Convergence of the Twain, a Doc Martin and Sherlock Crossover Story

Doc Martin belongs to Buffalo Pictures. Sherlock belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I own nothing but my imagination.

Set between episodes 3 and 4 of Doc Martin series 5 and between episodes 1 and 2 of Sherlock series 2

Author's Note: Sorry for all the medical-ese in this chapter. It is obligatory when writing from Martin's point of view during a medical emergency. See the glossary at the end of the chapter for definitions. Also, I am not a doctor and I don't play one on TV. Do not attempt to treat snakebite based upon this work of fiction . That being said, many thanks to fanfiction71 for her tips on Tiger Snakes (it helps to consult an Aussie on this one) and to Snowsie2011 for her expertise on how a real medical professional (like her amazing self) would respond in this kind of emergency. And thanks as always to my awesome beta readers, Snowsie2011 and ggo85 for their generous assistance and support throughout this project. Any errors that remain are mine alone.

Chapter 10 – Rescue

P.C. Penhale was standing in front of the pub when Martin arrived, the constable's puffed-out chest evidence of his own deluded sense of self-importance. Martin cringed inwardly, wishing there were some way to avoid the inevitable exchange with his own personal village idiot. Martin made to proceed inside the pub but was thwarted by Penhale's hand on his arm. He snatched his arm back angrily with a grunt of disgust.

"Doctor Ellingham. I've been authorized to admit you to the CRIME SCENE but you'll need to be logged in first." Penhale began scribbling on the clipboard in his left hand.

Martin roared. "Admit me? I'm the doctor, you idiot. And I need to see the patient immediately, wherever he is."

"It's protocol, Doc. Can't be too careful, letting just any old Tom, Dick or Harry - or MARTIN - into a secure location." He looked up from his writing. "Now just sign here. . ."

"Don't be ridiculous! I need to see to my patient. Make yourself useful – go and wait for the helicopter. The air ambulance usually lands down on the beach."

"No need to meet the air ambulance."

"What do you mean? I was told the air ambulance was coming. We may have a critically ill man upstairs. No time to drive him to the air base." Martin looked at his watch again and frowned. He had no interest in presiding over a dying man's jolting journey across the moor in the back of a van.

"No, calm yourself down, Doc. The air ambulance is already scrambled, waiting for you. That Mr. Holmes has some serious connections in the Home Office and the Metropolitan Police! The Specialist Protection Command had a security detail down here during the prime minister's holiday, and it wasn't scheduled to return to London until tomorrow. Mr. Holmes has wangled access to their rescue helicopter. It is down on the Platt, waiting to transport your patient when you're ready. Them two blokes with the stretcher are here to move him when the time comes." Penhale jerked his head towards two very young and uneasy looking men wearing uniforms of the Metropolitan Police, both of whom were leaning against the pub wall with a wheeled stretcher beside them.

"Right." Martin wondered again who this Mr. Holmes was exactly and what Penhale meant by a "government contact". Was this all above-board? But he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth – if this contact got him a helicopter at twice the usual speed and timely access to the proper anti-venom, then he was prepared to look the other way at the precise arrangements that made it possible. He glanced over at the two policemen, the tall blond with the spotty face and the scrawny one with the shaved head. "You two – follow me."

Martin backed through the swinging door into the pub with the security officers right behind him, leaving Penhale in his wake, muttering about maintaining the appropriate secure perimeter. Inside, the raucous sounds of the inebriated and the merely tipsy greeted him and he frowned in disgust.

"Make way – let me through – medical emergency," Martin shouted over the din as he pushed his way through the crowd and across the room to where the pub owner stood, wringing his hands at the foot of the staircase.

"Up there?" Martin asked, not even waiting for a response. His long legs took the steep stairs two at a time, the defibrillator banging against one wall and his medical bag uncomfortably hitting his shin on the way up. When he reached the top, he strode purposefully towards the one open door on the corridor. He swallowed heavily as he steeled himself for what promised to be a very bloody scene, suddenly thankful that he hadn't eaten much supper.

Upon entering the room, he immediately was assailed by the smell – blood obviously, but overlaid with the unmistakable odor of gunfire, and something else - something sweet, vinegary and unusual. His stomach roiled and bile climbed into his throat. Unacceptable, he told himself as he took deep breaths through his mouth and stared at his shoes to focus on something other than the blood that seemed to have splattered the entire room. Focus, man. You're a damn doctor. Focus on the patient. You're going to be back in the operating theatre in a month and a half and you've got to keep this blood thing under control.

