Disclaimer: Doc Martin is the property of Buffalo Pictures.
I am not a native speaker, so I apologise for any "oddities" language-wise.
This short story is set after the last episode of S4, with some changes in the ending. There was no Tommy's Taxi and therefore no premature labour. Martin has gone to London and Louisa has given birth in Truro hospital alone.
It was eight month. Eight agonizing months. Eight months where he would have expected some improvement. That at least the pain would subside. He didn't expect any happiness. Well, in fact, he never actually had expected that much. Just that his mind would provide him enough peace to function properly again. To go on – somehow.
Eight months ago he had fled from the village. The only place where he had found some sense of belonging. Where he was – for three short weeks – as happy as he most probably could be. But again something had gone wrong. Horribly wrong. He couldn't even say exactly what. OK. They had called off their wedding. But even on that day it had seemed to him that they had parted as friends. Her last words had left him with some hope. "It says I love you, and I really do". Then he still had hoped that they would continue in some way. But her very last words "See you around." hadn't been true for too long. She simply did the unthinkable. Louisa had left Portwenn. She had not only given up on him, he could understand that, no – he had ruined her life completely. He could hardly bear to be in the village – everyone looking at him accusingly for scaring Louisa away, every corner haunted by memories. He had to try to overcome his weakness to be able to leave. To move on.
And then the next blow. Out of the blue, without warning, when he was already shattered, she knocked on his door. Just like that. As if nothing had happened. But something did have happened. Something he never thought was possible. Not with him anyway. How could he ever be a father? Why hadn't she warned him? He always was lost when he had to handle private affairs spontaneously. It was nothing like an emergency – you can train these situations and practise them until they become second nature. And then you just had to function properly and systematically. But nothing in his whole life had prepared him for this moment. He most probably made every mistake that was possible. He knew that he still adored her. When she was standing in his doorframe – oh, so lovely. But he couldn't think properly, to be honest, he couldn't think at all. He tried to process this information, when he was hit by the unthinkable. Pregnant! Could that mean? His thought wandered back to the proposal. Louisa had her own thoughts about the way it should be celebrated, and on that day his adrenaline level had been so high and his body was so worn out by crying, worrying, accusing himself and lack of sleep that he was but too willing to be comforted by her. When she had taken his hand and led him up her stairs, he was already lost. They soon were lost both – in each others embrace. All the new emotions, the passion unbeknown to him, had hit him on that day, and she led him to new heights, unconquered lands, where he hoped he could feel at home some day. No, he didn't regret. Not on the next morning, when she had asked him. Not even now, when he had to face the consequences of this fateful night but too clearly. But how to react? There must be some code of behaviour? Why had no one ever prepared him for moments like this?
Out in the open, in front of his house things had gone definitely wrong. He drove her away with all the wrong questions. And this time there was no loving twinkle in her eyes. Just contempt. The way she put her chin out and declared with all certainty that he should have nothing to do with the child left no shred of hope in his heart. But he could understand her but too well. Who could possibly want him as a father of a child? He had told her once that she would make a lovely mother. And that includes keeping all danger away from the child. To keep him away from it. She was right.
Another sleepless night, another night of self-accusations. But this time it was definitely too much for him. Seeing his Louisa, knowing she was carrying his child, not be allowed even to do his duties as a doctor for her, not be allowed to help her, to care for her, being pushed further away every time they met. She didn't even allow him to support her financially. Surely his money couldn't do any harm?
He had left – eight months ago. He had taken the job at the Imperial hospital, backed up by his old tutor Robert. He had done something he never had done in his life before – he had lied. Lied about his haemophobia. He was far from being cured. But everything was better than to make life bad for Louisa in her own village. She was at home there. There was no home for him. Never.
He had left shortly before Louisa was due for birth. She actually never had mentioned anything to him about the expected day of birth. But he was sure that she must have conceived on the night of the proposal, and although he might be a fool, he was not such a fool not to be able to add nine months to this date.
