The characters, places and situations of Doc Martin, are owned by Buffalo Pictures. This story makes no claim of remuneration or ownership, nor do I make any attempt to infringe upon any rights of the owners or producers.

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WARNING! This is a post-Series 6 story. If you have not seen Doc Martin Series 6, this story may ruin any number of surprises for you as it begins just at the end of series 6 - Episode 8. Therefore, proceed at your own peril…

Helen looked at me calmly after delivering her bombshell. "Just think about it."

"Absurd!" I yelled. "That's insane!"

She sighed. "Typical reaction, as I expected. The usual thing patients say," she said. "Just think about it. I don't mean physically - mentally."

My head throbbed as I considered it further. "I have been, ahm, standoffish."

She nodded. "And does this relate to your sense of isolation, depression, greater than usual rudeness as you admit, a lack of sleep, not eating regularly as you claim you are not hungry, and avoiding sexual contact with your wife?"

"So… why the haemophobia again? That doesn't fit."

"You told me you suffered panic attacks at the sight of blood when in surgery. That lead to your leaving that profession. Now as a GP, while blood may not be the usual thing you see…"

"You'd be surprised," I huffed.

"Right. You just told me you suffered a return of the condition - vomiting and so forth. When your mind is under stress you fall back on the basic mechanisms that you have used before to defend yourself from things that are upsetting. Fainting is one example, usually tied in with a vomit response, or becoming jittery or shaky. That is your mind's way of making you back away from situations that are upsetting."

I stared at her my mind whirling. "I first suffered haemophobia when I realized that my patient was not just a surgical problem. She was a woman - a real live flesh and blood woman - with a family and friends. For the first time the pathos hit me. What if I made a mistake? What if I slipped up? She might die and her family would be grieving because of a slip of the knife. My knife."

"And being a GP is different how?"

"No surgery, at least only emergency issues," I told her thinking of Peter Cronk and Louisa's mum.

Entwhistle cracked her knuckles and spread her hands out wide. "Martin, as a village doctor, there must be any number of times that you are treating conditions that could be life threatening far beyond runny noses and lurky."

I sighed. "I do have a fair number of diabetics, heart patients…"

"See?" she said. "So I'm not far wrong."

"And how then does that bring back my reactions to blood?"

She smiled. "Martin, you told me that you had no friends as a child. Ruth strikes me as much the same. Rather aloof."

"That's a loaded word. But we Ellinghams tend to be… remote."

"But you can't be isolated all the time. Surely there are people, not patients, you care about? Beyond your family, that is."

I thought about Bert, Al, Morwenna, that fool Penhale, Louisa's mum, Pippa the teacher… there wasn't a one I actually care for. Even Stewart James the bodmin Ranger I could engage on the intellectual level, but for anything else, no.

Fenn was one that I felt the closest to, although what I called close would be different from anyone else. "I see people; every day."

"Yes, but in small village you would. When's the last time you actually sat down to have a nice chat with someone?"

"Ahm, this morning."

"Who was that?"

"My aunt."

"And you spoke of the weather, no doubt?"

Now I felt trapped. "No! We discussed my," my hand waved about, "things."

Entwhistle looked down at her pad and made another note. "Ruth told me you spoke about relationships. About you and your wife."

I groaned. "We did." I checked my watch. "I ought to get back to Truro. My wife will likely be discharged soon."

"Yes… tell me about Louisa. How did you meet?"

"On a plane. I was flying to Newquay for the interview for the GP post."

"What was that like? The first time you saw her? What was it that struck you about her? Made you notice her?"

That was easy. "Her eyes."

"Limpid pools of blue?"

"Greyish-blue. And the right eye, uhm, her right eye, looked different. I diagnosed glaucoma in that eye."

"Anything else about her, other than the eye?"

I sighed. "She had long dark hair and she wore it down. Sometimes she wears it in a ponytail, or piled on the top of her head." I replayed the scene. "She wore a scarf about her neck."

Helen pawed at her shorter blonde locks. "I've been growing my hair out."

"I noticed."

