1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

As a major genre of popular fiction, the origins of British detective fiction can be traced back to the American novelist Edgar Allan Poe. However, even for the patriarch Poe, his first detective novel was published in 1841. Therefore, in 1836, there were simply no novels of this genre on the market.

If Michelle had successfully published the Sherlock Holmes series, she could at least have earned the title of the patriarch of the detective novel genre in literary history.

Can detective novels be written? The answer is yes.

In fact, British society today has already laid the foundation for the popularity of detective novels. Whether it is the rapid development of popular culture after the deregulation of stamp duty, or the continuous deterioration of social security during the social transition period, both have set the stage for the emergence of detective novels.

Therefore, adapting the Sherlock Holmes series for modern Britain wouldn't be a problem.

However, this doesn't mean it's a simple matter. In fact, the Sherlock Holmes series is a slow-burning work. Even in the original timeline, before the original author, Arthur Conan Doyle, published it, it was rejected multiple times before finally being published with great difficulty. Even *A Study in Scarlet* was initially submitted as *A Mess*.

The Sherlock Holmes series didn't truly become popular until the publication of its second book, The Sign of Four.

However, with the help of future generations' wisdom, Michel believes that with his minor adjustments, the story's pacing will be even tighter and more exciting. Combined with Sherlock Holmes's inherent foresight and brilliance, the Sherlock Holmes series shouldn't be too far off in terms of popularity...

After some thought and figuring out his approach, Michelle stuffed a mouthful of black bread into his mouth and began to bury himself in writing.

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Two days later, on Sunday, December 28, 1836.

This week's London Express is fresh off the press.

Like in later periods, many British newspapers in 1836 had their own political leanings and a fixed readership. At this time, the British newspaper industry could be said to be divided into three major factions.

The largest faction is undoubtedly the Conservatives, which own The Times, one of the most influential newspapers today. Their political leanings are conservative, their target readership is primarily political and business figures, and their style is relatively serious and formal, often including political news. Many newspapers that oppose liberal reforms, such as The Morning Post, The Morning News, and The Standard, also belong to this faction.

The second faction was the reformists, represented by the Morning Post, which mainly criticized the government and advocated liberalism. Dickens once worked as an editor there.

The last sectarian force consisted of newspapers aimed at the general public, primarily featuring crime news and social stories. The London Express, for which Michel contributed articles, was one such publication.

As a popular newspaper, the London Express, with its low price of one penny and decent content, had many readers eagerly anticipating its publication each week, hoping to find something fresh and different.

Unlike the information explosion two hundred years later, entertainment options were scarce at this time, making newspapers an excellent form of leisure.

When another foggy day arrived in London, the latest issue of the London Express was delivered to subscribers' homes and to the rough, calloused arms of newsboys along the streets.

Dr. Thomas was one of the subscribers.

As the most educated doctor in the neighborhood, Thomas's life was as regular as Big Ben by the Thames. Usually at breakfast time, he would have his servant make him a cup of tea and bring him the latest newspaper for his leisure. Besides The Times, he subscribed to many other newspapers, but only read what interested him.

As for the cost of newspaper subscriptions, it was negligible compared to his annual income of several hundred pounds.

After reading his daily must-read, The Times, Thomas somehow found himself picking up the London Express.

The newspaper was unfolded, and the smell of fresh ink wafted out. In the most prominent position on the front page, surprisingly, it wasn't some horrific murder case, but a short story.

This surprised Thomas. As a seasoned newspaper reader, he knew very well that newspapers like the London Express often focused on sensationalism and gossip to boost circulation.

A novel that can outshine those horrifying cases and explosive gossip must have something special about it.

Michel Leblanc, and his work, The Last Leaf.

Thomas uttered the name softly.

With a hint of curiosity, he pursed his lips, picked up his teacup, and prepared to skim the story in three minutes. But soon, he was deeply captivated by the story, and as he read on, the expression on his face became increasingly fascinating.