The two stretcher bearers were pressed up against Martin's back, leaving him little choice but to enter the room and face whatever awaited him. Once inside, his attention focused immediately on the pale face of the sandy-haired man he'd last seen dripping with wine in the Large Restaurant. His patient was lying on the floor, his head supported in the lap of the dark-haired detective Martin remembered from the chemist's shop.

Blood was everywhere – on the patient, his companion, the bed sheets, the duvet and the carpet. Clearly the patient wasn't clotting properly, not unexpected, given the anti-coagulant properties of snake venom. Martin noticed with approval that the detective was using the bloody bed sheet to apply pressure to the patient's injured right wrist and had applied a make-shift tourniquet to the arm, using a pair of pajama trousers and something that looked like . . . a riding crop. Finally someone who knew something about first aid. It made for a refreshing change.

"Doctor Ellingham is here, John. Just hang on now and we'll get you on that helicopter."

To Martin's ear, the voice that had been so commanding in the chemist's shop sounded softer and possibly a little hesitant now. Martin wondered if the detective was concerned about his friend's prognosis. Not without cause, in this case.

Martin knelt beside his patient, forcing aside his momentary feeling of lightheadedness caused by the smell and sight of so much blood. "When?" was all he asked.

Holmes checked his mobile. "It's been fifteen minutes since I found him. I came immediately after he rang me, so less than twenty minutes I should think."

"The snake. You said it was Australian. How do you know?" Martin quickly checked his patient's pupils with his pocket torch.

"The snake's remains are over there – in the corner. I was dissecting the one from the power station in the other room when John went to bed – it's the same breed as this one. Interestingly, its venom is also the same sort that killed the three people in London whose deaths I am investigating."

"Shush." Martin couldn't care less about dead people in London. Right now he needed to listen to his patient's heartbeat and needed silence to do so.

"I beg your pardon!" Holmes' affront was immediately apparent.

Not that it mattered to Martin. "Quiet! I can't hear with you talking. If you feel the need to talk, go elsewhere," he said through gritted teeth. Christ, what a prat! The patient's medical condition required Martin's full attention – it was going to be impossible if he had to do it all with the tabloid genius over there yammering in his ear.

Holmes sniffed imperiously. "We're just waiting for YOU to get the pressure bandages on so we can take John to get the anti-venom."

Martin's hackles rose. "I'm the doctor. If you want me to take care of your friend, then shut up. You're a detective? Go detect something."

Martin felt the younger man's eyes burning into the back of his neck as he bent over his case, pulled on a pair of examination gloves, and continued his assessment. In the back of his mind on an endless loop was his new personal mantra: ignore the blood, ignore the blood . . .

His patient was semiconscious and moaning, clearly agitated and diaphoretic. Martin felt for his pulse, weak and thready. Respirations were six per minute. Not good, not good at all – this man was losing consciousness quickly. Martin needed to intubate and then ventilate the patient until they could get him to hospital.

He waved Holmes out of the way to get the patient's head flat on the floor for the intubation. Muscle memory took over as he pulled the equipment out of his bag, guided the tracheal tube into place, put the mask over the patient's mouth, and began squeezing the bag to force air into the patient's lungs.

When everything was properly in place, Martin allowed himself a brief glance at the detective who had crawled across the bed to examine the snake. Good riddance, thought Martin. Let him play with his snake and stay out of my hair. Martin didn't have enough hands to do all that was necessary, however, and with Holmes otherwise engaged, he was going to need someone else to help. With a sigh, he pointed at one of the stretcher bearers. "You! Get over here. Hold the mask steady, and then squeeze the bag every five seconds. Can you do that?"

The blond policeman's eyes were wide with fear and he turned a sickly shade of green at the sight of the blood oozing from the patient's nose and mouth. Nonetheless, he put on a brave face and took over, counting audibly between each compression. Martin nodded his approval as he again listened with his stethoscope. Better, just a bit better.

"What's your name, constable?" asked Holmes, suddenly fixing the patient again with his steely gaze.

"Trent, sir, Clarence Trent." The man looked at his fellow officer. "And he's P.C. Sawyer.

