I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Harold Harris, a huge DM fan and regular Wheezer reviewer. I saw last week on Facebook that Harold had passed away and I felt terribly sad about it. While I didn't know him personally it seemed so unfair that he'd not only missed out on the conclusion of my story, but he'd never know how Doc Martin series 10 tied everything up either. RIP Harold, and thank you for your enthusiasm and encouragement.

(And to everyone else that's been waiting so patiently, thank you too. if enough people are still reading and still interested, please leave me a review and i will try and get another chapter written during the week.)

The key is where it always is, frigid to the touch as I clasp it in my fingers and fumble for the lock. Somewhere in the distance a sheep bleats in protest, and I hesitate. The adrenalin, the urgency, the absolute certainty that I must go to her has evaporated and I feel nothing now except ridiculous. What have I done, what fleeting insanity has seen me drive through the night to arrive, unannounced, at this hour of the morning? And there is no encouragement, there is no glimpse of dawn on the horizon, nor any hint of welcoming light in the windows; just the house, sitting silently in judgement as it looms out of a chill Cornish fog. Breathing deeply, I grip the door handle and let myself inside.

Groping blindly for the switch, my nerves almost get the better of me, my heart keeping time with the fluorescent tube as it flickers erratically into life. But, as the room is illuminated, my anxiety turns to despair. Even more topsy-turvy than I recall, the cottage is now a monument to clutter, my aunt the high priestess of ataxia and disarray. It's clear, too, that the demarcation between kitchen and workshop no longer exists, and the smell transports me instantly. A hint of lanolin, and of wet oilskins, a suggestion of diesel, and of rose-scented powder, an acrid overlay of poultry manure, and the stench of frying fat; a combination so ubiquitously Joan Norton that suddenly I am ten years old again, writing the date on the eggs in my best handwriting, helping her move crates of mud-encrusted produce from the porch, and swatting away clouds of tiny insects that seem to breed in the bucket of chicken scraps. Does nothing change in Cornwall, I wonder disparagingly, has time literally stood still at Haven House Farm?

I glance about the room, holding my breath, listening intently, but there is only silence, no hint yet of my aunt, the early riser, no creaking floorboards upstairs, no rumbling boiler. Faced with the prospect of a long wait, I pull out a chair to sit down, but the loud scrape of the legs on the floor is startling and I have a rapid change of heart. I then find myself pacing the room, driven by a surge of nervous energy, my legs like springs, the chaos about me only adding to my sense of apprehension. I hear my uncle's voice, slow and deliberate, a smile in his tone: An unoccupied mind is a dangerous mind, especially when it comes to the young'uns, he'd say, passing me a screwdriver like an inscrutable old theatre sister, peering benevolently over my shoulder as I learned to repair whatever it was I'd taken apart and broken that particular day.

Blanching at my own sentimentality, I hasten to remove my jacket, rolling up my shirt sleeves, finding it imperative that I impose some sort of order on the shambles around me. For goodness sake, it's as if a riot has taken place at a white elephant sale, honestly, how can anyone retain their equanimity, or any sense of calm and control, living in what appears to be a pack rat's nest? I start by probing cautiously about in the cold, grey, greasy contents of the sink, searching for the plug among the pile of half submerged crockery. But the sudden and thunderous gurgling of the drain is alarming and I realise: of course, the issues with the plumbing have not been addressed in all the years since last I visited. Good grief. Don't they have plumbers in the nearby village? Are twentieth-century conveniences really too much to expect?

I resolve to tackle the matter myself, regardless of the opposition my Aunt will undoubtedly provide, my mind made up by the significant force I must apply to a hot tap that is rather reluctant to budge. When the only result is a cacophonous and dramatic borborygmi of the pipes, I swear in frustration, smothering the spout rather pointlessly with a teatowel in an attempt to muffle the sound. Of course, eventually, when the merest trickle of tepid water appears, even adding detergent to the dishwater is not straightforward, impeded as I am by the plethora of random containers crammed into the cupboard, their labels either water-stained and faded, or completely non existent. Bottles of turpentine and jars of mothballs, boxes of Red Mite powder and balls of string. Caustic soda, Epsom Salts, rubber tubing and enormous plastic syringes, all piled haphazardly upon the shelves.

