Author's Notes:

Rating: PG-13 (adult themes, graphic medical descriptions)

Setting: The story takes place approximately six months after S5E8. For those who read Blood Brothers, this current story is a stand-alone and not a sequel or follow-on.

Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.

As always, I'm eternally grateful to my beta, jd517. There's nothing more helpful to a FF writer than a great beta and she not only offers terrific suggestions but is also incredibly generous with her time.

I was convinced it would be easier – and less painful – to beat my head against the wall than to talk sense into some of my patients.

My current patient, Molly Patterson was a case in point. A short but slender girl with stringy blonde hair, pinched nose and wide green eyes, she'd come to the surgery – her mother in tow – complaining of laryngitis. Her patient notes put her at age seventeen with no significant health issues in the past few years.

"When did the hoarseness come on?" I asked.

"This morning," Molly replied, her voice cracking with the effort. "Like all of a sudden. I was fine yesterday."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Throat's a bit sore," she croaked.

"All right, no more talking," I ordered, grabbing a tongue depressor and coming around the front of my desk to where she was seated. I clicked on my pocket torch. "Open."

The girl's throat was slightly reddened, but there were no signs of tonsillitis or strep. I let my hands slide down her neck. Her glands were somewhat swollen and she complained of pain on swallowing. A quick check of her temperature found that it was only a half degree above normal.

"Well, it's a clear case of laryngitis and probably pharyngitis as well," I diagnosed as I binned the tongue depressor and returned to my desk chair. It was another routine viral infection – annoying for the patient but not serious from a medical standpoint.

"What do I do for it?" Molly asked.

"Stop talking."

"You don't have to be rude," Mrs. Patterson said.

I rolled my eyes. "It's the treatment for laryngitis," I explained. "Complete vocal rest. And especially no whispering; it puts an additional strain on the vocal chords and impedes recovery."

"How long do I—?"

I glared at the girl. "Shush. What part of 'stop talking' didn't you understand?"

Mrs. Patterson took over the questioning. "How long until her voice gets better?"

I scratched out the brief patient notes. "Three to four days, probably."

"It can't be that long!" Molly's voice cracked with the effort.

"It'll be longer if you don't stop talking," I snapped. "Viruses are tricky," I explained. "Symptoms can disappear in a day or two or linger for more than a week."

"But she's supposed to sing in the school play this weekend," her mother said. "That's the day after tomorrow. She's the lead vocalist."

I shook my head. "Absolutely not."

"But I have to!" Molly was nearly in tears.

"You don't know how much this means to her," her mother added. "It's Les Miserables. Over twenty girls auditioned for the lead role and she got it. She's been rehearsing for weeks."

"None of which is relevant to her current medical condition." I switched my gaze to the girl. "The fact remains that you won't be able to talk, let alone sing, for several days."

"You don't care, do you?" Mrs. Patterson asked in a whingy voice. "About her being able to sing in the school musical."

"I care that she recovers as quickly as possible. That's all."

"Then why don't you give her something? Antibiotics, maybe?"

I blew out a long breath. "She has a virus. Antibiotics are ineffective against viruses."

"There has to be something you can do."

As if I could suddenly produce a magic cure for a viral sore throat. I focused my gaze on Molly. "Stay home. Rest your voice. Gargle with warm saltwater. Drink plenty of fluids. Take paracetamol or lozenges for the throat pain. If your symptoms don't improve in a week, give me a call."

"That's it?" Mrs. Patterson asked.

"That's it." I stood up.

"I can't believe this is happening," Molly croaked and I gave up trying to get her to shut up.

"I don't know why we even bothered to come see you," Mrs. Patterson huffed as she preceded me through the waiting room.

"Well Doc, there goes another satisfied customer," Morwenna quipped as her eyes followed them out the door.

I ignored the barb. I'd done what I needed to do as the GP: diagnosed the medical problem and prescribed appropriate treatment. The one thing I couldn't do was force my patient or her mother to accept the medical facts. And one of those facts was that there was nothing that could be done for viral laryngitis beyond what I'd already prescribed. As far as I was concerned, the rest of it – her singing or musical or whatever – was superfluous.

"Who's the next patient?" I asked.

"2:30. Mrs. Wells."

Fifteen minutes from now; time for a cup of tea and a quick check on James Henry. I handed Molly Patterson's patient notes to Morwenna.

She snatched them from me with a frown. "Filing, filing, filing. It's all I ever do."

I started walking toward the kitchen.

"Hey Doc," Morwenna's voice came from behind me. "Just so you know, I'm bored with my job."

"So find yourself another job," I replied over my shoulder.

"What?"

I turned to face her. "I said that, if you're bored with your job, you should find another position."

She cocked her head, long earrings dangling about. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm saying I want to do more than what I'm doing now – answering the telephone, making appointments and filing."

"That's what a receptionist in a doctor's surgery does."

"You let Pauline draw blood," she said, in a tone that was almost accusatory.

Only because, at the time, there were extenuating circumstances. "I'm perfectly capable of drawing blood. And, besides, you're afraid of needles, which would make phlebotomy more than a little difficult."

She shrugged. "Yeah. But there has to be something else I could do. Be your assistant maybe."

"Morwenna, I don't need an assistant; I need a receptionist."

"I helped you with that surgery on Louisa's mum. You said I did a fine job."

"I said you were acceptable. And, besides, that was an emergency."

"I can do more, I know I can."

"I don't need you to do more. I need you to do your job. If you don't like it, find somewhere else to work."

With that I turned on my heel and retreated to the kitchen. To my chagrin, Louisa and James Henry were nowhere in sight and neither was the buggy. Given that it was an unusually beautiful and warm spring day, it seemed clear they'd taken a stroll. While I was disappointed not to see them, after several days of being stuck indoors because of the rain, a bit of fresh air would do both of them good.

As I poured my tea, I considered that maybe Morwenna did have a point. She'd handled herself well during the emergency hernia repair. And she'd performed satisfactorily with the typical receptionist duties – better than I'd expected when I'd hired her. Maybe there was something else I could find for her to do. Perhaps she could be trained to inventory and order supplies. I wasn't ready to make any promises but would at least give the idea some thought.

I pushed aside Morwenna's dirty coffee cup resting on the counter and once again reflected on the fact that it might be time to move to a larger home. The current building had been more than adequate to double as surgery and home when I was the only one living here. Now, with Louisa and James Henry here as well – and especially with Louisa staying in the cottage much of the day during her sabbatical from school – the space seemed a tad small.

I also wasn't sure I liked having my surgery and our living quarters in the same cottage. Although it was easy for me to visit my son during short breaks in my schedule, having patients coming and going at all hours took away any sense of privacy, and Morwenna and Louisa were constantly bumping into each other in the kitchen. Not to mention there was an endless parade of sick people through one side of our cottage that tracked in far too many unwanted germs.

I'd briefly spoken to the estate agent about the possibility of finding a larger building that would allow greater separation between the surgery and living quarters. However, there was minimal turnover in Portwenn, especially of cottages sufficiently large to meet our requirements. We'd also discussed keeping the current surgery for the medical purpose alone and finding a second cottage to serve as our home. There was a decent selection of available cottages, but most were far too distant from the surgery to be practical. The estate agent promised to keep looking and, for now, Louisa and I had decided to make the best of our current residence.

I glanced at my watch and took my last sip of tea. My next patient was due in only two minutes.