Rating: PG (very mild adult themes)

Setting: The story begins around the time of S5, episode 4.

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

Author's Notes:

For reasons that will become evident, this story involves a fair amount of "medicalese." Where necessary, there's a medical glossary at the end of the chapter.

A huge thank you to my beta jd517. Her insightful comments helped me over the rough patches and definitely made the story better. Any errors that remain are due to my inability to stop tinkering.

Dinner parties ranked high on my list of events to avoid. First, I had no control over the type or quality of food being served or the time it would be served, which was invariably later than I preferred. And, the idea of spending several hours within the confines of another person's home being forced to converse about absolutely nothing of significance or, worse, to talk about myself, was absolutely abhorrent.

Thankfully, after several years in Portwenn, such invitations issued to me had become few and far between. However, unlike me, Louisa enjoyed the company of others and thus, I'd come to learn, was frequently invited to meals with the local denizens. Including me in those invitations was now apparently a necessity because Louisa and I were sharing a home. It was, in my opinion, an unfortunate development.

Having an infant son provided the perfect excuse to turn down those dinners we didn't want to attend which, for me, was virtually all of them. I much preferred to spend my evening eating a quiet meal with Louisa and the baby. That was enough of a transition from my many years of solitary dining.

This evening's dinner invitation from Chris Parsons differed from most in two important ways. First, Parsons and his wife Emily were among the rare birds who actually wanted to see me as well as Louisa. And, second, Parsons was probably the only person other than Louisa with whom I might actually enjoy having a meal. Still, I'd demurred.

"Come on, Martin," Parsons insisted when he'd issued the invitation over the phone earlier in the week. "Emily's counting on you coming. She hasn't seen you in months," he added.

"I don't know. Louisa's been so tired of late." Taking care of an infant was more exhausting than either of us had fully anticipated and, with me temporarily resuming my role as GP, she bore the brunt of our son's care and feeding.

"Consider it a date night," Parsons replied.

"A what?"

"Date night. What you and Louisa did on Saturday nights before the baby came along," he explained.

I paused, trying to remember our "dates." Other than the concert, which hadn't gone at all well, and the subsequent evening at the Large restaurant that was interrupted by the postman's attack of pulmonary aspergillosis . . . I really couldn't think of any outings with Louisa that met his description.

"We, ah, didn't date," I said. "Exactly."

"No matter. This can be a date."

I frowned into my mobile. "Right."

"Oh, Mart. Just come. Emily and I would love to see the two of you and it will do you good to get out for a night."

Of course Louisa had wanted to go. So, we'd left the baby in the care of a sitter. I didn't know the woman, but Louisa had assured me she came highly recommended. We'd left her with explicit instructions to call us if there were any problems at all – and made the hour-long drive to the outskirts of Truro.

I'd been to Parsons' home on numerous occasions over the years. It was several times the size of mine in Portwenn – large, if unpretentious. I wasn't much for décor but it all seemed tasteful and Louisa, who was visiting for the first time, seemed to find everything "lovely," or "wonderful."

At one point during the tour of the main floor, Louisa prodded me for a comment about some piece of upholstered furniture.

"It seems . . . functional," was the best I could manage.

The pre-dinner conversation went surprising well, at least as far as I could tell, probably because Louisa was doing most of the talking. She, Parsons and I were in the sitting room; Emily had retired to the kitchen to finish the dinner preparations.

"Louisa, I still can't get over that you delivered your baby in a pub," Parsons was saying with a smile. "That will certainly give you a tale to tell for years."

"I'm sure it will," Louisa said. "At least Martin was able to be there when the baby was born."

She and Parsons both knew that, had not the taxi driver and his wife foolishly tried to make their own petrol, I would have been halfway to London and Louisa would have delivered our child alone, something that, at the time, I'd been perfectly prepared to let her do.

Louisa twisted toward me on the sofa and laid her hand on my knee, sending tingles up and down my leg. She was pressed into my side. Her closeness, the warmth of her body, the scent of her lavender soap . . . I forced my mind to return to the conversation at hand.

"So you're definitely going back to your job as head teacher?" Parsons asked Louisa.

"Yes. I'm scheduled to start back in another two weeks."

I forced myself not to scowl. The subject of her quick return to work remained a sore point between us. She was completely exhausted simply caring for the baby. I couldn't imagine how she could possibly continue to do that and work full-time as head teacher, even for the few weeks before we left for London.

Parsons leaned forward in his chair. "You know that Emily went back to work after Danny was born."

"Really?" Louisa said, giving me a look of triumph.

I had some recollection that Emily had been a social worker but also knew that, as some point, she'd stopped working to stay at home with their son, which proved my point. "It didn't last long though, did it?" I asked, earning a disapproving look from Louisa.

