'Doc Martin' and its existing characters is the property of Buffalo Pictures, Ltd., of which I have no affiliation – only admiration. I love the characters, and the actors who bring them to life, and do try my best to treat them with the utmost respect . This post season 6 story follows where 'Then We Must Change' left off, so reading that one first should make a lot of things a whole lot clearer. No intended spoilers, but I do reference events from throughout the series. Reviews are always appreciated, thank you and happy reading. -DC

Time Travel

Chapter One – 'Towards'

Two months since the incident that prompted my flight.

Two weeks since autumn term started up.

Two short days until the weekend.

Two hours until we lunch.

Two people I love.

One family.

One life.

Us.

It all had come to a head that fateful day – a wake-up call, an enormous and frightening blow to our egos. Both our egos. Yet it was also an end of sorts, an end to drifting aimlessly in separate vessels on an ever stormier sea. Somehow, in spite of it all, we could still see the beacon lit in the distance, a flame that has never been snuffed out. And that was a good direction for us to keep focussing, to move towards – a shared flicker of hope.

Martin having taken us out to the farm that long weekend, the week after it all happened, turned out to have been just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. Breathing room; a chance to clear our heads and just listen to our thoughts without the noise of our shattered home life intruding.

Of course we didn't and haven't completely fixed everything, not at all. What we have got done is to acknowledge that we have fears and weaknesses – and to come to understand that the only way forwards is going backwards.

After we'd returned home, Martin had deemed it necessary for me to resume my warfarin therapy. He felt confident the filling he had placed in my brain was holding nicely for that problem, and shouldn't cause a bleed, but was becoming increasingly concerned about the clot – or clots, as he had emphasised, that could possibly cause an even bigger problem.

Luckily I trust Martin completely as a doctor, or I might just have fretted at that explanation. He'd also had me fitted for a new very fancy and comfortable shoulder brace contraption, with all the latest bells and whistles, and it had made for a world of difference. The brace also had the added 'benefit', if you will, of being practically impossible for me to put on or take off by myself, so that had become my husband's job.

I had teased him then, that I was nothing but 'problems' all'round, to which his response had been to sternly tell me I was never to speak such a thing ever again. That's my Martin...

Of course, divesting me of the brace at night for my bath, and then carefully putting it back on afterwards, had at times put our minds right back to our wonderfully intimate last night spent at the farm. There, under the subtle blue light of a full moon, after carefully wrapping my shoulder, Martin had ever so slowly and gently made love to me in what is the closest to a bonding experience we have ever shared – fulfilling a sense of need and belonging we had both desperately been craving for a long time.

And where the brace had lead us down the path of intimacy on a fairly regular basis since then, it had also forced us to rethink how we behave around one another in the wake of a row. Oh yes – Martin still makes me angry a lot of the time and I still get on his last nerve more often than he will dare to admit. However, we literally had been made to face each other and rely on the other for our little family to go on. He couldn't withdraw and hide in his office till all hours, lest he fancy me in bed unkempt and in my day clothes – something he would never allow of himself. Nor could I very well throw my arms up in the air and run away in anger, I needed his help. We've needed and had to rely on each other more than ever before and I think that dependency has helped us live again.

Our biggest test to that notion had come just shy of three weeks ago, a week before I was due back at the school, a tried-and-tested recipe for a row – finding a minder for James Henry. Michael having returned, or been returned I reckon, to the Army, we were yet again up against trying to find a reliable care option for James. Martin had insisted on a child minder who would come to the surgery and care for James at home. Though I was in no way opposed to this, I was aware of the fact that as much as my fellow villagers love James Henry, none of the lot embraces the idea of working in close quarters with the great doctor.

When I had popped into the shop for some baby things earlier that day I had bumped into Hana Newton who also had done, and of course we got to chatting about kids and babies, our own especially, and all those helpful little secrets of being a mum.

Hana, one of my Teachers Aides for the past year, had tearfully given me her final notice during Spring Term, after her husband, Ian, had been offered a much higher paying job working on the oil rigs. This also meant that she would be looking after their two young kids by herself with Ian off for weeks at a time on an unpredictable rota. As much as she would miss 'my' kids, she just couldn't bear leaving her own to be handed off left and right last minute. So when she had kindly offered to mind James Henry along with her two while I was at school, I thought it brilliant. James would be in a safe place with a mum I know and trust and he'd have little friends to play with while learning to socialise. I could bring him 'round on my way to the school in the mornings and pick him back up on my way home. And the Newtons' cottage is right near the bottom of Rose Hill, so close to the school – I'd be nearby should there be a problem.

