Lionel looked at the excited young medical student before him, the halo of the father of detective novels overlapping with his current youthful appearance in his mind.
However, having met many famous people in this life, he managed to suppress his emotions 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!"
Conan Doyle pulled a chair by the bed and sat down carefully, his voice still trembling: "Oh, Mr. Sorel, this is a miracle for me!
I'm not just a reader; I'm your admirer!"
Lionel: "…" Are you British people so good at this in the 19th century?
Conan Doyle apparently didn't notice Lionel's mood and chattered on: "Your the old guard captures individual destinies within the tide of history…
And the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button, the boy who 'grows backward,' also fascinates me!
I… what I love most are novels with such a strong sense of history, yet not overly heavy—
Before you, Sir Walter Scott was my idol! I truly hope I can become a historical novelist myself someday!"
Lionel nodded slightly: "Your French is quite good? the old guard and the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button haven't been translated into English yet."
Conan Doyle's face reddened: "If it's just reading, it's not a big problem—but speaking it is a bit difficult."
Lionel smiled: "History is indeed fascinating; it provides 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 wounded, you are angels on earth!"
When medicine was mentioned, Conan Doyle's excitement subsided slightly, and he looked troubled: "Yes, sir, medicine… it does have its value.
Professor Bell is the best proof. But, in England, the prospects of being a doctor… to be honest, are not so bright, especially at the beginning…
Compared to creating an almost real world with a pen, it feels… it feels a bit limited."
British doctors were notoriously low-income and high-expense, incomparable to most of their European counterparts.
The main reason was that Britain never unified the professional system for doctors; "physicians," "surgeons," "apothecaries," and "internists" all had the right to practice.
A university degree was not even a necessary condition; many could practice through apprenticeships—plus, with the popularization of medical education in 19th-century Britain, there was a direct oversupply.
And in the Victorian era, becoming a "gentleman" was more important than making money.
Most doctors struggled in the lower-middle class but still had to maintain appearances—renting dedicated offices, employing servants, and wearing tailored formal wear.
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 betray you.
The observation skills, logical thinking, and understanding of human nature that medical training gives you are invaluable assets, whether or not you make a living from them in the future.
First, complete your studies; the possibilities for the future are far broader than what you see now.
Who can say that someone with rigorous scientific training cannot write more precise and profound stories?"
Conan Doyle shook his head disapprovingly: "Muscles, blood vessels, bones… what stories can there be in that?
Am I supposed to piece together a 'Frankenstein' like Mary Shelley?
Or, like Edgar Allan Poe or Émile Gaboriau, dabble in 'crime novels'?
Good heavens, I wouldn't write that kind of novel even if I opened a small clinic in the countryside!"
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, 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 like magic!
But this is not sorcery; it is based on his extensive knowledge and rigorous logic."
He leaned forward, eager to share: "He can often accurately deduce a patient's occupation, living habits, and even where they've recently been, just by observing their demeanor, accent, wear and tear on their clothes, or even the dirt under their fingernails.
Once, he merely glanced at a special scar on a taciturn patient's hand and the specific color of clay on his boots and concluded that he was a left-handed potter from a specific area of Fife, and it turned out to be completely correct!
And another time…"
Conan Doyle rattled off several anecdotes about Dr. Bell, especially how he helped the police solve the "Chantrelle Murder Case" in 1878.
The keen doctor immediately recognized that Mrs. Chantrelle had not died from accidental gas poisoning but from being fed an overdose of opium.
He simply picked up the pillowcase stained with Mrs. Chantrelle's vomit and sniffed it, which made Mr. Chantrelle at the scene reveal his guilt.
Conan Doyle concluded with admiration: "…So, for us, attending Professor Bell's class is like watching a magnificent performance!"
Lionel gave an enigmatic smile: "If I need to verify some medical details for certain future creations, would you be my consultant?"
Conan Doyle was overjoyed: "It would be my honor, Mr. Sorel! To be your assistant in writing novels is a blessing I wouldn't dare to imagine!"
Lionel nodded with a smile: "Actually, I'm only two years older than you; you can call me Lionel, or Leon for short!
'Mr. Sorel' is too formal! We're friends, aren't we?"
Conan Doyle nodded his head like a chick pecking rice: "Okay, Leon!"
Just then, the ward door opened.
An older, serious-looking lady walked in.
She was also wearing a nurse's uniform, but the style was simpler and more dignified, and her hair was meticulously tucked into her cap.
Conan Doyle seemed startled and immediately stood up from the chair, looking a bit flustered: "Ni… Nightingale!"
Nightingale's gaze first fell gently on Lionel, then turned to 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?"
Conan Doyle's face instantly flushed, and he stammered an explanation: "I… I just wanted to visit Mr. Sorel…"
Nightingale's tone softened: "I understand how you feel. But at this moment, for Mr. Sorel, rest is the best treatment.
Now, please return to your post."
"Yes, yes, Nightingale. I'm very sorry." Conan Doyle almost scurried out of the ward.
Nightingale then walked to Lionel's bedside and checked the record card at his headboard: "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 that's particularly uncomfortable?"
Her voice was low and clear, carrying a reassuring strength.
Lionel nodded: "Thank you very much, Nightingale, and please thank Mr. Thompson for me.
I feel much better than yesterday, but I'm still weak all over, and my head is 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 repair itself.
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, so please set them aside for now."
Lionel replied obediently: "I've noted that, thank you for the reminder, Nightingale."
Nightingale nodded slightly: "If you need anything, you can always have the nurses relay it to me.
They are all my students, and I am basically at St. Thomas' Hospital's nursing school all day."
She then gave a few more instructions to the nurse before quietly leaving the ward.
If any of the "big figures" he had recently met commanded more respect, it was undoubtedly this lady who pioneered modern nursing.
He then drank a cup of warm water and fell into a deep sleep.
While Lionel enjoyed peaceful recuperation in the ward, an undeclared war broke out between England and France because of him.