scenes of shouting, coughing, weeping below. It seemed that the blast had been enough to throw the people standing closest to it to the floor, and even to capsize some of the furniture; a chair lay splintered, its legs more sawdust than wood; the table that had held most of the used champagne glasses was on its back, fractured crystal sparkling around it. God knows how many people had been near the windows at the time, but in a series of moments, as though the chaos was pausing to telescope into a curious vortex around each individual image, Arthur saw a woman on her knees, her dress ripped at the arm; a man bending near her, blood on his face; a young girl crying hysterically, her hands cut with flying glass and splinters. He could see Lady Drummond, apparently unharmed, being supported by her husband who was holding a handkerchief to a gash above his eyebrow. There was Wells, helping a stout gentleman with a walking stick to his feet. He couldn't see Charles. He couldn't see -

James.

Arthur turned so quickly he stumbled and almost fell, only saving himself by clutching at the banister. He pushed past two elderly men craning to see, surging forward towards the staircase against the tide of people moving upwards, a blind, half-panicked sea of faces flocking away from the source of danger. The fire bell was jangling so loudly that even those who weren't already shrill with alarm were being forced to bellow at one another in order to be heard. The stairs were a melee; someone shoved roughly past Arthur, he turned an ankle over and nearly fell again, cracking his elbow against the railing. Grimacing with the pain, he steadied himself and gripped the railing more tightly with his left hand. The descent was infuriatingly slow; the tumult of it...like struggling through rapids, fear shrinking people's consciousness to the atavistic pin-point of animalistic self-preservation, but Arthur clung grimly to the banister like a drowning man to a tree-root on the riverbank, buffeted from all sides, and slowly, step-by-step, he pushed his way downward.

On the ground floor, glass crunched underfoot. He stepped over part of the window-frame that had been blasted inward and his heel crushed something that broke with a sound like china: a fragment of one of the Dorchester vases that had stood on the mantlepiece. Further on, past the subs bar where Arthur and James had first observed Gilbert Cannan, a young man sat leaning against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him; there was an angry laceration across his right cheek, and a boy of a similar age who squatted gingerly at his side was examining it with nervous, ineffectual fingers. As Arthur shifted a broken light bracket out of the way with his foot, part of the plaster and brick supporting the sole surviving window shivered suddenly and rubble cascaded down, releasing another cloud of dust and debris; several women screamed in alarm. Arthur ventured on carefully, past the battered bar area.

He found James behind an upturned table in the Oriel Gallery as the lights were extinguished throughout the building, leaving only the chandeliers blazing in the darkness.

He was kneeling down beside a young woman in a pink dress, which had been torn through to the petticoat and was streaked with dust and dirt. He was firmly holding both her hands in his, because the girl was weeping with terrible, panicked, gulping sobs, struggling almost senselessly, a lock of blonde hair falling messily down over her face. Ironically, it was probably the fact that they had been standing so close to the explosion that they had survived; the first blast would have thrown them clear, and then when the wall was ruptured inward they had been out of range of the worst of the flying debris, shielded by the table that now lay broken-backed on its side. Arthur had already picked his way to James' side, crouching down next to him as close as he could get, when James at last looked up at him. He stared at Arthur blankly for several seconds, his face pinched and very white, his dark eyes burning forbiddingly, almost seeming not to recognise him, and just as Arthur was beginning to think of concussion, head-injuries, amnesia, James blinked, his expression flinching, taking a sharp breath in.

"She's got something in her eye," he said roughly. There was a dab of red on his white collar.

Arthur looked from James to the girl, still crying helplessly. Shuffling closer on his knees, he carefully reached forward to clasp her chin in his hands, turning her face towards him. Both her eyes were squeezed shut, and she resisted him, limply, shaking her head from side to side.

"Miss, if you could attempt to calm yourself..." Arthur glanced back at James, who was still holding the girl's hands tightly, almost as though it were he who dared not let go. He started slightly when Arthur spoke: "Are you at all injured?"

He frowned, shook his head. "No. No. Not a bit. My ears are ringing, but it was such a bang, after all..."

"You may well have perforated an ear-drum. You were very close."