As I wait for the sink to fill, I take in my surroundings, agitated and unable to prevent my lip from curling disapprovingly. Of course, my aunt would never entertain criticism of the way in which she lives. Any suggestion that storing poisons and animal remedies alongside household cleaning products might in any way constitute a hazard would be vigorously and vociferously opposed. Exhaling impatiently, I grit my teeth. It's not just the cupboards that are an disorganised mess, every surface is covered in jumble too, there's no space to put any clean dishes even after I have gone to the trouble of washing them. Honestly, what sort of logic dictates a battered, broken-handled enamel beaker, filled precariously with walnuts, should sit on the draining board alongside what looks like a bent piston? Scowling, I shift them both impatiently to one side, transferring a stone cold teapot to the cooktop, and dropping a discarded wine bottle, the remains of the cork floating in a few inches of pale green liquid, into the rubbish bin rather vehemently. Lastly, I reach for a large, crumpled brown paper bag, bulging with enormous, bright green apples, intent on moving them to what seems like a far more suitable position, the fruit bowl on the table. It's not rocket science, Auntie Joan, for goodness sake. Fruit in the fruit bowl; pencils, washers and raffle tickets somewhere else.

But, as I turn, a complete debacle. Though I realise what is happening, there is nothing I can do, watching on helplessly as the bottom of the paper bag, damp from the draining board, gives way and the fruit are flung in an arc across the room; as violently as a volley of cannonballs, as heavy as rocks as they clatter across the floor. Swearing under my breath, I scramble to collect them, blushing in anticipation of the scolding Auntie Joan is sure to deliver. Suddenly, I am an awkward, uncoordinated child again, desperate to avoid censure, dreading humiliation so fervently that I am focused, almost maniacally, on the retrieval of the errant fruit. A quick glance tells me that the contusions on their skin are already visible but I am still hellbent on avoiding detection. Clambering finally to my feet, clutching the last escapees to my chest, I deposit the ruddy things where they should have been all along, muttering darkly as I dust off the knees of my trousers.

And, in that one distracted moment something happens, all in just an instant; a fleeting, guilt ridden second, a shimmering sliver of time. Startled, I freeze, aware now of a peripheral movement, a spare, shadowy figure in the corner of my eye. I glance up, wide-eyed and wary, and prepare to face her wrath, bracing myself for the inevitable: the caustic observations of my sharp-tongued aunt.

"Martin!" I hear, in a tone breathless with disbelief. "What the hell are you doing?"

I gasp but no air escapes my lungs, suspended as I am in a swirl of confusion, jolted by a shock so violent it is as if I have been physically assaulted. My chest tightens, struggling to contain a heart that seems actually to both shudder and leap. Like a child who has been told not to look at the sun, I can't help it, so powerless am I to look away. And, in doing so, in meeting her horrified gaze, I am cleaved open in an instant, exposed, embarrassed, my complete haplessness again on display. Not for the first time I find myself standing before her, raising my head slowly, transfixed, and turned utterly to stone.

"Louisa…" I say, my voice the hoarsest whisper.

There is no measure for how long we stare at each other. Dazed and blustering, I fight to put steel in my spine, my jaw falling open, my skin prickling with heat. She holds her ground, fierce and unaffected, the epitome of cool self-possession, asking for nothing and not conceding an inch. My god, she is beautiful, both waif-like and warrior, Boudicca and ingenue, clutching an old golf club, and wielding it extravagantly as if it were a sword. Later, I will recall that she was clad only in one of my T-shirts, and I will try not to dwell on how it clung to her, creased and insubstantial, the neck slipping off her shoulder, the hem barely half way down her thighs. But for now I am hypnotised, frozen to the spot, waiting for the flash of defiance that will turn her eyes to onyx, anticipating that distinctive toss of her head, the one that ignites such a ferocious heat in me.