Shortly after he thought she was due he had written her a letter, requiring if she was alright, expressing his concern that she hopefully didn't have to go through too much excruciating pain – he shuddered at the thought of his beautiful Louisa, pain stricken, alone – maybe for hours. He had added a generous check for her and a saving account for the child, already provided with a considerate sum for the child, with the promise to fill it up regularly until its 18th birthday. There was no way that he would be steeling himself from responsibility. Surely he couldn't be a father, but he could easily support a child. And he was bound to do it. He didn't dare to ask about the baby. Louisa had made it absolutely clear that he wasn't to be involved, and he wouldn't force her. She knows what's best. Best for the child. He had to put his own feelings aside for the child's sake. His unnerving urge to see it, him wondering if he might spot Louisa's beautiful eyes, her smile, anything of her beauty in that child that had to live with his genes. He just hoped Louisa would compensate for that. No, he had to put that aside. He didn't count. Never had, in fact, but for some very few months when he made a difference to her. Then he had ceased to exist. He was just mere functioning. A sort of operating robot.
He never received an answer. He had at least hoped for a short note, a call, an email – anything. But there was no sign that she had even received anything. He kept sending her money. At first he still added some note, but after a couple of months he just send her checks, and here and then a little gift when he passed anything he thought was suitable, things that he read or heard about would assist the child's progress or the well-being of the mother. He never heard anything from Louisa. He received a letter from Aunty Joan now and then, but she also never mentioned her or the child. Probably Louisa had forbid her to involve him. She was right.
He soon found out, that the flat that Robert had organised for him was too big for him, and really a waste of money. He had gritted his teeth into his work. He was absorbed by it completely. He didn't exist outside the hospital. And to be honest, the few hours he spent sleeping in his flat weren't worth the ridiculously high rent. And then the commuting to the hospital. Really not worth it. When a young doctor started in his team searching for a flat for him and his wife, he was glad to pass it over. He had already agreed to do most of the night shifts anyhow. Shall those be at home who had a shoulder to rest their weary heads on. He was fine with some spare bed in hospital waiting for any emergencies. His attempts to get some sleep ended in turning and tossing anyhow. Every night she was in his dreams. Sometimes holding a child with an empty face. A boy or girl. He didn't know. But somehow he was certain it was a boy. Silly!
He still hoped he would get over it. It must be possible in due time. He just had to work hard enough and push himself even further.
He had gained himself supreme reputation in those few months. There was no operation he considered to be too difficult, he never complained about doing even another operation. And no one had spotted his haemophobia so far. It was true, he still found himself retching whenever he spotted even a drop of blood. And now he was daily practically covered in it. But he came to be thankful for this handicap. He found out that his nausea was so dominating and that he had to focus so much to cover it that this was the only time when he didn't think of her, of the child. He was a man on his own, fighting against himself. There was no world outside and there was no responsibility but not to vomit into the open wound. He could manage that alright.
But now, eight months after he left for good the only life he ever had worth living, he was crushed again. He had been to see a patient the evening before he had to operate him yet again. Terrible car crash. Several fractures. Internal bleeding, which were now under control. He would need some plastic surgery when he was finished with stitching him together. He also received trauma counselling by the best psychiatrist the Imperial had to offer. A wonder really that he had made it out of the car in one piece in the first place.
Martin was on his way through the ward to his little room for yet another night shift when the words hit him unexpectedly. Out of one of the rooms he heard the pleading voice of a man, supposedly talking to his wife: "Please get better soon, I can't bear to be without you!" The voice was dubbed in his mind by his own, seeing Louisa in her striped blue sweater in front of the backdrop of the beautiful Cornish coast. He stumbled forwards, started to run, he had to reach his sanctuary. No one was to see him. Not like this. He knew he would break down very soon. He had used himself too freely lately to have the strength to fight these memories. That was the trouble though. He had to push himself right to the edge to function at all, but now this stupid sentence had pushed him over. He was falling. And he rather would drown in privacy.
He reached his room. Sat down at his little desk, tidy as he always worked until the last bit of work was done, until he couldn't possibly find anything to keep his mind busy. His head crashed onto the desk, and he found the sensation of the wood hitting his head quite soothing. At least it was a pain he understood, that he was in control of. So he did it again – and again. He banged his head onto the desk until he didn't know anymore if the pain came from his sorrow or simply from the bruise that was developing on his forehead.
To be continued…