James stared at him speechlessly for a beat, a strange expression, half-relief, half-distress, darkening his eyes. "Arthur, where have you been?" he said with a sudden passion, and Arthur swallowed and held the stare, the moment's fierce intensity such that he felt shaken when the gaze was interrupted by James blinking abruptly, an irresistable twitch curling his upper lip as he drew back and away from both Arthur and the girl. Without letting go of the girl's hands, he sneezed very loudly and very wetly, directing it over his right shoulder. As the sneeze was uncovered, it was released with a completely natural, fully-formed "Herrrsssssshhhhhhh!", the soft tone of his voice audible in the build-up and crescendo of the "Herrrrr-" and the spraying wetness of a sneeze deliciously relieved in the exploding "-ssssshhhhhhhhh!" With an elegance that Arthur had long come to expect from his friend, James gave a small, polite sniff, took another sharp breath in, his lips parting, a flinching frown to his forehead suggesting desperation, before he this time released one of the girl's hands to curl his wrist as a shield to his nose as he was overcome by a second, fluid, potent "h'RRSSSHHH!" that jerked his head forward and dipped his shoulders inward.

Arthur tried not to let the condition of his friend distract him from what was, of course, the far more pressing matter in front of him, but his hand at least was unbidden when it went automatically to James' shoulder as the other man coughed slightly, still holding the back of his wrist to his running nose.

"Are you really all right?" Arthur's voice was soft and he tilted his head as he tried to peer into James' face. There were two marks of delicate redness under the Scotsman's eyes, eyes that were watering just noticeably. When he sniffed again, his inflamed nostrils flared slightly, and he frowned a little, shook his head as if to rid himself of the irritation, and rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, hard.

"I think - " The act of speaking obviously undid him, his voice lifting a desperate octave in his attempt to pronounce 'think'. He cupped his hand over his nose and mouth and sneezed once more, a fiercely stifled "hrCNNKX!" that wrenched out of him with a tired, wet sound that looked, at least, as though it had been more than a little painful. Sniffling, blinking watery eyes, he turned back to Arthur with an embarrassed little grin. He somehow managed to look more disheleved now than he had a minute ago. "I think the dust may be causing me some trouble," he said, his eyes soft, gently playful, not a little apologetic.

Arthur gave him a satirical look. "Of course," he replied sternly. "And absolutely nothing to do with the ailment that should have meant you never coming here in the first place." Giving James' shoulder a small squeeze, he turned back to the girl.

She whimpered as he tried to inspect her left eye, which was reddened and swelling under the lid, the lashes matted together with tears. "This is Miss Blount," James said as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, reading the query in Arthur's eyes.

"How do you do, Miss Blount. My name is Dr Doyle," Arthur said. "A pity that we should meet under such uncomfortable circumstances."

For the first time, she seemed to come to herself a little. She stopped struggling and stared at him out of her one good eye, a large tear making its way down the crease in her cheek. Her mouth opened and closed several times as her gaze traveled over his face. "Dr...Dr Doyle?" she repeated falteringly.

"If you would just permit me to examine you, Miss Blount. I always finds two eyes to be an exceedingly useful attribute in this age of pedestrianism; one is never certain when an enthusiastic cyclist might be bearing down on you. I believe I know your father; we met at Berthollini's just after the New Year. The boot-lace soup seemed to go down very well with him."

Miss Blount managed to goggle with impressively one-eyed fortitude. "Dr Doyle?" Her voice was tremulous, but as she spoke it strengthened into an admirable volume. "Sir, are you really...Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"So my friends tell me." Arthur flicked a wry glance at James. "However, not tonight, I assure you. That persona functions on a strictly shift-based routine."

A delighted colour was suffusing Miss Blount's waxy cheeks. "Dr Doyle, I cannot begin to tell you...I am such an admirer of your work. My sister and I thought it would be the ruin of us when dear Mr Holmes went over that waterfall. The delight we experienced when you brought him back...oh, quite the sensation, Dr Doyle."

Throughout this, James had been staring at her while a strange, half-amused bewilderment was puckering the skin between his brows. He met Arthur's eyes, gave a short, breathless laugh and looked back at the young woman.

"Miss Blount," he said, shaking his head. "I believe you may well have just made Dr Doyle's year."

Miss Blount blinked her uninjured eye earnestly. "Mr Barrie, I never in my life imagined that I would fulfil two of my most beloved literary ambitions all in one night. I could quite swoon away." She beamed at Arthur, her composure quite restored.

"You silly, bloody mare," said James - and fainted.

finis

A/N: I besmirch the reputation of many a turn-of-the-century notable in this chapter; no aspersions are really being cast on the beauty of Bernhardt or the gentility of Langtry, and I'm sure both Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir Henry Irving made very fine Hamlets. Herbert Wells is, of course, H(erbert) G(eorge) Wells (who I am sure never entered into any betting or wagering of any kind, least of all with Sir Arthur), although he did belong to the same cricket club as Conan Doyle and Barrie, so I'm sure a healthy competitiveness was indeed nutured between the three of them.

