Lionel looked at the excited young medical student in front of him, the aura of the father of detective novels in his mind overlapping with the youthful appearance before him.
However, having met many famous people in this life, he could suppress the emotions in his heart as much as possible and respond in a calm tone:
"Mr. Doyle, it's a pleasure to meet you. I didn't expect to meet a reader in a London hospital. Arthur, please sit down!"
Arthur Conan Doyle pulled a chair by the bed and sat down cautiously, his voice still trembling:
"Oh, Mr. Sorel, this is simply a miracle to me! I'm not just a reader, I'm your admirer!"
Lionel: "..."
Were you British people already so adept at this in the 19th century?
Arthur Conan Doyle clearly didn't notice Lionel's mood and kept rambling:
"Your Old Guard captures individual fates within the torrent of history...
And The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, the boy who 'grows backward,' also fascinates me!
I... my favorite kind of novel is one with a strong sense of history, yet not overly ponderous—
Before you, Sir Walter Scott was my idol! I truly hope I can become a historical novelist someday!"
Lionel nodded slightly:
"Your French is good? The Old Guard and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button haven't been translated into English yet."
Arthur Conan Doyle blushed:
"If it's just reading, it's not a big problem—but speaking it is a bit difficult."
Lionel chuckled:
"History is indeed full of charm; it can provide endless material and profound perspectives for writing.
However, it seems you've chosen another equally respectable path.
Medicine is a noble profession; saving lives and healing the injured makes one an angel on earth!"
At the mention of medicine, Arthur Conan Doyle's excitement subsided a little, and he showed a troubled expression:
"Yes, sir, medicine... it certainly has its value. Professor Bell is the best proof of that.
But, in Britain, the prospects for a doctor... honestly, aren't that bright, especially at the beginning...
Compared to creating a nearly real world with a pen, it feels... it feels a bit limited."
British doctors were famously low-income and high-expenditure and couldn't compare to most of their European counterparts.
The main reason was that Britain never had a unified professional system for doctors, with physicians, surgeons, apothecaries, and internal medicine doctors all having diagnostic and treatment rights.
A university degree was also not a prerequisite; many could practice through apprenticeships—coupled with the popularization of medical education in 19th-century Britain, it directly led to an oversupply.
And in the Victorian era, becoming a "gentleman" was more important than earning money.
Most doctors struggled in the lower-middle class, yet still had to maintain appearances—renting specialized offices, hiring servants, and wearing custom formal attire.
Therefore, many doctors appeared respectable but were actually living beyond their means.
Lionel, of course, understood this hesitation and could only say tactfully:
"Mr. Doyle, knowledge and skills will never let you down.
The observational skills, logical thinking, and understanding of human nature that medical training gives you, these are immensely valuable assets, whether you make a living from them in the future or not.
First, complete your studies; the possibilities for the future are far broader than what you see now.
Who's to say that someone with rigorous scientific training can't write more rigorous and profound stories?"
Arthur Conan Doyle shook his head dismissively:
"Muscles, blood vessels, bones... what kind of stories can these tell?
Am I supposed to piece together a 'Frankenstein' like Mary Shelley?
Or, like Edgar Allan Poe or Émile Gaboriau, conjure up some 'crime novels'?
Good heavens, even if I open a small clinic in the countryside, I wouldn't write such novels!"
Lionel: "..."
He decided to change the subject:
"Speaking of observation—your teacher, Dr. Joseph Bell, his deduction just now was simply astonishing. Is he always like that?"
At the mention of Dr. Bell, Arthur Conan Doyle's eyes lit up again:
"A genius! Mr. Sorel, Professor Bell is absolutely a genius!
His ability to observe details and deduce the whole picture from them is simply like magic!
But this is not witchcraft; it's based on his vast knowledge and rigorous logic."
He leaned forward, eager to share:
"He can often accurately infer a patient's profession, habits, and even recent whereabouts simply by observing their demeanor, accent, wear and tear on their clothing, or even the dirt under their fingernails.
Once, just by glancing at a specific scar on a taciturn patient's hand and a particular color of clay stuck to his boots, he concluded that the man was a left-handed potter from a specific area in Fife, and it turned out to be completely correct!
Another time..."
Arthur Conan Doyle rattled off several anecdotes about Dr. Bell, especially how he helped the police solve the "Chantrelle Murder Case" in 1878.
The astute doctor immediately saw that Mrs. Chantrelle had not died of accidental gas poisoning, but from being fed an overdose of opium.
He merely picked up the pillowcase stained with Mrs. Chantrelle's vomit and sniffed it, which immediately exposed Mr. Chantrelle at the scene.
Arthur Conan Doyle finally concluded with admiration:
"...so, for us, attending Professor Bell's lectures is like watching a brilliant performance!"
Lionel showed a smile that was hard to decipher:
"If some of my future creations require verifying medical details, could you be my consultant?"
Arthur Conan Doyle was overjoyed:
"It would be my honor, Mr. Sorel! To become your assistant in writing novels is a blessing I dared not dream of!"
Lionel nodded with a smile:
"Actually, I'm only two years older than you; you can call me Lionel, or Leon if you prefer! 'Mr. Sorel' is too formal! We're friends, aren't we?"
Arthur Conan Doyle nodded his head like a chick pecking at rice:
"Alright, Leon!"
Just then, the ward door was pushed open.
An older, serious-looking lady walked in.
She was also wearing a nurse's uniform, but the style was simpler and more dignified, her hair impeccably tucked into her cap.
Arthur Conan Doyle seemed startled, immediately stood up from the chair, appearing somewhat flustered:
"Ni... Nightingale!"
Nightingale's gaze first fell gently on Lionel, then turned to Arthur Conan Doyle:
"Mr. Doyle, if I'm not mistaken, at this time you should be assisting with dressing changes in the surgical ward. Does Professor Bell know you're here?"
Arthur Conan Doyle's face instantly turned red, and he stammered an explanation:
"I... I just wanted to visit Mr. Sorel..."
Nightingale's tone softened a little:
"I understand your feelings. But right now, for Mr. Sorel, rest is the best treatment.
Now, please return to your post."
"Yes, yes, Miss Nightingale. My apologies."
Arthur Conan Doyle almost scurried out of the ward.
Only then did Nightingale walk to Lionel's bedside and checked the record card at his bedside:
"Mr. Sorel, I am Florence Nightingale.
Mr. Harold Thompson is a friend of mine, and he specifically asked me to look after you.
How are you feeling now? Is there anything else particularly uncomfortable?"
Her voice was low and clear, carrying a reassuring power.
Lionel nodded:
"Thank you very much, Miss Nightingale, and please thank Mr. Thompson on my behalf.
I feel much better than yesterday, just weak all over and my head is still a bit heavy."
Nightingale checked his complexion and pupils:
"This is a normal recovery process. Your high fever has just subsided, and your body needs time to recuperate.
London's air is indeed a challenge for newcomers, especially when the body is tired.
The most important thing is—rest. Thoughts and conversations consume energy; please put them aside for now."
Lionel replied obediently:
"I will remember that, thank you for the reminder, Miss Nightingale."
Nightingale nodded slightly:
"If you need anything, you can always have the nurses inform me.
They are all my students, and I am essentially at St. Thomas' Hospital's nursing school all day."
She then gave a few more instructions to the nurses before quietly leaving the ward.
If any of the "big figures" he had recently met commanded more respect from him, it was undoubtedly this lady who pioneered modern nursing.
He then fell into a deep sleep after drinking a cup of warm water.
While Lionel enjoyed a peaceful recovery in the ward, England and France, however, had ignited a bloodless war because of him.
(End of Chapter)
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