"What are you doing here?" She demands, lifting her chin, her eyes gleaming with indignation.

I stammer, stunned into feebleness, gesturing pathetically until my hands slump to my sides. "I..umm…I just..."

"I 'spose you've come to gloat?" She interrupts, impatient, accusatory, my presence clearly an affront.

I wince internally, my stomach clenched, aware that her accusation is justified, yet unable to express that nothing could be further from the truth.

"No…" I reply, shaking my head. "Of course not. Umm, it's just…I mean I just…ahh…I thought…I was expecting…Joan."

But before I can explain any further, as I search desperately for the right words to justify my sudden appearance, she fires in her retort, short and sharp, like I am just another person in her life who cannot be trusted, as if I am now condemned to the same pile as all those that have gone before me, the long list of people she has loved and who have utterly let her down.

"You've had a wasted journey, then. Joan's not here, is she?"

A sudden gust of wind rattles the windows and the resulting draught flutters the newspapers laid out on the table, wafting one of a number of letters gracefully to the floor. I watch her glance in their direction, the perfection of her profile on display, and she is rendered suddenly so vulnerable by her distraction that I can't tear my gaze away. I can't bear this gulf that now lies between us. Say something, do something, Louisa, anything that might bring us back together. Please! I can't bear to imagine living my life without you.

The intensity of the feeling utterly blindsides me. What a time to have all my emotions clarified, now when they are obviously so hopelessly redundant. Why, in this chaotic kitchen, should I be experiencing a tenderness toward her that threatens to consume me, my emotions escalating exponentially when, truly, all hope has utterly vanished. As I watch her, my chest feels constricted, my heartbeat erratic. Is this how it is to be from now on? All my feelings unrequited, enduring a life of penance and regret? How typically flawed, what predictable appalling timing, Martin Ellingham, finally arriving at a place of selfless love for another only to discover he has utterly missed the boat. And now I must stand here and face her, so physically perfect that she does not seem real, so brave, so spirited, adoring her more than ever before yet knowing I have never deserved her less.

"Right." I say quietly, after a moment, forcing myself to blink, and to breathe, in a hopeless attempt at composing myself. "Umm…and…where is she?"

"Wales." Louisa answers curtly. "Buying sheep or selling sheep. I really can't remember…"

I swallow hard. "I see. Yes." Of course, she was going away. It forced her to telephone me.

Silence now envelops us, awkward and cool. In the distance a clock ticks; the resonance suddenly familiar, and I recall it as somber, calm, and reassuring, a cadence that set the rhythm of the day, marked meals and counted down to bedtime. Soft chimes sounding out the hour as I huddled under the covers with a torch, too wrapt in my discoveries to close the book and go to sleep. Was I always like this, I wonder miserably, have I always been tongue-tied and aphasic, and hopelessly incoherent when it came to my feelings? It strikes me that, as a child, I was never aware that they mattered, I honestly can't remember anyone ever caring what, or how, I felt.

"I suppose she put you up to this?" Louisa demands suddenly, startling me, folding her arms and fumbling with her ridiculous weapon like some sort of clumsy, second-rate samurai.

And I am at a loss, stammering hopelessly, my pathetic sentences grinding to a halt, once more unable to tear my gaze from her, and finding myself miserably incapable of explanation.

"No…well…yes, in so much as she…umm…she called me…she told me…"

"She told you what, Martin, hmm? What did she say?"

I stare helplessly. What can I tell her? I would never lie to you Louisa, but what good is the truth when every word I utter just seems to provoke you further. I open my mouth, tentatively, but her patience is exhausted.

"Oh right, so I spose you had a nice chat about me, did you?"

I can scarcely moisten my lips, so wooden is my tongue, so arid is my throat. And every moment's silence seems to inflame her; the more furious she becomes, the more my vocabulary seems to contract. Please give me a moment to think, Louisa, please let me formulate a reasonable reply.