It was just perfect and I'd been so excited to tell Martin all 'bout it, as I'd figured we'd found a great solution; one that would also cut down on our bickering during hectic mornings as well as eliminate Martin's inevitable friction with whomever would have been underfoot in the surgery with James. I'd even bought his favourite fish and veg to prepare for us that evening, my spirits had been that high.

Instead, we'd clashed horribly over our meal, regarding 'standards' and 'level of care' and other unfounded rubbish. I'd called him rude and controlling and stormed off, throwing my napkin on the floor and grabbing James Henry from his high chair to get him ready for bed.

For that past week I hadn't been wearing my brace whilst at home, so that I could do my PT exercises more often. Most nights, though, I'd still opted for it, thinking it may keep me from rolling on my shoulder awkwardly while asleep. Nevertheless, James' night-time routine was no longer a problem for me, it just took us a little while longer. And so as soon as he'd settled down for the night and had gone off, I'd stepped in the bath and cried my eyes out – disappointed and deflated, but most of all I'd been angry with myself.

After washing and stewing long enough to resemble a prune, I'd finally got out, wrapped myself up in Martin's towel and unlatched the door to the bedroom half-heartedly to look for my pyjamas; which I'd guessed were likely somewhere on the floor alongside my towel. Instead of the anticipated self-pity party of one, I'd found Martin stepping towards me with his outstretched hand clutching my towel. Upon noticing me already towel-clad, his hand had dropped to his side and I'd noticed how defeated he looked – his features solemn and his eyes red-rimmed. Carefully laid out on our bed beside him were my neatly folded flower-patterned pyjamas and the complicated shoulder contraption.

My tears had taken hold anew then, and I'd closed the gap between us, buried my face in his neck and clung to him under his jacket. I'd been emotional, no doubt, but he'd embraced it . . . me, rested his chin on the top of my wet hair and simply held me – for a long while.

Somewhere along this latest sojourn, we'd crossed over from the familiar refuge of self-validated retreat to a fragile, but powerful, want for mutual consolation.

That was the night my brace had got put away. I really hadn't a use for it anymore, and we no longer felt the need for relying on it neither. In many ways it had provided us with the support we'd been in need of to start bridging the gap between two broken souls, much like it had allowed for the fractured ends of my collar bone to come together and heal – layers of new growth strengthening over time.

'Course my arm is still weak, and painfully sore if I'm not careful or if I forget, but by continuing with the therapy I should regain full use of it again and eventually the discomfort is expected to subside as well. It could have been so much worse – yet it became our turning point. There is a greater lesson to be learned from all of this. . . .

So we are doing okay, Martin and I, we think. It is still early days and we are only two weeks into our normal hectic day-to-day routines, but we have made and are making some changes; improvements – visible and not, and we've found and accepted help. Ruth had cast her net wider for us and suggested a different psychiatrist than she initially had in mind for Martin's blood phobia. Once she'd realised we were both in this together her criteria changed, I imagine, and her choice has been spot on.

Dr. Beryan "Ann" Arscott, "Dr. A.", puts me in the mind of a slightly younger, taller and more refined version of Joan. Approachable and friendly, yet possessing the same no-nonsense demeanour and sheer presence – she's a force to be reckoned with.

Our first meeting with her had been the week after we'd got home from the farm, at her office in Truro. Quite a ways away and making for a late evening, but even Martin had seemed as if he could eventually be able to accept her as a necessary part of our future. Very introductory in nature, she had simply asked of us the basic facts she would need to start navigating; our history, current living arrangements, our professions and so on – though I suspect Ruth had filled her in a bit as well.

Thankfully Martin hadn't completely shut down, nor audibly voiced his disapproval, and he had seemed pleased by her suggestion to accommodate us by seeing us in her private home office right outside Little Petherick, which would shorten our travels by half and make the experience a little less formal. As we had got up and Martin had walked over to fetch our coats off the rack, Dr. A. had called us back with a few parting words for the road.

'I will help you, Louisa and Martin Ellingham, and we shall get you to your safe harbour together. However, the most important part of this journey lies solely with the two of you. You need to keep that beacon bright, as bright as you can – love one another. Do not drown in the misery, do not get pulled under by your current spiral of challenges, tread water if you must. You both possess an awareness now; it's in the open that all is not well and there is a new level of transparency. So take advantage of that and start living because of it. Move towards life again. Then – and only then, can we push on forwards and look at ways to knock down some walls. For a start, decide on a project to focus on together, other than your son, something new that isn't related to either of your careers. Talk about how you think that project can make a difference for you. Then let me know next time I see you how you handled that challenge. Safe travels you two.'

Little had I known then just how literally Martin would take her words.