"Lasted for quite a few years," Parsons replied evenly. "And I know Emily enjoyed the intellectual stimulation. Much as she loved taking care of Danny, talking only to an infant all day can be a bit rough."

"When did she decide to become a full-time mum?" Louisa asked.

"Once Danny started getting involved in all his school activities and I took the position with the PCT, it was hard for either of us to drive him back and forth, let alone actually be there for his athletics and things."

"How old is Dan now?" I asked politely, not quite remembering. "Ten?"

"Nearly eleven. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"No," I said succinctly. "He appears to be the right height and weight and appropriately developed for a boy of that age."

Louisa gave me an exasperated look and rose to her feet. "I'll just help Emily with dinner."

Parsons waved her back into her seat. "No, you stay put. You're here to relax."

"It's all right. Besides," she said with a smile, "I'm sure she can give me some tips on being a working mum."

I'd never understood the propensity of women to congregate together – at parties, in kitchens, in lavatories. Whatever did they talk about?

The moment Louisa left the room, Parsons turned to me. "I'm glad you decided to stay in Portwenn, Martin. Really helped me out of a bind."

"Yes, well, you know it's not permanent."

Parsons' eyebrows lifted. "I'd hoped you might change your mind and decide to stay with us."

"No. I'm meant to be a surgeon, and I intend to be just that."

"Well, you know I'll support you in whatever you decide to do."

That much was true. Over the years, Parsons had been more of a friend than I probably deserved. He'd managed to get me the GP position in Portwenn when few other PCTs probably would have taken me and then, when I'd decided to return to surgery, he was the one who'd first interceded with Imperial Hospital.

"In any event," Parsons continued, "I know I invited you for a social visit but I wondered if, while Louisa's with Emily, we might talk a little business."

Inwardly I groaned. Chances were that yet another patient had lodged a complaint about me with the PCT. By now I'd heard them all – I was obnoxious, mean, abrupt, nasty, sarcastic, dismissive, and dozens more adjectives, some of which might well be accurate, at times. What I didn't understand was why my patients didn't seem to care about the more important qualities of a GP, such as competence.

I knew all of my patients weren't thrilled to have me back as their GP, but after that well-intentioned but hardly confidence inspiring Dr. Dibbs, I would have thought they would have at least been quiet for a few days.

"Now who's complaining?" I asked, more out of habit than interest.

"Complaining?" Parsons actually looked surprised.

"About me," I clarified.

"No one that I know of."

Well, that was a relief of sorts. I gave Parsons an expectant look.

"I wanted to consult with you about a patient," he said.

I frowned. "Me? Surely there's at least one capable GP in Truro."

"But none trained as a vascular surgeon."

My eyebrows lifted at the comment. Interesting. And whatever Parsons' reasons for consulting me, I'd rather discuss medicine than talk about myself or life with a newborn baby. I leaned forward in my chair even as Parsons slouched back in his. "Tell me about the patient," I said.

"Forty-six year-old white male, non-smoker, slightly overweight. History of hypertension and elevated cholesterol, both controlled with medication, but no history of vascular disease. Complains of an incident of short-term neurological deficit."

Yes, it could well be a vascular problem. The symptoms could also be due to a neurological condition or at least a dozen other causes. I'd need to know more before I could offer any meaningful diagnosis.

"What type of neurological deficit?" I asked.

"Blurred vision, aphasia, hemiparesis."

That could well be serious. Or not. "Any recent trauma?"

"No."

That ruled out a few things. "Does your patient have a history of—"

Parsons took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, hell, Martin. I'm the patient."

"What?" I blinked several times and felt my jaw drop.

"I've been experiencing symptoms that I think might be – never mind, I want your opinion."

I closed my open mouth. "Slow down." I was still trying to get my head around what Parsons had just told me. The symptoms he was describing didn't belong to some unknown patient; they belonged to him – a man I'd known for more than two decades. Subconsciously I switched into professional mode and immediately started a visual examination. "Start at the beginning."

"Which is?"

Good point. "What are your symptoms? And be precise."

Parsons smiled and held out his open palms. "At the moment, I feel perfectly fine."

I snorted a bit at his quibbling. "So you've had symptoms?"

"Once, about a fortnight ago. I was watching the telly and, without warning, I suddenly—"

There was a noise from the doorway. Parsons closed his mouth and glanced up as Louisa stepped into the room.

The first thing that crossed my mind was annoyance that she was interrupting our conversation; her appearance at this moment was inopportune at best.

"Supper's almost ready," she said in a cheerful tone that made clear she didn't realize she'd intruded into a critical discussion. She gave Parsons a broad smile. "I think Emily could use your help carving the roast."

"Not now," I snapped. Blast the stupid dinner; Parsons' health was much more important.