"And I spose she told you I'm not capable of looking after myself? That I need some sort of constant supervision? Was that it, Martin? Was that it? Poor little Louisa, here we go again, another disaster." Her voice lowers theatrically and I realise she's mocking me. "Someone better get down there and step in…"

"No! Of course not. That's not…"

"Well it seems to me that something has brought you to Cornwall…" She cries, eyes blazing furiously, head held high as she advances toward me. "I mean, you wouldn't come down when I asked you to…no, of course that was far too hard but your aunt…orders you to babysit and, hey presto, you manage to fit me in between shifts?"

"Hang on!" I protest, stung into my own defence, her allegations as searing as if I were cauterising my flesh without anaesthetic. "That's completely unfair and you kn…."

"Why did you come, Martin, hmm?" she snaps, glaring at me, her jaw twisting furiously. "Because if it's another lecture you can just…"

"I came because I was concerned for you." I counter vociferously. "I came because Joan told me that she'd caught your father, red-handed, stealing money and I knew how upset and ashamed you'd be, how mortified you'd feel when you were reminded your father was still just a common or garden thief…"

As soon as the words slip from my mouth, my blood turns to ice. I feel my shoulders slump, the golf club clatters to the floor and her hands go to her hips, fury flashing in her eyes. We stare at each other then, not as lovers, not even as friends for, in that moment, I know she must despise me. Her brows knot, deep creases furrow her forehead, and I watch helplessly as her eyes glaze over, and fill with tears.

"Oh, just…go away, Martin." She replies unhappily, her words catching in her throat as she turns her head away, her body twisting as if if she can no longer bear to even look at me. "Just go away, and leave me alone…"

And then she retreats, without swagger or defiance, and I stand bowed and alone, crushed by my own heavy handedness, knowing that I have been brutal in the face of everything that is warm and delicate and kind. Of course she runs from me again. Why would she stay? I am the man who succeeds only in making everything worse, offering nothing except allegation and accusation; a curmudgeon, a malcontent, a wet-blanket. How many times do I have to hurt her to understand that I'm not and never was what she needs. God, what an idiot I was to come in the first place, arrogant beyond words to think I might possibly make a difference. Clearly, the urges that consume me are appallingly selfish. Louisa is right, I must go, I must leave her alone.

Retrieving my jacket, and bundling my overcoat under my arm, I stride from the room, pulse racing, face burning. All I have done is add insult to injury. Again. Louisa doesn't want me in Cornwall, she doesn't want me at all. Smashing the edge of my fist against the light switch, I walk furiously back to my car. Shame at my own incapacity burns like a peptic ulcer. What a bloody fool I've been. I must put distance between us and I must do it now. I'm sorry Auntie Joan, I tried, but I am out of my depth. I wrench open the car door, my breathing ragged. Louisa will just have to manage on her own. She's young, she's spirited. As she always says, she'll be fine. Thank god my bags are still in the boot. No need to go back into the house. I glance at my watch, the details barely illuminated. If I leave now, I can be back in London by early afternoon. No need to reschedule Monday's consultations, no missed meetings, no getting behind on reporting. And Louisa, so plucky, so strong, she will surely bounce back. I fumble through my pocket, hasty, desperate, searching for my keys. There's nothing else for it: only sensible thing is to go home. Forget all about her, go back to London. Back to the only thing I was ever any good at: logical, emotionless medical science. Snatching at my seat belt, I ram the tongue into the buckle and force myself to exhale.