Holmes nodded and then turned away just as suddenly, the cogs of his mind apparently spinning too wildly for him to acknowledge the officer with words. Martin rolled his eyes. He couldn't be expected to keep track of their bloody names and wondered why Holmes would want to.

"Is he on any medication?" he asked, turning his head in Sherlock's general direction.

"Am I to be permitted to speak, then?" came the reply, dripping with sarcasm, as Holmes leaned his gangly frame across the bed to reach John and Martin on the other side.

Martin merely grunted, taking out his blood pressure cuff and attaching it to John's left arm.

"Nothing stronger than paracetamol at the moment."

"Has he had any tonight?" Martin began to pump the bulb, watching the dial closely.

Holmes hesitated momentarily. "Odds are he took some before bed. He obviously had a headache when I saw him earlier."

Martin nodded and noticed that Sherlock – God, that was an unforgettable name, wasn't it - gazed briefly at his friend's pale face and patted his leg before returning to the snake in the corner of the room. Probably meant it to be encouraging but, really, shouldn't the great mind know that the comatose man was far beyond noticing?

Now that the patient's airway and breathing had been stabilized, the next step was addressing blood loss. The bleeding wouldn't stop until they had the anti-venom. The anticoagulants in the venom would prevent clotting and the patient could easily bleed out if they weren't careful. Replacing the lost blood volume with fluids was the best Martin could do until they had access to the anti-venom.

He pulled a wide bore cannula and a drip bag of Hartmann's solution from his equipment case and checked the patient's uninjured arm for a suitable vein – not an easy task given that vasoconstriction was already underway. He hoped there was not venous collapse – a pub was no place to undertake a jugular cutdown on a patient with impaired clotting factors, even if it was a procedure he at one time could have done in his sleep.

It took a touch longer than usual, but he soon managed to palpate the cephalic vein sufficiently to insert the cannula and start the drip. He opened the defibrillator next - he needed the heart monitor more than the paddles but it wouldn't hurt to have them at the ready too. No use tempting fate to throw a cardiac arrest into the mix here just to muck things up.

Martin was busy hooking up the monitor when the door opened. He didn't look to see who entered the room until he heard Sherlock say, abruptly, "Evidence Bag. Now."

"What's happened here, Mr. Holmes? Where's John? What's happened to John?" It was a woman's voice, authoritative but filled with anxiety. As he turned his head, Martin caught a glimpse of a dark haired woman in a blue trouser suit.

"Bitten by a snake. Where's that evidence bag, Inspector Rivers?" The detective's voice was tense. "I'm waiting. This heroin isn't going to sample itself."

Martin snapped to attention when he heard that. Heroin? That would cock things up, if his patient was on heroin.

"Heroin?" The woman sounded horrified. "John? He didn't seem . . ."

"Not John," The detective cut her off and Martin breathed a sigh of relief – one less complicating factor. "But look at the snake," Sherlock continued. "See that white powder that's leaked out of the bullet holes? Heroin."

"The snake took heroin? I don't understand?"

Holmes sighed. "The snake was being used to smuggle heroin, somehow. I'm going to need to do further dissection of this one and the one in the bathtub across the corridor to determine exactly how. But this is definitely heroin. No question about it. You can tell from the smell – that peculiar sour tang."

How did the detective know about the smell of heroin? Before he could give this more thought, Martin checked John's breathing again and frowned. The blond constable was handling the bag admirably but the respiration rate remained too slow. And while the patient's complexion was ashen from blood loss and shock, there was definite edema around the eyes and mouth as well as on the extremities. He pulled an ampoule of adrenaline out of his bag and, as he drew the serum up into the syringe, he wondered if Holmes had first-hand knowledge of heroin, and what it would mean if he did.

"Is that morphine? John'll need a great deal. He built up a tolerance when he was wounded in Afghanistan."

Martin looked up to see the detective looming over him. Arrogant sod. "No."

"You won't give him an increased dose? That seems rather . . ."

"No, you moron, it's not morphine. Contraindicated– too risky in his condition. This is adrenaline. For anaphylaxis. I'm more worried about his breathing than his pain." I don't have time for this second-guessing, Martin thought. What a way to practice medicine, with Lord Know-It-All hovering over me. "And then," Martin snarled, "I'm going to give him a tetanus shot, whether or not YOU concur."

