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Lionel Sorel slowly regained consciousness from a daze.
He struggled to open his heavy eyelids, and a pristine white ceiling came into view.
Sunlight streamed through the glass window, falling upon him.
He was covered by a rough but clean white sheet, and the air smelled of carbolic acid disinfectant.
Though simple, the surrounding environment was very tidy.
He tried to prop himself up to see more clearly, but as soon as he exerted force, he nearly toppled off the bed.
The sound immediately alerted the nurse.
A series of hurried and light footsteps approached, and a young, stern-faced nurse in a white apron appeared by his bed.
"Sir! Please lie still, don't move!" The nurse skillfully supported his shoulders, helping him lie back on the pillow.
Lionel weakly asked, "Where am I?"
The nurse gently replied, "The hospital, sir. St. Thomas Hospital."
Then she felt Lionel's forehead: "The fever has gone down a bit… You've been unconscious for almost a whole day."
Lionel struggled to recall: "Who brought me here?"
"Mr. Harold Thompson, he paid your admission deposit."
The nurse said as she fed him a few sips of warm water.
Hearing that Harold Thompson had brought him, Lionel finally relaxed.
Shortly after he lay down, steady, rhythmic footsteps were heard outside the ward; soon the door was pushed open, and a doctor, surrounded by a group of young people, walked in.
The doctor was tall and thin, around forty years old, with a gaunt face, high cheekbones, and sharp, focused eyes.
He walked directly to Lionel's bed, and the nurse respectfully moved aside.
The doctor's voice was calm and clear: "Good morning, sir. Are you feeling better?"
Lionel managed a weak smile: "Better… a little better, thank you, Doctor."
The doctor nodded, picked up the medical record hanging at the foot of the bed, and read it: "Mr. Lionel Sorel, French national.
Acute high fever, accompanied by severe chills, muscle pain, and weakness… Hmm."
He put down the record, his gaze refocusing on Lionel: "I am Dr. Joseph Bell, Professor of Surgery at the University of Edinburgh Medical School.
I am currently leading these young people on an exchange visit at St. Thomas Hospital.
You were admitted in an emergency, and I happened to be involved in your diagnosis."
Dr. Bell briefly examined Lionel's tongue coating: "Your illness is not complicated, but it came on fiercely.
Overwork, irregular diet, and London's terrible air—what we call 'miasma'—
Invaded your already fatigued body through your pores, leading to this acute fever.
But don't worry, young people recover quickly; as long as you take quinine and antipyretics on time, ensure rest and a clean diet, you will recover very soon."
His diagnosis and treatment plan were concise and clear, as if stating an already established fact.
Then, he asked Lionel: "Mr. Sorel, do you mind if I use you as a subject for my students to learn how to diagnose?"
Lionel did not object, he simply closed his eyes.
Soon, he heard Dr. Bell ask the young students around him: "Gentlemen, this is a typical case of acute fever caused by environmental discomfort, overfatigue, and 'miasma' infection.
Now, imagine that when this gentleman was brought in, he was not accompanied by that gentleman, and we had no way of knowing his identity. How would you, through observation, determine his basic condition, and even help deduce the cause of his illness?"
The students exchanged glances, appearing somewhat nervous and hesitant.
They carefully observed Lionel, seemingly finding it difficult to discern anything special.
One student tentatively said: "Sir… he looks very weak, like he's been on a long journey?"
Dr. Bell commented blandly: "Too general."
Another student noticed a detail: "His fingers… they are very fair and slender, as if he hasn't done any manual labor?"
"Better, continue."
But then there was silence; the students seemed unable to find any more clues.
Dr. Bell shook his head slightly, seemingly a little disappointed, then said: "Then, allow me to demonstrate."
He walked around the bed once before continuing: "This gentleman, though weak at the moment, has several fundamental characteristics that cannot be hidden."
"First, look at his skin tone and hair texture. The skin on his face and hands is relatively delicate, but not the pallor of someone who has lived a life of luxury.
Especially the skin tone at his wrists, which has a slight color difference from the skin covered by clothing; this indicates that he is not a native city dweller, and may come from the countryside."
Then Bell changed the subject: "His hands, with long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and palms lacking the hard calluses of labor.
Only the inner side of the first joint of his right middle finger has a subtle, new nascent callus, which is typically caused by prolonged writing with a pen."
The students let out faint gasps of surprise, observing more carefully.
Bell continued: "Second, look at his posture and muscle type. Even when confined to bed, his shoulder and neck area still appears somewhat stiff when he lies down, which is also a common characteristic of long-term desk work."
"Third, note his belongings. Although he changed into a hospital gown upon admission, among the few personal items he brought—over there on the cabinet—there is a stack of manuscript paper and a portable inkwell and quill pen, rather than the more common pencil.
The corners of the manuscript paper are worn, which indicates that writing is not just work for him, but likely a passion or professional necessity, and his economic situation is at least medium."
Dr. Bell concluded: "In summary, Mr. Sorel is a well-educated young gentleman from a French village or small town.
He might be a journalist, a writer, or perhaps a clerk or copyist.
Excessive fatigue reduced his resistance to London's 'miasma,' thereby triggering this acute fever."
After Dr. Bell finished speaking, the ward was silent, and the students were all dumbfounded.
Lionel couldn't help but ask: "That's basically correct—but how did you determine I was French? If Mr. Harold Thompson hadn't introduced me."
Dr. Bell offered a smile: "Your head shape, to be precise—your skull, sir.
You are 'brachycephalic,' with a rounder skull top—you come from southern France, or at least your ancestors did."
Lionel was finally convinced: "I thought you had read my work, heard my name…"
Dr. Bell showed a puzzled expression: "Are you famous, Mr. Sorel?"
Lionel: "…" He realized it was superfluous to have said that.
Dr. Bell turned back to the students: "Observation and logic are the cornerstones of medical diagnosis, gentlemen. Never just look at appearances and the patient's self-report; trust the details your eyes see.
They will tell you the truth."
After speaking to the students, he said to Lionel: "Very good, Mr. Sorel. Thank you for your cooperation. Please rest assured and recuperate.
I will come again this afternoon."
Then, he left the ward with the group of students, who were still pondering and marveling.
After Dr. Bell left, silence returned to the ward. Lionel was still savoring Dr. Bell's deduction, feeling it was somehow familiar…
About fifteen minutes later, the ward door was gently pushed open again.
A young head peered in, looked left and right, then nimbly slipped inside.
He looked about twenty, tall and sturdy, with thick curly hair and a beard.
He quickly walked to Lionel's bedside, lowering his voice, but unable to hide his excitement: "Mr. Sorel! Please forgive my abrupt intrusion. Are you… are you feeling better?"
Lionel looked at him with some surprise: "I'm much better, thank you. You are…?"
The young man began to introduce himself with reverence: "My name is Arthur Conan Doyle, and I am one of Dr. Bell's students, just arrived from Edinburgh.
I… I am a reader of yours, and I couldn't resist coming to see you alone."
Lionel: "…"