'Doc Martin' and its characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters, and the actors who bring them to life, dearly and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect. This completed story follows Martin and Louisa through the first few weeks after where season six left off. SPOILERS THROUGH SEASON SIX, and anything throughout the series is fair game. I wrote this a few months back, then life got in the way – recently dusted of; all mistakes are my own. Written with alternating Martin and Louisa POVs, I will post the first two chapters this weekend. This is my first Doc Martin story, so please be kind – reviews are helpful and appreciated. Happy Reading!

~Then We Must Change~

Chapter One - Malformations

'Look, I don't know what I'm doing, Margaret,' I had retorted at Martin's pain of a mother in the terminal, adding to my splitting headache, '– but I DO know that it's none of your bloody business.'

And that was the absolute and honest truth, on both counts. I still don't exactly know the lie of the land . . . but I bloody well better make it my business.

– And Martin's.

The ride home from hospital had been quiet, but not as uncomfortable as the last. . . . Just a subtle undercurrent of impending change swirling about. Martin had quite stunned me, post-op, when agreeing that falling back into the way things were is not an option. He had also opened up to me, asking for my help with our marriage; a side of him I have never been privy to in the time we have known each other. I've come to realise that when under extreme pressure, he can, and does, make decisions – and though I am not intentionally backing him into that corner, we both need to work on ways to reach that place together.

Everything can't be up to me any more.

Pulling into the surgery car park, Ruth was waiting with James, who was sound asleep in his seat when Martin unbuckled him and carried him into the cottage. If I had feared a lecture from her, it had been unfounded, as she reassuringly looked at me with understanding and compassion when I thanked her for caring for our son.

"Well, a day to remember. . . . Now get some rest, I must be off!" Count on Ruth to tell it like it is.

My next hurdle, the slate steps up onto the porch, appeared almost insurmountable, but my sudden need to hide from the world gave me a jolt of energy. When the hum of Ruth's Mercedes disappeared in the distance, I suddenly felt strangely alone as I made my way around the back and inside; a last climb of stairs to my own bed.

"Are you adequately comfortable, balanced . . .?" Martin asked as he propped me up in our bed for a rest, James peeking at us from his little cot all the while.

I was sitting awkwardly against the middle of the headboard, surrounded by pillows in the same spot where not so long ago I had attempted to sleep – what would have been our last night under the same roof for a time.

Yet, here you are again, Louisa; your second return home from hospital in as many days. Broken, bruised and glued, but you are both hurting now, aren't you?

"– Louisa?"

"Yes. Yes, it's fine Martin," even adequate . . . perhaps.

"Good. I will get you a drink of water, you need to stay hydrated."

As he headed for the door I asked him to pick James up for me, I wasn't used to being away from him this much and it had left me feeling even more on edge of late.

"– I really fancy a cup of tea, that alright?" but Martin was already halfway down the stairs by the sound of him.

With his entire face a grin, and his little hand grabbing at me, James was showing his complete unawareness of this giant mess of ours. It had smarted to have Margaret accusing me of running away with Martin's son. It wasn't what I wanted, but it had become what I had felt I needed to do – some space to think. I had wished-for the three of us to go on holiday, as a family, but was rejected. Turned away more like.

"James, what am I doing, hm? What would you do?"

He looked at me, then turned at the sound of his father's approach and got right chatty all of a sudden. Has he got all the answers? Maybe – after all he came from the both of us, there should be some inerrant wisdom there. . . . It could be that simple, could it not – eat, sleep and love? That it?

"– You shouldn't have caffeine, Louisa."

He handed me the glass of water he had fetched. So he had heard me. I had a quick drink, before James would knock it over, and returned it for Martin to sort.

"I brought a biscuit."

The little saucer he passed me had a lone Chocolate Digestive placed neatly in the centre. I looked up at Martin, standing as rigidly as ever, looking like he was holding in a breath of stale air.

"For me?" . . . not that he would eat one.

"Yes."

"Thank you Martin, that is very sweet of you." It was rather endearing, really.

I had been stashing them out of sight. Mostly to avoid temptation, but also to stave off the bickering that was sure to come about with my partaking of 'empty calories', as he so aptly called them.

"So you found them, then?"

"Obviously. I put the packet on the second shelf in the pantry." Oh.

"Right," I mumbled, biscuit crumbling in my mouth, the familiar flavour comforting.

"– Martin, have you eaten anything today? Anything at all?" He looked rather pale, I thought.

"I'm . . . not really very hungry."

"Well, I should probably eat a little, right, like a proper meal? Maybe you can cook us both up some eggs? I mean, I know it's getting a bit late in the day for breakfast, but –"

"– Yes, right. Mm." And off he went, empty saucer in hand.