Holmes merely nodded and began dumping clothing out of the duffle bag at the end of the bed. He handed it to the woman. "Put the snake in here, Inspector, while I get the other one. You're going to have to take them both to London." He picked up the other suitcase and moved towards the door.

"London?"

"Chain of custody. You're the police. I need to get this evidence to DI Lestrade in London for analysis, and for evidentiary purposes you'll have to do the couriering – your official status will make it admissible should it come to that. The helicopter is going back to London once it delivers us to hospital; it can take you there." The door opened and Martin could only assume someone had left.

He turned his attention back to the wound left by the snake. The bite was on the inside of the right wrist, directly over the basilic vein, no doubt the cause for the rapid development of the patient's symptoms as well as the source of the hemorrhaging. The tourniquet was in place and doing its job but a pressure immobilization wrap would be safer. He swabbed at the site, examining the swelling around the skin, not liking what he saw.

He retrieved the supplies for pressure immobilization. Though he hadn't done this in a very long time, the principles were fairly simple – wrap the arm tightly to slow movement of the venom through the blood stream to the lymphic system and ultimately the patient's lungs. This would buy them the time needed to transport the patient to the airbase where they could inject the anti-venom.

As he began strapping his patient's arm to the splint, the door opened again. Martin looked up and saw Holmes return, carrying a suitcase that looked much heavier than it had when he'd left. The Inspector and the bald constable were struggling to put the bloody snake into the duffle bag and suddenly Martin had a very vivid flashback. The way they moved brought to mind the way he and Stewart had buried the bag full of bloody, bullet-riddled, dead snakes. What was going on here? Were all these snakes connected? Should he say something? Maybe better to stay out of this – he had enough to worry about without adding snakes and squirrels to the mix. Still . . .

"My God, it was the monkey!" shouted Sherlock. Martin lost all train of thought about snakes when he heard that. Could this night get any weirder?

"Monkey? What do you mean?" asked Inspector Rivers. "The one who picked your pocket?"

"Well this," he said triumphantly, brandishing some small speck he'd plucked from the carpet, "this is animal fur and I am quite certain that upon analysis it will prove to be from the monkey. See – he came through that window, knocked over that lamp, and then must have opened the door. That's why it was ajar but locked from the inside. The monkey opened the door and let the snake in."

"So we're looking for the same blokes – the pickpockets and the ones who set the snake on John are the same? And, what, they're drugs smugglers too?" The DI sounded skeptical.

"Well, you'll have to take this fur for analysis in London, but yes, that's a working theory. And the drugs are somehow connected to the murders in London, though I am still not sure how. They must have had the monkey pinch my key to identify which room I would be in. And if John hadn't objected to the necropsy in his bathtub, he would have been safely in the other room."

Martin only half listened as the detectives discussed the veritable menagerie involved in their case. He had his own problems. As he worked the bandages down from the tourniquet towards John's wrist, he noticed the limb was rapidly swelling close to the wound. This wasn't an allergic reaction – the adrenaline would have taken care of that. There was a tense and shiny area immediately to the right of the bite wound. He palpated it carefully, his heart sinking as it bounced back. This was definitely not what he wanted to find in someone who wasn't clotting properly.

It was essential to alleviate pressure on the fascia to prevent nerve and muscle damage and there was no time to get his patient to hospital. But here, with no equipment, no assistants, and a patient suffering from the effects of the venom, it was going to be very tricky. And bloody. Very, very bloody.

"You there, get the stretcher."

Holmes stood up and crossed the room. "Are we ready to go then?"

"No, I need to perform emergency surgery. He's developed compartment syndrome. The swelling from the wound and the reaction to the bite is blocking blood flow to the nerves and muscles and necrotizing the flesh. I need to operate immediately or he'll lose the arm."

"Operate? How are you going to do that?" asked the Inspector with a slight quaver in her voice. The sight of the injured man' pale face and bloody clothes was definitely having a negative impact on her composure.

"No choice. We can't wait for the hospital. We only want to move him once so let's get him on the stretcher. You!" Martin pointed at the tall constable, "Keep squeezing that ventilator. Inspector, put the drip bag on his chest, and then hold this splint on his arm steady. Mr. Holmes, please get behind him and take him by the shoulders. Gently now. And you and I, constable, we'll lock arms under his hips to lift his torso and his legs."

