Author's Note: I am NOT spoiled re Series 5 and would like to keep it that way. Thus, if there are any similarities between this story (and any future DM stories of mine) and the spoilers that are out there, it's pure coincidence. If they diverge dramatically, so much the better! Finally, if you notice any commonality between what I write and what is planned for S5, please don't tell me so I can remain unspoiled. :)

"Martin, there are times when I honestly don't understand you." Chris Parsons looked across the restaurant table at him, a perplexed expression clouding his face.

"How so?" Martin asked innocently. He'd telephone Parsons about his change in plans and asked for a meeting to discuss what he might do professionally now that he'd turned down the surgical position in London. Not only was Parsons a friend but, as head of the local PCT, someone with a pulse on the job opportunities that existed in this region.

"When you left London the first time," Parsons said, "of all the places in the world where you could work as a GP, you chose sleepy, bodmin Portwenn. Not that I'm complaining, of course."

Martin started to interrupt, but Parsons raised a hand to stop him. "No, it was your question, so let me finish. Against all odds, you actually made a go of it. And, as it turned out, you're as brilliant a GP as you were a surgeon."

Inwardly, Martin was pleased at the compliment but kept his mouth shut. Parsons clearly wasn't done.

"Then, suddenly you decide to return to surgery in London. Now you tell me that you quit that before you even got started. You have to admit it's a bit odd even for you . . . especially for you."

"I just couldn't do it," Martin said.

Parsons narrowed his eyes. "Those are the exact words you used when you stopped performing surgery. What happened this time?"

Martin didn't want to explain it again, even to Parsons. "It's complicated."

Parsons took a sip of his bitters. "I have time."

"I'd rather not discuss it."

"Martin, you're one of the finest doctors I know. However, right now, you're also one without a job. I can't help you if you're not honest with me."

Chris Parsons was probably the closest thing to a friend that Martin had. When he'd first developed his hemophobia, most of his colleagues had responded with pity or ridicule. It was Parsons who not only prodded Martin to retrain as a GP, but helped get him the job in Portwenn. And, when Martin had worried it would never work and nearly left after the first day, Parsons had been there to offer encouragement. More importantly, if Martin were to have any chance of finding another position in the area, he needed Parsons' support.

"I thought I'd dealt with my . . . blood issue."

Parsons raised an eyebrow. "But . . .?"

"I vomited when my son was born."

"Oh." Parsons nodded thoughtfully. "I see how that could present a problem." He took off his glasses and carefully cleaned them with his handkerchief. "Maybe you simply need more time to . . . adjust."

Martin sighed. "That's not all."

The waiter brought their food to the table – chicken for Parsons and salad for Martin.

"What else?" Parsons asked once the server had moved away.

"Louisa and the baby. She's the head teacher and has no one else to help her."

"Martin, there's no need to apologize for wanting to be close to your child and his mother. It's normal."

It was normal, Martin thought, if the child's mother wanted you to be a part of his life. He'd always assumed – wrongly it turned out – that Louisa wanted no such thing. The revelation that she did want him to be involved had forced him to change his outlook and reconsider his future plans.

"She's asked me to stay with her," he said, carefully watching for Parsons' reaction.

"Are you going to?"

"Until I find a place of my own.

Parsons smiled broadly. "That's good."

"I'm not so sure."

"I am." Parsons sliced off a piece of chicken. "So you have a place to live but what are you going to do for work? Or should I ask, what do you want to do?"

"I want to work, obviously."

"You need to work," Parsons corrected. "Not financially, probably. But I can't see you sitting around fixing formula and changing nappies all day."

Martin cringed inwardly at the thought.

"Not to mention," Parsons added, "that your patients need you."

"They may take a different view," Martin replied drily.

"Well," Parsons said between bites, "I wish we hadn't filled your old job so quickly. Have you met Owens?"

"In passing."

"He's not you but he has some skills. Was in a group practice in Bristol but wanted to move to a smaller village to start a family." He grinned. "Best we could get on short-notice when you left us high and dry."

"I didn't leave you high and dry," Martin replied indignantly. "I gave you more than sufficient notice—"

Parsons waived his napkin. "A joke, Martin."

"Right." Martin stabbed a piece of lettuce with his fork. "I hear there may be an opening for a GP in Truro in a few months time."

"Yes, Emerson's looking to retire. But are you sure you want to go back to being a GP? In a few months, you might well be able to return to surgery."

It was a fair point. With proper therapy, he might yet overcome the phobia that had forced him into general practice where much of what he was called upon to do was, quite frankly, beneath his skills. Surgery – especially vascular surgery – required exquisite precision, life and death decisions, skilled hands and an even more skilled mind. While being a GP had its challenges, he'd come to resent many of his patients and their boring, monotonous medical ailments. Even so, unless or until he could fully conquer his hemophobia, working as a GP was his only realistic option.

"For now, it's best I stay as a GP."

Parsons shrugged and took another bite of his meal. "Okay. I'll see what I can do about lining you up for the slot in Truro. But we still need to find you something to do for the next few months. Have you considered working as a consultant?"

Martin paused in mid-bite. "A consultant?"

"Your diagnostic skills are first-rate and the hospital could use a good consultant in internal medicine a few days a week. Plus, it would give you a chance to meet some of people there – that will make your application for the GP spot much easier."

Although Martin had his doubts about the last point, the rest of what Parsons had suggested made sense. He needed to work and right now his options were limited. Truro was a bit of a drive but he could probably let a room a few days a week if necessary.

"All right," he said.

"Does that mean yes?"

Martin wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Yes."