It was about that time for James as well, so we made our way downstairs into the kitchen. The light was on and the saucepan had two eggs in it, covered just so with cold water, sitting on the cooker waiting to be boiled.

I switched the hob on and turned to see Martin seated on the sofa across the way, in the dark and oblivious to our presence. The little brown and white table lamp on the far end would be passably dim, so I navigated the armchair, flicked the switch and carefully sat down.

As recognition turned his face slightly towards us, the shadows all but vanished in the glow and revealed a haunted expression that completely took me aback. Martin looked as vulnerable as I have ever seen him; his gaze steadying on James. I stood up, stepped over and lowered James onto Martin's lap, then sunk into the sofa cushion as close to them both as I could manage.

And there we sat in the quiet of our home, with only the slightest rumble of boiling eggs sounding from the kitchen.

"James and I almost lost you, Louisa." The words spilled out on a breath.

And yes, we are clearly both hurting. . . .

"But you didn't – and you haven't, and here we are now, yeah?"

Hearing our voices stirred James' senses and he started fussing about, clearly realising it was long past his supper. Mashed peas would be easy for tonight and he does quite like them.

The eggs had got a bit overcooked, which I know Martin doesn't care for. Famished, I was quietly pleased to have doubled up my meal for the night and insisted Martin do the same. He quickly poached two eggs for his toast, while heating James' peas, and all was not lost.

It was an oddly normal setting after a very draining and abnormal last few days. The three of us, having a quiet meal together. Not how I had foreseen I would be spending this eve, and if not for Martin I very well might not have been here at all. . . .

"Martin?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, for coming after me today."

"Yes. You already said that, earlier. In hospital."

"And I meant it." And I will continue to tell you that.

"Louisa . . ."

He rinsed the washing up and placed it in the dishwasher.

"You really should get some rest, Louisa. How is your headache, any localised pain, pressure?"

"No, not really, I'm just a bit knackered . . . how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine . . . thank you."

I was feeling every bit as knackered as I had told Martin, and then some. A quick wash was all I could manage while he got James ready for bed.

James and I were in agreement, leastwise, for he was fast asleep in his cot by the time I had freshened up, wrestled my button down pyjama top over my burning shoulder and made my way out of the bathroom.

Putting our pillows back to their usual places, I snagged one of Martin's, for elevating my head, as well as the pair from the spare room for my shoulders. Then I crawled into Martin's spot and reclined as carefully as I could; hurting like hell truth be told. Paracetamol is all I have felt comfortable taking, caring for James, but it's really not adequate. Adequate . . .

My surgeon-husband stepped out after a shower and shave in his light blue pyjamas and went to check on James, then stood up and looked over at me.

"Had to switch sides, so you won't bump into me." He had retreated to the sofa last night, which had hurt far worse than a jab to my collarbone ever could have. . . .

He did not appear convinced.

"Louisa . . ."

"You asked me earlier if I was 'adequately comfortable', what's that mean exactly?"

"Hm?" He looked like he was still trying to decide whether I would slap him or pounce on him if he came any closer. Like I could or would do either in my current condition.

"Just come to bed, will you?"

Martin stiffly placed himself on his back with both arms along his body, tucking the duvet neatly around himself. And completely isolating himself in the process. Turning to my bedside he quickly realised his journals were on this end and with my glossy mags a sorry replacement, turned to stare at the ceiling.

I waved my right hand above his face. That got his attention and he actually turned and looked at me – really looked at me.

"Hello, Martin."

Lowering my arm I brought it to his side, joining our hands.

"There. Now I feel comfortable and comforted, not just 'adequately comfortable'."

Squeezing my hand gently he moved over and kissed me lightly on the cheek, and I felt sleep seeping ever faster through my battered body.

"Mm. Okay, husband, tell me a bedtime story. The one where the brilliant surgeon rescues his distressed bride and mother of his son and then superglues her malformed brain back together – it's all a bit fuzzy."

He clutched my hand again, then propped himself up on his elbow looking intently at my fresh incision.

"Get to sleep, Louisa."

"I want to and I am tired, but my mind is going a mile a minute – and your voice can be very soothing. Did you know that?"

"No."

"Well it is, you are – can be. I just cannot grasp how you managed to put a tube inside my head, feed some glue through it and call it good, knowing that you fixed me . . . piece of cake. Hard to imagine."

I closed my eyes and exhaled what was left of the breath I knew I had been holding all day.

"Maybe one day I will be allowed to do the same for you – maybe one day you'll let me inside that brilliant head of yours for a bit. I'd like that anyway."

It got quiet for a good long while and I had practically nodded off when I felt a tear hit my cheek followed by a most heartfelt and lingering kiss, a real kiss this time. There is hope for us still, Martin. . . .

"Good night Martin Ellingham; you are an extraordinary man." Please consider that.

"– And I do love you."