This story is set at the end of Series 6.

The Hearing

Chapter 1

They sat in a row, like vultures waiting for a kill.

He entered the room and they fell silent, the echoes of their chatter dying in the far recesses of the room. Three men, name tags clipped to their suit jackets, gazed at the newcomer with a mix of curiosity, pity and contempt. He took no notice as he made his way to the one unoccupied chair in the room. He'd never cared what his colleagues thought of him, and he wasn't about to start caring now.

The room he found himself in was utilitarian, with chipped furniture and rug that dated back to the Thatcher era. There was also the unmistakable smell of stale coffee, damp and sweat, both familiar and unwelcomed. He took a breath through his nose to quell the wave of nausea that rose in the back of his throat. Strong odors had always had that effect on him, and did his best to ignore his roiling gut as he took his seat before the assembled jury of his peers.

The men lined up in front of him were tasked with finding a punishment to fit his crime. They were no stranger to the accused, and he didn't need to read their ID tags to learn of their names and rank in the hospital hierarchy. Not friends but rather colleagues thrown together by happenstance, he'd made it a rule to keep them all at arm's length. In his opinion they were a bunch of time wasters who preferred to gossip about hospital politics and the latest bed hopping scandal then discuss the lead article in that month's Lancet or BMJ.

Greyson Garber was the biggest gossip of all, a political animal who thrived on power and adulation. He sat across from the defendant, appointed lead inquisitor and judge. A thin smile played on his lips as he thought of his good fortune. He'd jumped at the chance to take down the arrogant GP and former surgeon, payback for years of snide remarks on how he treated patients and ran his department.

Garber glanced at the two men sitting next to him. Time to get started. They all turned their attention to the files laid out in front of them as Garber said, "Please state your name."

"Don't be ridiculous. You know my name," retorted the man seated in the lonely chair, color rising above his shirt collar.

"For the record."

"Dr. Martin Ellingham," he answered tersely. London born, breed and educated, he considered himself above this lot and for good reason – how many times had he set right an incorrect diagnosis delivered by one of these idiots? It was a minor miracle not more patients died from their blatant incompetence. He wanted to lash out, tell them what he thought of them and their stupid hearing. But he had promised to keep his temper in check and a civil tongue in his head. It wouldn't do to let his composure slip, at least not so early in the game

"Thank you for joining us," said Garber.

"I understand it wasn't an option," answered Martin.

"No, it wasn't." Garber had expected the hot-headed Ellingham to have lashed out by now. Well, there was time enough for that, and he set aside his disappointment as he introduced the men sitting next to him.

"I assume you know Drs. Bray and Swain? They represent the department of medicine," said Garber turning to his colleagues, "and I, as you know, represent the department of surgery. Fitting, as your egregious conduct took place on my turf."

Martin sneered but was able to keep quiet the few choice words that leapt to his mind. His turf? Garber couldn't manage his way out of a paper bag, let alone run a surgical department. His ruminations were thankfully interrupted by Bray chiming in. "Sorry it's us and not Parsons mate. The higher ups didn't take to him on the panel, being your boss and all." A diminutive man with a beard and spectacles that make him look like an owl, he was the sole GP for the village of St. Ives. He was a passable medic with a penchant for drink and horses. The villagers knew to look for him at the pub where he'd take a break from the lager and races to perform examinations in a back room where he kept a few tools of his trade. Martin had been horrified when he'd found out of Bray's pub consultations and had felt duty bound to report back his boss and chief of medicine. Chris Parsons was also a former med school class mate and, as many would say, Martin's one and only friend.

Garber threw a warning look at Bray. He was in charge and wouldn't let these two lowly GP's take over the proceedings. "I'm sure Dr. Ellingham understands why Dr. Parsons was asked to recuse himself. Now, let's go over the policy and procedures, as required by the hospital bylaws. Section one…" Garber droned on while Martin's thoughts wandered to the events of the previous few days.

The past week had been memorable in the same way disasters were memorable. Chris had dropped in to tell him about the hearing which was shortly followed by his wife leaving Portwenn with their son. One had nothing to do with the other, at least not directly. Louisa had decided to leave before the operating theater debacle, convinced she needed time away from Martin. He didn't see how being apart would solve anything, and he's said so much but her mind had been made up. She'd left the same day Chris had put him on notice, an uncomfortable conversation with his boss followed by an even more uncomfortable car ride to Newquay airport with his wife and son.

"There's not much I can do to protect you this time," Chris had said, pacing the confines of the consulting room. Martin had sat at his desk, signing off on a stack of prescriptions refills.

"Can you stop doing that and pay attention?" said Chris, coming to a standstill.

"I am paying attention." Martin put down his pen. "Better?"

"It would have been better if you hadn't done what you did."

"You mean stand by while that idiot operated on my wife?"

"You should have been taken your concern to the chief of vascular. Locking up the attending surgeon in a supply closet was not the way to handle the situation."

"There was no time. And anyhow, you know perfectly well I'm qualified to perform an AVM repair. I was a vascular surgeon…"

"Was!" Chris nearly shouted.

Martin shushed him. "Not so loud. The baby's napping."

Chris dropped his voice to a loud whisper. "Do I need to remind you that you're no longer a surgeon? You don't have theater privileges at the Royal Cornwall or anywhere else for that matter." The two men stared at each other, tension filling the silence between them. Chris, the jovial counterpart to Martin's abrasive and cankerous nature, was good at smoothing bruised egos and outraged patients but this was different. This was a transgression even he, as chief of medicine, could not sweep under the rug. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?"

"Not as much trouble as I am with Louisa," Martin had wanted to say. But he hadn't, just as he couldn't stop her from getting on that plane to Spain with his son.

Martin picked up his pen and continued to sign scripts, his brow furrowed. Chris saw this as it was meant- a clear dismissal - but stayed seated. "She'll go and then she'll be back," he said quietly.

Martin's pen came to a standstill. "I think you should leave." Chris made to stand but stopped when he saw the anguish in Martin's eyes. He hadn't seen him like this since the days following the catastrophic onset of his blood phobia, a blow that had brought the unshakable surgeon to his knees. The blood phobia had never fully resolved, but he'd learned to live with it. Louisa was another matter altogether and Chris suspected the upcoming hearing would take second place to Martin's fear of losing his wife.

The department couldn't afford to lose the best GP they'd ever had, and Chris tried to find the words that would make Martin care about the outcome of the hearing. "Look Mart, we need you and you need this job. Promise me you'll keep it together. No outbursts. No name calling." Chris waited for an answer but Martin remained silent. "Right. I'll let myself out."

He left Martin sitting at his desk, pen in hand but with a stack of prescriptions ignored at his side.