To Martin's surprise, after only a few furtive glances at each other, everyone took their assigned places and carefully moved the patient to the stretcher. He was dead weight and despite his small stature, it took quite an effort to lift him.

"Good, good," said Martin, wiping his brow on his sleeve. "Now move the side table. And you, Inspector, go and find a towel."

While the others maneuvered around the room, Martin took stock of his supplies. Oh what he wouldn't give for a Stryker knife right now. It was maddening not to have the right tools, but it couldn't be helped. He pulled out his largest scalpel and gauze and suture materials, topical analgesic, steri-strips, forceps and antiseptic. This would have to do.

He couldn't risk much in the way of pain management, not with the potential for cardiac arrest, and anyhow the patient had fallen into unconsciousness at this point so he wasn't likely to notice. The biggest risk was bleeding out. The pressure bandage would help and he could move the tourniquet to isolate the surgical field, but couldn't start a transfusion without blood.

He did have two more bags of Hartmann's. He took the drip bag in his hands and squeezed, forcing all the remaining liquid into his patient before switching out the bag.

"Okay. Swanson, is it? Come and hold the drip bag. Hold it over his head. Trent, keep up with the Ambu bag. Don't stop, no matter what happens, understand? Inspector, give me that towel and then put on these gloves – I'm going to need you to take care of the instruments. And Mr. Holmes? You'll have to hold him down. Just there – lean across his chest from the left side."

They all moved into place and Martin took another deep breath, forgetting for a moment the need to breathe through his mouth. This was an error in judgment - the smell of blood in the room – the patient's blood mixed with that of the snake - was overwhelming. Insidiously, it permeated his consciousness, threatening to overcome his efforts to ignore his roiling stomach, his rising sense of panic. Enough, he told himself sternly. Enough. Time to work. He was committed to surgery – and had the appointment at Imperial to prove it. He was sure he had conquered this blasted blood thing, no matter what his gag reflex was doing.

Removing a prepackaged paper drape from his bag, he swabbed the surgical site with antiseptic. So much blood – it dripped from the wound and seeped from the patient's nose; it soaked the patient's t-shirt and the bloody wad of bed sheet and the carpet where he had lain. It was on everyone who had touched the victim, staining the Inspector's blue blouse, the constables' uniform shirts, his own tie. Even Holmes was covered, though it wasn't entirely clear whether it was Watson's blood or that of the snake.

Martin fought back the chillingly familiar feeling of nausea. Not now. He could be sick later; now he needed to slice open this man's arm.

"Scalpel," he said, looking at the Inspector. She returned his gaze blankly and he snorted in disgust and snatched it off the towel-covered table. So much for expecting any help from this ragtag bunch. He looked at the anxious faces ringing the stretcher. He'd never felt so alone in a roomful of people.

His first cut opened the swollen portion of the arm. Seizing gauze sponges from the Inspector, he shoved them into the wound to visualize the field. He was sweating heavily and his stomach was in knots. Blood welled up, mimicking the way the bile rose in his gorge. He needed to vomit. Damn! He couldn't. Not now. He had to hold on until this procedure was finished.

Holmes coughed. "Fascinating. I've only seen this before on a corpse." Martin glared at him, willing the detective to shut up. Their eyes met over the patient's chest, and it was Holmes who backed down this time.

Martin cut through the muscle, laying open the arm from wrist to elbow. He nodded to himself as his practiced eye picked up the immediate signs that the cut had begun to relieve the pressure on the impacted blood vessels. He was surprised at how easily the steps of the fasciotomy procedure came back to him. It had been years since he'd done this. He should have felt proud but instead his primary thought was not to vomit on the patient's face.

There was the unexpected relief of a towel pressed against his face, and he gave the Inspector a grateful glance. Even though she remained upright, her face betrayed her panic. Martin took a quick look at the men. Holmes was focused intently on the open wound, no doubt thinking he could perform the procedure himself the next time, probably. The arse. The two constables had steady hands at least, whatever was going on inside their heads.

Aha. Got it! That last little pocket, where the ulnar nerve was twisted, now opened up to the air. God, it seemed like a big incision. Couldn't be helped but he hoped there'd be no need for a skin graft.