I know nothing about the geography of the real Duke of York's Theatre; I am a humble fanfiction author who cannot afford on-scene field research. Berthollini's was a well-known restaurant in St Martin's Place at the back of Pall Mall East. During the latter part of the nineteenth century, there was a rumour that many of the dishes were made out of the owner's old wigs and boots, but this was merely a flight of fancy on the part of the restaurant's supporters to imply that the taste of the food was so excellent that its ingredients were immaterial. The Victorians, eh?

I really do appreciate feedback, so any comments, questions, suggestions are very welcome.

[sneezeadorer]

James fainted?!?!?!?

I enjoyed this chapter, thank you for posting again; oh and the slahy implications - I'm only speaking for myself of course, but I personally really liked it, and as long as it doesn't get too heavy and that it's natural like it was in this chapter, you should continue it!

I can't wait to find out what happens to James next!

P.S. The sneezing was adorable as always!

[silentdreamer789]

Wow. Brilliant. I realy like your style of writing. Looking forward to fnding out more about why James fainted....

silentdreamer789

[Guest RollRock]

I have gotten so into this fic. You have effectively unleashed an obsession for Depp's Barrie that I never knew I had. Absolutely beautiful writing. I can't wait to see what happens to poor James...

[Mistress Quickly]

As always, much love and appreciation for the feedback, and I'm very glad to see that I've converted two more innocents down the path of misrule, bwahahaha . RollRock, I hope the Depp/Barrie obsession isn't too troubling; funny how these things can lie dormant . Oh, and the fainting? Yeah, never fear, guys, he's only had a bang on the head; it has absolutely no plot significance whatsoever and was in many ways a rather silly joke I was having with myself in reference Depp's performance in Sleepy Hollow (those who've seen that film will know what I mean). Sneezeadorer, glad the slash thing was OK with you; I'm definitely keeping it subtle, if I choose to continue it as a theme. This story is more about James and Mary than anything else.

Thanks again, chicas.

[count tiszula]

Exciting. isn't it? And more slashinesse is what we want; there seems to have been a lot of it about, more or less disguised; all those Turkish baths , or indeed naked bathing .

Cricket, eh; "the sneezy game" as it ought to be called; and Wells's father...

[Triosk1]

*Melts into a pile of happy Ian-hart related goo* Thank you! Arthur is so cool, and the sneezes! Very, very cute. I have a serious thing for voices going up octaves before sneezing. And I love the sleepy hollow reference, that film was so hilarious And I don't know what the Duke of York Theatre looks like anyway, so who cares if it isn't like you describe it? It also wasn't blown up, and you don't catch me complaining about that I liked the slight slashy hints, because they were very subtle, and I think if they stay that way they'll be really nice. And as for the Arthur treating a fan, that was just hilarious Can't wait for more.

[silentdreamer789]

"You silly, bloody mare," said James - and fainted.

You can't leave it here! It's been a while. Any chance of some more....?

silentdreamer789

[Mistress Quickly]

"You silly, bloody mare," said James - and fainted.

You can't leave it here! It's been a while. Any chance of some more....?

silentdreamer789

I know, it has been ages, hasn't it? But don't worry, I'm definitely continuing it; I'm just a bit busy with exam revision at the moment, and I'm also working on a number of shorter things, including the James McAvoy story I've been promising. So yes, there's certainly more; I can't specifically say when I'll have it done, but it will be ready at some point in the not too distance future and I'm really sorry that I've kept you waiting

[silentdreamer789]

"You silly, bloody mare," said James - and fainted.

You can't leave it here! It's been a while. Any chance of some more....?

silentdreamer789

I know, it has been ages, hasn't it? But don't worry, I'm definitely continuing it; I'm just a bit busy with exam revision at the moment, and I'm also working on a number of shorter things, including the James McAvoy story I've been promising. So yes, there's certainly more; I can't specifically say when I'll have it done, but it will be ready at some point in the not too distance future and I'm really sorry that I've kept you waiting

I eagerly await the end of your exams, then. Not to mention my own that I'm not revising for...

silentdreamer789

[Vetinari]

Hi Mistress Quickly

Wow! I have dipped in and out of this before but have never really taken the time to read it properly. This afternoon I finally did (it took me 5 hours due to distractions) and it's absolutely brilliant. Your descrptions are so eloquent (about everything, sneezing included) and I would dearly love to see the film although I can imagine Ian Hart as Conan Doyle very easily. Your writing and knowledge of your subject are very mature, I can hardly believe you are only twenty and still studying. I hope your exams go/went well. Anyway I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed what you have written so far. Thank you very much.