For James Henry's fifth birthday, Martin decided to make him a clock.

He worked on it in the evenings, after surgery, spending hours working on the mechanism, making sure everything worked just as it should. When that was done, he worked on the body of the clock. Solid enough that a young boy wouldn't easily break it, but sleek, with curling patterns etched into the wood. He finished it on the eve before James's birthday, as precise as the clock itself.

"James," said Martin, as his son sat on their bed the next day, his birthday. "This is your present." He lifted it carefully from his bedside table, placing the wrapped present in front of James. "Open it carefully, it's somewhat...fragile."

James nodded solemnly and carefully ran his small fingernails along the edges of the wrapping paper, opening it as carefully as he could. Martin watched his small son with a rare smile on his face, barely aware of Louisa on his other side, doing exactly the same thing.

James looked up. "Will you stop staring at me?" he asked. "I don't like it."

Martin nodded and turned away, while Louisa leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "Sorry, sweetheart," she said. James bore his mother's affection with good grace, then quickly returned to carefully but eagerly tearing the plain blue wrapping paper. He pulled it aside to reveal the clock.

"Oh!" he said. He looked at Martin, who had turned back to his son at the exclamation, a line of worry creasing his forehead. "It's so pretty daddy," he said, meeting his father's eyes very briefly, before returning to trace the patterns carved into the clock with his eyes.

"What do we say, James?" Louisa asked, and James looked up again, confused and a little perturbed. Louisa very nearly laughed - it was such a Martin expression. "When people give us something," she clarified.

"Ohhh," he said. Then he turned to Martin again. "Thank you, daddy," he said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

"You're welcome, James Henry," said Martin with the gruffness that always appeared when you gave him a compliment, or affection.

Still, he looked pleased, as much as he ever did, so Louisa considered that a success. And it really was a very beautiful clock, if a little too grown up a present for a five year old.

James nodded and then turned his full attention back to his mother. "What else have I got?" he asked eagerly.

Louisa laughed, and Martin considered that he might very well be truly happy in this moment.

Martin sat up, bolt upright, and for a moment was very confused as to why he was awake; he had eaten before 7 as usual, his day hadn't been any more stressful than usual, and Louisa was sleeping peacefully next to him. But the clock read 1:07 next to him. Then he heard...some kind of snuffling noise coming from the next room, James's room, and realised that's what must have woken him.

He rose from bed and made his way out of the room, standing in front of his son's door. What he couldn't work out was what the noise was - his son wasn't usually given to snoring, certainly not loud enough to wake him up. Perhaps he had somehow perforated his septum at school? Martin was stopped in his musings, however, when he pushed open James's door and realised what the noises were. James Henry was crying.

He froze, and so did his son, looking up at him over his shoulder, curled into a ball, his hand over his ears.

"I thought you might be mummy," James muttered, and then resumed crying, possibly even harder than before. Martin cringed slightly, but moved forward, nearer to his distressed son.

"She's sleeping," he said in a whisper. He made it to the bed and sat gingerly on the edge. "But maybe I can help." God knew, he was a poor doctor if he couldn't help his own distressed son. "James, why don't you tell me what's wrong?"

James pressed his hands to his ears harder and shook his head vigorously.

"Look, I'll wake your mother if I really need to," said Martin, a touch irritated. "But I'm sure I can help. If you would just let me..." He trailed off, pushing his frustration down. It really would not do to wake Louisa, if they could help it. "I promise I won't be angry," he said, trying to soften his voice, although he wasn't entirely sure it was working. He sighed. "I just want to help."

He watched his son breathing, in and out, in and out, trying to get himself under control. He was not hyperventilating, but he was clearly very distressed, and Martin wondered fretfully how long he had been like this. "You promise?" James asked in a small voice.

"What?" asked Martin, having lost his train of thought.

James sighed and rolled his eyes, even as he continued to muffle his ears. "That you won't be angry," he reminded him.

"Oh. No of course not," said Martin, shaking his head.

James nodded, then took his hand off his left ear, leaving the right one covered. He winced, visibly. "It hurts," he whimpered, clamping his hand down on his ear again.

"What does? Your ear?" Martin asked urgently. James nodded, overwhelmed by sobs again. "What does it feel like? Is it a sharp pain, James, or dull?"

James shook his head. "It's the clock," he said in a thin voice.

"What about the clock?" Martin twisted wildly around to see it, relieved to see it still sitting on the shelf, where he and Louisa had installed it earlier.

"It hurts. My head." James ground out the words, clearly struggling.

"Did it fall on you?" Martin asked, confused.

"NO!" James yelled, then cringed. "The ticking," he whispered, and Martin had to lean forward to hear him.

Suddenly he understood. "The ticking is too loud for you, and it's hurting your ears," he stated, clarifying what James had said. James nodded in relief. Martin felt more than a little relieved himself. That was easily solvable, anyway. "That's no problem," he said, softly. "I'll just move it, James."

He took the heavy clock off the shelf and pushed the door open with his shoulder, walking quickly downstairs and placing it on the desk in his consulting room. Then he filled a glass of water and hurried back upstairs to his son's room.

James had sat up now, and was lying back against his headboard, eyes closed and breathing slowly, deliberately.

"Better?" Martin asked.

James nodded, gratefully. His eyes fluttered open and he took the glass of water his father offered, although Martin kept a hand on it as he tipped it back - the last thing they wanted was water all over the bed, or worse, James choking on the water. He took the glass from his son when he had finished and placed it on the bedside table.

"I'm sorry," said James, not looking at his father.

"What for?"

"Your clock," James said, and his face screwed up, starting to snivel again.

"Hush," said Martin. "It doesn't matter."

James looked at him with big, watery eyes. "But it was so beautiful."

"Well, I can have a look at it, see if there's a way to stop or muffle the ticking. Or, if that doesn't work, I can simply disable the mechanism completely. No harm done."

"Truly?"

Martin nodded, smiling as best he could. "Are you alright?" he asked, reaching for his son's wrist to check his pulse. Slightly elevated, but slowing down to normal, it seemed.

James nodded. "I think so."

Martin nodded approvingly. "Good. Try and get some sleep." He leaned forward and kissed his son delicately on the forehead. James giggled. "What?"

"That tickled."

"No, that must have been your hair tickling your forehead," Martin disagreed.

"Mummy's kisses never tickle," he said.

"Go to sleep," Martin said quellingly. His son grinned up at him, but then lay down obediently, resting his head on the pillow.

"Happy birthday, James Henry," said Martin softly.

"It's not my birthday anymore!" James protested.

"No, I suppose it's not," Martin agreed. "Well, good night, then."

"Good night, daddy," James muttered sleepily.

Louisa stirred as Martin attempted to slip back into bed without disturbing her

"What's going on?" she asked, trying to blink sleep out of her eyes.

"Nothing," he said. "Go back to sleep." He kissed her on the forehead and lay down next to her, falling asleep almost immediately.