But, many minutes later, alone in my car, as Venus sparkles in the eastern sky, my hand still grips the keys where they sit in the ignition. And, as my respiration slows, my mind starts to clear. I can't just leave her, she permeates my every cell, she occupies all of my imagination. I can't just abandon her to face this alone, as if it's an experiment to see how brave and how resilient she really is. and so much for being logical and unemotional, I have been neither since the moment I stepped foot in that house. And the ridiculous thing is, I'm trained to notice. I'm trained to observe. I should have detected it instantly, I now know for certain it was there all along. The trembling, almost imperceptibly, of her bottom lip, the way her long elegant fingers twisted at the fabric of her shirt but, most of all, her fury. Louisa, stripped of her brilliance, her resilience low and her vulnerability exposed, takes refuge in defiance. Her father has shamed her and I've unfairly accused her, and the impression of toughness she presents, of staunch indomitability, it's nothing more than a charade. Why the bloody hell did it not dawn on me sooner?

But, as plausible as that sounds, I still have no idea what to do. How ridiculous that I pride myself on my skill as a diagnostician, on a patient that is usually a stranger, assessing their needs with relative ease in a way I cannot do for Louisa? I devise detailed treatment plans tailored to a wide range of complex conditions yet I flounder so utterly when it comes to practical steps to assist her? And how on earth does one learn to be more sensitive, more empathetic? Where do you start when you know know you must change? Many times a week I tell the obese man with arterial sclerosis, that he must make dramatic changes to his lifestyle; he is an addict yet he must give up smoking, and change his lifelong diet of fatty foods. Yet here am I, faced with losing something as important to me as my own life, and yet incapable apparently of making even the slightest change to my own behaviour. It's as if I am carved out of stone, just thirty years old yet so set in my ways.

I've always known that I loved her yet I still struggle to tell her. I'm aware, too, that it bothers her, yet the words are always somehow just out of reach. Any kind of emotion renders me hesitant and faltering; even my concern for her welfare manifests itself as a patronising series of lectures, when the truth is taking care of her health is the only thing I know how to do. I sigh heavily and squeeze my eyes closed. Haven't I just stared at her helplessly, and longed for her to be with me with every thread of my being. Am I not exhausted by suppressing excruciating waves of desire, torn to shreds by knowing what I've lost, and brutalised by the realisation I must somehow learn to live without her. My god, such a lot of effort required just to carry on when, surely, learning how to better live with her would have be a far better investment of my time? And, for the hundredth time, the words spin around in my head, the mantra that is so miserably familiar when it comes to the way I've managed my feelings for her. Ellingham you fool, you absolute certified bloody fool.

Condensation begins to run down the windscreen and I sigh as I stretch over to retrieve the chamois from the glovebox. Glancing upwards as I replace it, I notice a light glowing in an upstairs window; the little end bedroom, the one that was always mine. It felt so safe and reassuring when I was boy, such a refuge, a place of comfort, of safety and of love. But not for Louisa, especially not today, and I imagine her now, face down on the bed, fighting back the tears with an almost incandescent fury, her fists clenched as she rages silently against the world. The thought of her makes my chest ache, with the sort of breathlessness that makes ones eyes sting and ones mouth salty. I clench my jaw, swallow hard and clear my throat, determined now that I will not leave her when she is fragile, that I will do the right thing and that is to stay here and support her, even if she tells me that I should go home.

You know me better than anyone, Louisa, I am obtuse and imperceptive, I am not one for grandiose gestures but, honestly, right now I would do anything for you, I simply have no idea what it is that you require.

I'd forgotten how quiet it is in the country, but I suppose at least it has that quality to recommend it. For a while, I stare out out the window while, beyond the car, ominous shapes emerge in the pale light of day but, when I attempt to identify them, I find my focus is impossibly blurred. Retrieving my handkerchief from my pocket, I dab at my eyes and wipe at my nose, composing myself, relieved that no one is here to witness my lamentable lack of control. But, as the dawn's distant arc expands across the sky, and the clouds begin to streak with brilliant colour, it comes to me, the faintest spark of understanding, the most minuscule of Eureka moments. Of course, I have answered my very own question. I am not the physician here, I am the patient. It is not my job to take control, to make arbitrary decisions, it is for Louisa to decide exactly what it is she needs. Pocketing my keys, I slide out of the seat, and make my way back to cottage, slipping into the kitchen, just in time to hear the clock striking eight.