"How'd you know that?"

"The ends of your hair are different lengths. Hair grows roughly one millimeter per day, on average,. The ends of your hair are uneven and some of the ends look frizzed, split. That means that you have not had a haircut for some time and that you should change your hair conditioner."

She put down her pen and smiled. "Ruth said you were observant."

"Why don't you wear a prosthesis? There are any number of excellent below-the-knee limbs available."

She held up her hand and I shut up. "I'm just recovering from stump reshaping."

Reshaping – a nice word for the surgical trimming of an amputation site so the artificial limb fits better. "How long?"

"Eight weeks," she grunted. "Don't let's talk about me." I saw her glance down at her right leg where a surgical stocking covered what was left.

"And you should be moving about on hand crutches and your remaining leg rather than wheeling about in the chair. If you allow your left leg to become unusable through muscle wasting, you'll never regain the use of it. Good exercise for your arms, neck, and back as well."

She laughed harshly. "Now you sound like my physiotherapist and my counselor."

"Well, they are right." I looked around the neatly finished room furnished in modern appointments with pieces of modern art on high shelves. I could not see a speck of dust anywhere on the black shelves. "You must have help keeping house."

"One of the village women comes in," she said as she chewed on her Biro.

"Stop that!" I said and ripped the instrument from her hand. "You'll damage your teeth."

Helen's eyes had gone wide. "Okay," she said slowly. "Now… back to Louisa. I understand she is your head teacher in the village."

I gave her back the pen. "Yes and a quite good one. The school is small but she runs it well." I neglected to say that any number of times I had to run over there to see sick children. Everything from a pencil in the head to lice and licking floors. "Ahm, but you know how schools can be."

She sighed. "Tell me more."

"The school…"

"No. Don't dodge the question."

"Oh… Louisa Glasson is intelligent and is the product of a broken home. Her father Terry is a small time and part time crook and con man, now serving time in prison for an attempted robbery and possessing smuggled explosives. Her mother, Eleanor, left the family when Louisa was eleven and ran off to Andalusia with her Spanish lover; a man I now understand to be dead."

"So her parents were crap," she sniffed. "But Louisa…"

"Essentially raised herself, I hear. The villagers helped out when they could, food, clothes, that sort of thing. My Aunt Joan was one of those who aided her."

Helen made a note. "Aunt Joan, who died."

"Of a myocardial infarction on the moor. It was the day our son was born and Joan was driving herself to hospital. She was seventy-one."

"I'm sorry," she said.

I found my eyes suddenly trickling tears. I swiftly whipped out a handkerchief and wiped them.

Helen held out a box of tissues.

"No," I said. "Louisa… ahem," the scene in surgery as she looked up at me saying 'This is serious isn't it?' came to mind. "She…"

"Take your time."

"Do you know that not two hours ago I actually operated on her? Louisa?"

"What? You said she had an AVM? You?"

I nodded and now tears were really flowing. "I was the surgeon. That fool Westmore would have damaged her! Might have killed her poking the probe through the vessel wall causing a massive bleed!"

Helen put down her pen. "How did that make you feel? Doing the operation?"

I sighed and stared at the floor for long moments.

"This Westmore person, wasn't fit?"

"No. A fool. He was flustered as I questioned him about the procedure ahead of time. So I took over." No need to tell her all the details.

"So you operated on your own wife."

"Yes! I just said that! Must you echo all I say?"

"Active listening, Martin. It makes the patient more connected to me if I am engaged with them."

"You must be a riot at dinner parties," I sniffed as I wiped my face. "Yes, I operated on MY WIFE!"

Helen stared at me with concern while my words echoed off the white-painted walls. The words died away and she asked. "Again. Tell me again how that made you feel."

"Rotten. Miserable. Like I was cutting myself open."

Helen sighed and I looked up to see her smiling.

"Why in the bloody hell are you smiling?" I shouted.

She smiled even more. "You tell me."

I sighed and stared hard at her. "I love her you know."

Helen nodded and made a note. "Good. Glad to hear you say that. First time you've said that."