When he'd completed the operation - not beautiful work but certainly functional - he closed the wound with sutures and steri-strips – the hospital could finish it up later. He wiped his face on his sleeve, handed the forceps to the Inspector, and was immediately sick . . .

"I knew it!" exclaimed Holmes, a note of glee in his voice.

Martin looked up in his misery and humiliation only long enough to glare at Holmes. Before he could think too much about the detective, though, his stomach heaved again, sending him scrambling for another sick bag.

"Knew what?" asked the Inspector.

"Hemophobia. It's the only explanation."

Martin looked up, none-too-pleased. "The only explanation for what?"

"It made no sense to find a highly trained, well-respected vascular surgeon holding down a GP post in a village like this. No sense at all. And it wasn't as if you liked it here – everything about your demeanor indicates you despise this place. I thought it might be a woman – you obviously live with one even if you don't wear a wedding band. But I should have realized it was something else."

So this is what the famous detective had to offer in a crisis – an analysis of Martin's domestic arrangements? Not that it was any of his ruddy business. He wanted to wipe that facetious little smirk off that horsey-looking face.

"He's a surgeon?" asked the blond constable. "Guv said we were waiting on a local quack . . ."

"No, John had heard of him. Very impressive CV - Imperial College of Medicine, youngest vascular surgery consultant in the history of St. Thomas's, published author . . ."

"What's the problem then?" asked Inspector Rivers. "So what if he's a surgeon? He obviously knew what he was doing here. John is lucky he isn't some local quack."

"He has a blood phobia; he's negatively impacted by blood. Not to put too fine a point on it, the sight – or possibly the smell – of blood makes him sick. Actually sick. That's quite a handicap for a doctor, let alone a surgeon."

Martin saw the woman's eyes travel from Sherlock's face to his own and back again before alighting on the emesis bag in his hands. He couldn't interpret the look on her face and found he really didn't want to. What did it matter anyhow? Now it wasn't just the whole village that knew of his problem, the one he had supposedly conquered. No, now this annoying prick of a detective and half of Scotland Yard were in on it too. The thought of telling Robert, telling Chris, telling LOUISA ran through his brain and the familiar self-loathing started to gnaw at him.

Martin rolled the gloves off his hands as he stared back at Sherlock, willing the younger man to blink first. But those intense blue eyes stayed with him until he turned away in disgust himself. He yanked off his soiled tie and shoved it in his pocket before scrubbing at his face with the back of his knuckles. Back to work – best way to put this behind him.

"Are you quite through, Mr. Holmes?" he asked as he opened a fresh set of gloves. "Because we still have a patient in need of anti-venom and other time-sensitive medical treatment. If you can put aside your assessment of my professional and personal life, we need to get your friend on that helicopter. That is if you are interested in saving his life."

He handed his medical bag to the Inspector, laid the drip bag on the patient's chest, and took charge of the Ambu bag himself as he nodded to the stretcher bearers to get moving.

"What about the snakes?" asked Sherlock, looking at the duffle bag and the black suitcase.

"I don't give a damn about your bloody snakes!"

To be continued . . .

Glossary:

Specialist Protection Command: A division of the Metropolitan Police Service that provides security detail for the prime minister and other government officials, otherwise known as SO1.

Hartmann's solution: an enhanced saline solution used to replace blood volume in trauma cases. US readers may be more familiar with Ringer's, a similar product.

Vasoconstriction, venous collapse: both refer to narrowing/collapsing of the veins due to shock and blood loss.

Diaphoretic: experiencing excessive sweating due to shock

Basilic and cephalic veins: major blood vessels that pass through the wrist.

Ambu bag: a tool for manually compressing room air into the lungs of a patient having trouble breathing.

Anaphylaxis: an extreme allergic reaction

Edema: swelling

Compartment syndrome: a limb threatening and life threatening condition, defined as the compression of nerves, blood vessels, and muscle inside a closed space within the body. This leads to tissue death from lack of oxygenation due to the blood vessels being compressed by the raised pressure within the compartment

Necrotize: death of flesh from lack of circulation

Fascia: connective tissue that surrounds muscles

Fasciotomy: procedure to cut through the fascia to open the compartment and relieve pressure on blood vessels and nerves

Stryker knife: surgical tool for precision cutting in orthopedic surgery

Hemophobia: Phobia of blood, explored in Doc Martin in more detail in Series 1 and 4.