After reading only the first paragraph, his hand holding the teacup froze in mid-air.

As a doctor, Thomas was surprised by the description of pneumonia in the text. Unlike other novels dealing with disease, this one lacked exaggerated and melodramatic plots, offering only calm and precise judgments.

"The doctor believes there is only a 10% chance of her recovery... If the patient doesn't want to live, then medicine is of no use at all."

These words struck a chord with Thomas! He had seen too many patients like this; medication could cure physical ailments, but it couldn't ignite the patient's extinguished will to live.

Before he knew it, Thomas had sat up straight, his gaze fixed on the text.

When he read about Johnsy gazing at the ivy leaves outside the window, linking her own life to the withering of those leaves, he couldn't help but let out a soft sigh: he had seen far too many of these self-destructive fantasies in the eyes of desperate patients.

The outside world seemed to have vanished. The subtle aroma of the black tea in the teacup, the hustle and bustle of the morning streets—all had faded away. Only the window, the wall, and the ivy that was about to wither remained.

On the night the storm approached, Thomas's heart clenched. When the last leaf stubbornly clung to the wall the next morning, he even felt his eyes welling up with tears.

A short story doesn't take long to read, and Thomas soon reached the end: old Behrman's secret was finally revealed—the leaf that never faded was actually a masterpiece he painted with his life on a stormy night.

"Smack."

The newspaper slipped from Thomas's hands and fell onto the soft wool carpet.

He sat there motionless for a long time. A strange feeling of emotion welled up in his heart, and he couldn't calm down for a long time.

His assistant knocked gently on the door and whispered a reminder: "Dr. Thomas, it's almost time for your appointment with the patient."

Thomas then came to his senses; the once steaming hot tea in his hand had gone cold. He put down the teacup, slowly picked up the newspaper from the ground, and his gaze finally settled on the unfamiliar author's name.

Michelle LeBlanc.

He took a deep breath and made his decision. He told his assistant, "Go to the street and buy ten copies of today's London Express."

The assistant was somewhat taken aback: "Huh? So many?"

"right!"

Thomas's voice held an undeniable excitement. "Such a wonderful story should be read by every one of my patients! It's more effective than any prescription I write!"

Soon, his assistant, poor Ben, returned carrying a stack of the London Dispatch.

"Doctor, are you sure you want to show these... to the patients?" Ben asked quietly, wanting to confirm with Thomas again. He thought his boss must be crazy. Paying money to buy this kind of tabloid and then circulating it to the patients? If word got out, it would become a laughing stock.

"Of course." Thomas said without looking up as he adjusted his stethoscope, "It's much better to have them read it while they wait than to let their imaginations run wild."

Ben had no choice but to do as Dr. Thomas instructed.

There were seven or eight patients in the small waiting room: a bank manager with a broken arm, a small factory owner suffering from severe stomach pain, and a haggard mother holding her child.

"Is this a new treatment method?" the bank manager with the broken bone muttered, eliciting a low, feeble chuckle.

When they took the newspaper from Ben, their faces were full of confusion.

But soon, the laughter stopped. Only the rustling of newspapers turning could be heard in the waiting room.

The first to speak up was Mr. Harrison, the seasoned bank manager who quickly wiped his face with the back of his rough hand and weakly protested, "Damn it, this awful weather, I got some dust in my eyes."

But his red-rimmed eyes betrayed him.

Mrs. Gabor was already in tears, though she didn't cry out loud. She simply hugged her child tighter. She lowered her head and placed a cool kiss on the child's burning forehead. A small flame seemed to rekindle in his previously empty eyes.

Unbeknownst to them, the atmosphere in the waiting room had changed. A gentle yet resilient force quietly soothed the despair and anxiety that permeated the air.

Dr. Thomas saw this scene through the glass. In his twenty years of medical practice, he had never seen any drug with such an immediate effect.

"This medicine is really potent," he said softly.