Author's Notes:

Rating: PG (mild adult themes)

Setting: The story takes place approximately ten years after S5E8.

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.

Thanks once again to jd517 for her sage advice, helpful comments, and unflagging encouragement.

In my ten years of life, one thing I'd learned was that getting in trouble at school was always a bad thing. And, when your mum was the former head teacher and your dad was the village GP, getting in trouble for fighting in school was definitely a very bad thing.

So, I was more than a bit anxious as I sat alone on the bench in a room next to the head teacher's office waiting for one or both of my parents to arrive. My mates were back in class and the head teacher, Mr. Gladstone, had put the bloke I was fighting with in another part of the school. Guess he didn't trust the two of us in the same room together, which was smart because, if I had another chance I would have slugged him again. And again. The tosser deserved it.

A glance at the wall clock showed that less than twenty minutes had passed since Mrs. Jones had called Mr. Gladstone to break up our fight, and he in turn had called my parents. I figured I probably had another ten minutes before one or both of them showed up and in that time I'd better get my story straight because neither one would take any rubbish from me.

I absently rubbed my hand against my trousers trying to clean off my fingers, which were covered in the blood that had poured out of my nose when Ben's fist had slammed into it. Mr. Gladstone had given me some tissues and I'd done my best to remember what my dad had taught me about holding my nostril closed for five minutes to get the bleeding to stop. My left eye hurt like the dickens and, even without glancing in a mirror, I knew my face was probably a mess. I didn't even want to think how Mum would react.

Mrs. Jones, my year 4 teacher from last year, poked her head into the room. "You alright, James?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jones."

I liked Mrs. Jones more than most of the kids at the school did. Sure, she was old and sometimes forgot stuff, but she was a nice lady who often brought biscuits or sweets for her class, rarely shouted, and actually seemed to like teaching us.

She looked down at the wad of bloody tissue in my hand. "Has your nose stopped bleeding?"

"It's all right." It had mostly stopped. There was still some blood but there wasn't much Mrs. Jones could do about it.

"Well, your dad will have a proper look when he gets here."

Yeah. So Dad was the one coming. That would be fun.

"James, it's not like you to fight. What happened?"

I didn't want to talk about it with her, or anyone else for that matter. I stared at my shoes. "It's nothing."

She shrugged. "All right then. I can't make you tell me. Wait here; I'm sure your parents will be along soon." She left the room, and left me feeling a little guilty for the way I'd treated her.

A short time later there was commotion outside and, through the glass window of the door, I saw that my mum and dad had both arrived. Mum looked worried and Dad looked . . . well . . . annoyed. Great.

Mr. Gladstone intercepted them at the doorway, obviously trying to explain things. Ignoring him, Mum opened the door and pushed past him with a loud, "I want to see my son."

I stood up as she entered and, within seconds, her hands were on my head, eyes scanning my face. "Oh my God. James. What happened to you?" Her look of shock and dismay made my stomach clench even tighter. She took a step back and turned to my dad, who'd just come into the room. "Martin! He's bleeding. And his eye!" It was almost a wail and made me wonder how bad I really looked.

"James," Dad said, stepping forward. "Let me see." It was his doctor's voice, steady as ever, if tinged with a tiny bit of concern. He lifted my chin and carefully scrutinized my face. After the pummeling I'd taken, it was comforting to rest in his large and familiar hands.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I went at it with Ben Carstairs," I replied.

"I can see that. From the looks of you it wasn't such a brilliant idea, now was it?"

I withered at the disappointment in his tone. More than anything, I wanted his respect. There were good reasons for what I'd done today, getting into the fight and all. Dad might see things differently if I ever got the chance to explain. For now, I could feel his disapproval and once again dropped my gaze to the floor.

He turned to Mum. "Louisa, why don't you sort things out with the teacher while I see to James?"

"Shouldn't I stay—?"

"No need. I've got things in hand here."

Mum bit her lower lip and nodded. "Right. I'll just go talk to Mr. Gladstone then. Find out what happened," she added, with a pointed glance at me.

Once she'd left, Dad refocused his attention on me. "Well, let's make sure you haven't concussed yourself." He held up his right hand. "How many fingers?"

My left eye was a bit blurry. It looked like two, or maybe it was three. "Two," I said hesitantly.

"Sure about that, are you?"

I was a bit surprised that he didn't seem angry and wondered whether he was saving his wrath until he'd made sure I was okay or whether he understood that sometimes guys had to take matters into their fists. I figured I'd find out when he was done.

He pulled his torch from the pocket of his suit and clicked it on. "Look straight ahead." He shined the light in each eye and then quickly moved it away.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Thursday, the seventeenth," I answered easily.

"Who's your homeroom teacher?"

"Miss Owens."

"When's your birthday?"

"July 14th."

Dad gave a satisfied grunt and pressed his fingers around the edge of my eye. It hurt, a lot, and I flinched at the touch.

With his free hand, he grasped my head in a vise grip. "Hold still. I need to make sure you don't have an orbital or nasal fracture." A minute later, he picked up my right hand and examined the small cuts on the backs of my knuckles before running his practiced fingers along the bones, obviously checking to see if I'd managed to break anything.

As Dad continued to examine me, my eyes wandered to where my mum was standing outside the room with Mr. Gladstone. I couldn't hear what they were saying but there was a lot of talking and pointing. Mum looked concerned and I stared to wonder how much trouble I was in.

"Anything hurt other than your face and hand?" Dad's question forced my attention away from what was going on in the other room and back to him.

By this point in my life I knew that a "no" wouldn't get me out of a complete once-over and that what Dad was really asking was if there was something else that he needed to check right now, before we got back to his surgery.

"I'm okay," I said even though, now that the excitement of the moment had worn off, various parts of my body were starting to ache.

"Right. Then let's get that nasal bleeding under control." He picked up my left hand. "Lean forward." He tilted my head into the position he wanted. "Squeeze your nose in the front like this." He positioned my fingers and then watched as I followed his instructions. "Breathe through your mouth. That's it. Now hold it like that until I tell you to stop."

Leaving me, he headed for the door. When he opened it, Mum and Mr. Gladstone stopped talking to each other. Mum stared at me, still holding my stupid nose, and I couldn't tell from her expression if she was hurting for me or just plain mad.

"How is he?" Mr. Gladstone asked first.

"He's alright for now," Dad said. "No concussion or obvious fractures. I'll do a more complete examination at the surgery."

Mum sighed, obviously relieved at the news. "Thank God."

"I think it best if you take him home," Mr. Gladstone said. "You can make sure he's okay physically and it'll give both boys a chance to cool off. We can talk again in the morning. Obviously, something will need to be done about this," he finished ominously.

As soon as Mr. Gladstone had walked away, Mum came running up to me. "James, What were you doing fighting in school? You know better than that." As with Dad, it seemed she was more disappointed than angry.

I shrugged. "I'm sorry." It seemed like the easiest answer.

"You're sorry? What does that mean?"

I kept my head down and my mouth shut.

"Louisa," my dad said softly, coming to my defense. "Not now."

"Martin, I want to know why our son is fighting in school."

"As do I. But I think that discussion is best held somewhere other than this room."

He pulled my hand from my nose, checked to see that the bleeding had finally stopped, and then started to walk me toward the door. "We'll take him home, I'll examine him properly, and then we can talk about what happened."

None of those things sounded good to me. I had only to look at Mum's face to realize I was in for it, and what my dad had done was only to delay the inevitable.