Parsons stood up. "It's all right, Mart. We can talk about this later."

"We need to talk about it now—"

"Later." He gave me a look that said that, no matter how hard I pressed him, the subject was closed for the moment and probably the entire evening.

Louisa glanced between us in confusion and I sighed loudly.

"Best go assist my lovely bride," Parsons said. "I know how you like to eat early, Mart."

I frowned again but let him leave, only because I didn't have much choice. The whole situation frustrated me immensely. Any neurological symptoms needed to be evaluated; as a doctor, Parsons knew that as well as I did. I bit my lower lip and seethed.

"Everything all right?" Louisa asked.

My eyes followed Parsons out the door. "Yeah," I lied.

Louisa sat down beside me and began stroking my leg, oblivious to my consternation. "It's a lovely evening, isn't it?"

"Um, yes. It is." Whereas earlier, I'd taken pleasure in her touch, now I found it almost irritating. I found myself mentally reviewing what little Parsons had told me and didn't want to be distracted from my clinical thoughts, even by Louisa.

"It's so kind of Emily and Chris to have us over."

"Uh-huh." As was so often the case, she'd misread my hesitation for nervousness and felt the need to continue talking. Sometimes when we were together, she just didn't understand that my focus needed to be on something or someone other than her.

"Chris is such a nice man," she continued. "How did the two of you become mates?"

I wasn't sure "mate" was the right word to describe my relationship with Parsons. Then again, he was probably the closest I had to an actual friend.

"We were partners in anatomy class," I said, absently. My mind kept flicking back to the symptoms he'd described. The possible causes were endless and some quite serious. Damn him for ending our conversation before I could probe further. "We had the same cadaver for dissection."

"You met over a dead body. How . . . interesting."

"One day after class, he invited me out for a pint."

"And you went with him?"

"Of course not." I snorted defiantly. "You know I don't drink alcohol."

"But you could have at least joined him—"

"I didn't." I looked away. "We really didn't get on those first few years."

This conversation was becoming interminable and it was all I could do to contain my impatience. Even though, at the moment, there wasn't anything I could do for Parsons, once dinner was over would be a different story entirely – I'd force the man to describe his symptoms if I had to wait the entire evening. I swallowed a deep breath and tried to focus my attention on Louisa.

She turned to me. "You didn't get along? What changed then?"

I let out a deep breath, thinking back. "We were on the wards together as junior house officers. One night, Parsons had a patient who was quite ill. Young girl – he couldn't figure out what was wrong. He'd ordered all the right tests, given the proper medications, and yet she was getting worse. Out of desperation, he came to me."

"And you figured it out."

"We both did. We spent I don't know how many hours in the middle of the night, both of us exhausted, re-examining the patient, going through each word of her medical history, and reanalyzing every test result until we came up with the answer."

Years later, I still remembered the night well. I'd always been a loner in medical school. Whereas most of my classmates clustered in study groups and tested each other with ridiculous flashcards, I'd been able to excel academically on my own. And I was never one for the parties that some of my socially-oriented classmates organized. I'd always been satisfied working on my own; I never needed anyone else. So, the idea that one of my classmates might want – or even need – my professional opinion had never really occurred to me.

What surprised me most when Parsons consulted me was his intellect. I was certain that, within minutes, I would identify the symptom he obviously must have missed; I would quickly point out his ineptitude. Instead, I found that he had done absolutely everything I would have done and done it exceedingly well. As we put our heads together that night, I realized for the first time that it was actually more satisfying to tackle a problem with a bright colleague than to do it alone. And, that I actually enjoyed Parsons' company.

"So what happened?" Louisa asked, bringing me back to the present.

I shrugged. "The girl had an intestinal infection. She had surgery and made a full recovery."

"And thus was the start of a beautiful friendship," Louisa exclaimed dramatically.

"The start of mutual respect," I clarified.

"But you did become friends."

"Yes, I suppose we did."

"And you've remained friends all these years—"

We both jerked around at the sound of a large crash from the kitchen.

"Chris! My salad!" Emily's tone was a mixture of dismay and reproof.

Louisa and I exchanged somewhat bemused glances. It was obvious to both of us that Parsons had dropped part of this evening's dinner and that the hostess was displeased at the turn of events.

Louisa rose from the sofa. "Oh dear! Maybe I can help clean up."

A few seconds later, Emily called out Chris's name again only this time there was something in her voice that ignited my professional instincts. I didn't have to strain my ears because the next thing I heard was a shout.

"Oh God. Martin! Get in here! Quickly!

Medical Glossary (I'm not a medical professional; the explanations are for ease of reading only)

Aphasia – impairment of language ability; trouble speaking normally

Hemiparesis – paralysis on one side of the body