Lionel stiffly turned his head, and the person who had arrived was Oscar Wilde.
His tall figure blocked the door to the ward, casting a deep shadow on the floor.
First to enter was a huge, pale bouquet of lilies he held in his hand; only then did Wilde himself elegantly slip in sideways.
He was wearing a deep emerald green velvet coat, with exaggerated lace ruffles of a shirt peeking out from the collar and cuffs;
A somewhat loose tie hung casually around his neck, and he wore light-colored gloves on his hands.
Every detail was completely out of place with the simple surroundings of St. Thomas Hospital.
Wilde walked to Lionel's bedside: "Poor Sorel, I knew it, I knew it!
This rude beast, London, is ultimately not suitable for your delicate France soul."
He placed the large bouquet of lilies into an empty pitcher on the windowsill: "Look, only this is worthy of consoling an artist wounded by ugly reality."
Lionel's face was paler than when he was admitted: "You're too kind—it's just an unfortunate illness, and I'll be well soon. There's really no need for such a fuss..."
He could only secretly pray in his heart that this talented man with peculiar tastes would end his visit soon.
Wilde seemed completely oblivious to Lionel's discomfort, settling into a chair, crossing his legs, and beginning his characteristic, effusive monologue:
"Trouble? No, it is my bounden duty."
"Do you know? When I heard the news of your collapse, what I felt first was not surprise, but a kind of... sorrow of a premonition fulfilled!"
"The first time I saw you in Paris, I knew you wouldn't adapt here—London? Oh, London!"
As he spoke, he made a gesture as if warding off a bad smell: "The people here worship the luxury of carriages, the height of chimneys, the length of numbers in bank accounts.
They build their physiques with steak and beer, but let their souls starve. Their artistic taste... Good heavens, if I may be frank, it's still at the level of putting bow ties on dogs."
He sighed: "Never mind the air, the food here... Oh, that's another long torment for the senses, better not to mention it.
My dear friend, my heart aches for you, you are like a canary thrown into a coal mine."
You're the canary, your whole family are canaries!
But this was only an internal grumble; the current Lionel could only weakly nod, occasionally agreeing with a "Indeed" or "You are right."
In his heart, however, he desperately wished that Ms. Nightingale or some doctor would suddenly appear and escort this overly enthusiastic aesthetician out.
The lilies in the ward emitted an overly strong fragrance, mixing with Wilde's perfume and the original disinfectant smell in the ward, almost suffocating Lionel.
Wilde was completely immersed in his own world, delivering a "speech" for a full twenty minutes before seemingly suddenly remembering Lionel's condition.
He stood up, elegantly tidying his coat: "My dear Sorel. An artist's body is a temple, and must be carefully nurtured.
Please get well, Paris needs your wisdom, the world needs your stories."
He extended his hand, seemingly intending a hand-kiss, but realizing the occasion was inappropriate, he changed it to a gentle wave: "May you escape from here soon.
Goodbye, my dear friend. I will pray for you! Tomorrow, or the day after, I will come again."
With that, he floated away, leaving behind a room full of silence and strong fragrance.
Lionel frantically rang the bedside bell for help; as soon as the nurse entered, he pleaded: "Quickly take this bouquet of lilies away—and open the window.
The smell in this room is more terrible than the Thames River! Also, please quickly call Dr. Joseph Bell over, I want to be discharged, I want to be discharged..."
----
Lionel's request did not receive Joseph Bell's support; he believed Lionel needed at least another week of recuperation.
However, he thoughtfully issued a "visiting ban" for Lionel to the hospital, preventing the bustling flow of visitors over the past two days.
Two days later, Lionel felt his energy had recovered considerably, so he took a short walk in the hospital's small garden.
The garden was not large, with neatly trimmed hedges surrounding a central lawn and a few benches.
Although the air was still not ideal, it was much fresher than the street.
Lionel slowly strolled, enjoying his long-lost "freedom."
On one of the benches, he saw a familiar figure—Dr. Joseph Bell.
He was wearing only a suit vest, leaning back in the chair, reading a copy of The Times, seemingly taking a nap.
Lionel quietly walked over. "Good afternoon, Dr. Bell."
Dr. Bell looked up: "Good afternoon, Mr. Sorel, how are you feeling?"
Lionel sat down at the other end of the bench: "Much better, thank you. The air here is very helpful."
After a brief silence, Lionel couldn't help but ask curiously: "Dr. Bell, please forgive my presumption... I heard that you are not only highly skilled in medicine but have also assisted the police in solving cases.
For example... last year's Chantrell murder case? Is that true?"
Dr. Bell's face showed a smile: "Oh, that case. Yes, the police at the time thought that poor Mrs. Elizabeth Chantrell died of accidental gas poisoning.
But they overlooked some details."
His tone was as calm as if he were analyzing a medical case: "The gas valve in the room was indeed open, but the concentration was not immediately lethal.
More importantly, I noticed traces of vomit on the deceased's pillowcase—gas poisoning does not cause vomiting.
I leaned in and smelled it; the scent was sweet with a bitter undertone—that was laudanum... So, the rest was up to Scotland Yard."
Lionel praised: "That's incredible! Relying solely on observation and... smell. You are much more perceptive than the police!"
Dr. Bell slightly shrugged: "Scotland Yard... they rely too much on experience and lack systematic observation training.
They always tend to overlook details or be deceived by appearances."
There was a hint of helplessness in his tone.
Dr. Bell looked at Lionel: "In fact, good detectives and good doctors require almost the same qualities.
We both face seemingly chaotic appearances—for the police, it's crime scenes and testimonies; for doctors, it's the patient's symptoms and self-reports.
Many diseases have very similar external symptoms, but their root causes can be completely different.
A headache could be eyestrain, a tumor, or poisoning...
A cough could be a cold, tuberculosis, or a heart problem..."
Dr. Bell placed The Times aside: "Patients' descriptions are often vague, subjective, and sometimes even conceal or distort information out of fear or ignorance.
Just as witnesses might omit crucial details or lie due to nervousness.
Our job is to find that unique 'truth' hidden deep within these complex, seemingly plausible 'clues' through careful observation, logical deduction, and professional knowledge—
For the police, it's the murderer and motive; for doctors, it's an accurate diagnosis and cause of illness."
Lionel looked at Joseph Bell's calm narration and suddenly realized who the prototype for "Holmes" was.
----
A week later, Lionel finally received his discharge permit and walked out of the hospital gate feeling refreshed.
Then, without notifying anyone—he didn't want to be persuaded to stay for another two days—he went directly to Charing Cross Station, bought a through ticket to Paris Nord, and left this city that had left such a deep impression on him.
The journey home was equally smooth; Lionel stepped through the door of 64 Rue Laffitte at 8 PM.
The administrator on the first floor saw Lionel and immediately came to greet him: "Welcome home, Mr. Sorel.
I saw your story in the newspaper—damn those Englishmen! It's wonderful that you've returned safely!"
Lionel thanked him for his concern and then asked: "During my absence, were there any letters or messages from visitors?"
The administrator thought for a moment: "Indeed there were—three days after you left Paris, someone did come here looking for you."
Lionel: "Oh? Who was it?"
The administrator scratched his head: "There were two people in total, very haughty, they only asked if you were home, didn't say who they were, and didn't leave a message.
But they looked like church people to me, even though they were in plain clothes..."