Wednesday and the first half of Thursday had passed in jogging, working, drinking coffee, eating - just a tad more than usual - and sleeping - just a tad less than usual. The two nights Viola had spent in her bed after she'd slept in Rhys' were even more restless than her twenty something years of insomnia, and she wondered what changes she could make to get that level of recuperation she'd achieved in the bevy of his duvets and pillows. Something told her it wasn't the number of high quality bedding items that mattered.

She'd texted him daily, around lunchtime, and they'd exchanged a few flirty messages. Both were tip-toeing around the subject of the next date, but it didn't feel tense. He'd been right then, on the li-lo, she had acted with an uncharacteristic spontaneity - and it had brought the best of results. Perhaps, she thought, she'd just show up at his place after work on Friday.

After lunch on Thursday, she had only one appointment - and she stared at the name of her laptop's screen.

"Snezha," she asked, when the nurse picked up the phone, "I see that Niklas Bjornsson has made an appointment with me for a physical."

"Yes, he has," the nurse answered.

"Isn't he Dr. Fenton's patient? Just as the rest of his family?"

"No, that's his first visit," Snezha said. "After his return to the county, I suppose. Do you need me to come into your office?" the nurse asked pointedly.

Viola thanked her but refused. All the initial data had been entered in his file - Snezha was most dutiful - so whatever she had to share would be gossip and her impression of the patient. As much as Viola appreciated the nurse's judgement, Viola preferred to start such a visit tabula rasa. It helped with professional detachment.

She had a walk-in before Niklas, and it ran a bit behind, because Mrs. Buck, the mother of the local butcher, was an even worse chatterbox than her son.

Viola stepped out into the waiting room with Mrs. Buck's paperwork and handed it to Snezha. Niklas, who sat at a chair by the wall, idly leafing through a magazine, lifted his eyes at her, but didn't rise. His face was schooled in a derisive, haughty expression. Nana's words - 'It's like there is no Holyoake blood in him' - echoed in Viola's mind. She reminded herself it wasn't a social situation. He was a patient waiting for his appointment.

"Let me take you to the examination room," Snezha said, approaching him, and he rose.

And that's when Viola understood.

"It's alright, Snezha," she said with a calm smile. "I'll take Mr. Bjornsson in."

He walked by her, without looking at the nurse, and Viola saw Snezha make a tiny disgruntled grimace behind his back. When they entered the waiting room, she closed the door behind them, walked around, and stopped in front of him.

"Is it easier to stand or to sit?" she asked softly.

His mask dropped, and he gritted his teeth.

"Either," he said, his voice raspy. "Neither?" His face twisted in acute pain, just as Viola had guessed. "Can you do a physical if I lie down on the floor?" he asked in a feeble attempt of a sardonic joke.

"No, sorry," she said. "You need to sit on the cot. And I need to see your upper body, so we will need to take off your shirt. I assume you'd rather my nurse didn't see it, am I right?"

He nodded. She could see muscles dance on his jaw. He made two slow steps forward, and awkwardly climbed on the cot. Viola lowered it, he was after all almost as tall as Rhys.

Viola pulled her chair closer and picked up her tablet to make notes. After a few minutes she understood that she was dealing with an exceptionally depleted patient: his blood pressure was dangerously low, he was underweight, and his heart didn't sound well. He didn't seem malnourished so she assumed it wasn't the quality, but the quantity of food that had caused it, as well as the severe pain, which she needed to approach carefully, she knew.

"Alright, let's talk about your previous medical history," she said, opening the next file.

"Are you joking?" he said in an unpleasant voice, and Viola looked up at him from the screen.

"I assure you I'm utterly serious," she deadpanned. "You're here for a physical, and we need to discuss your past illnesses and injuries."

"Chicken pox at the age of five, and I've had my spine broken in three places. How's that for past injuries?" he hissed.

"That is not a medically valid diagnosis," Viola said in the same calm tone.

After her residency in the A&E with junkies, victims of gang shootings, and all sorts of 'interesting' patients - including one person who'd had their head stuck in a toilet bowl, which they wore as a bell jar helmet when they came in, on their own two feet, by the way - nothing could rattle her. And especially not a spoiled toff wanker who'd 'broken his spine in three places' driving his Ferrari into a tree.

"I have two thoracic spine fractures, with permanent mild nerve damage to T-2 and T-3 nerves, a lumbar spine sprain that didn't heal properly, and two herniated discs in my lower back," he answered in a monotone voice. "I can send you my paperwork and test results from five years ago."

"Five years ago?" Viola looked at him. "Do you have anything more recent?"

He shook his head.

"You've been living with damaged T-2 and T-3 nerves and herniated discs for five years," Viola repeated in shock. "How are you managing the pain?"

"Valiantly," he answered.

"What do you take?" she asked.

"Lagavulin mostly," he answered and smirked wryly. "Not recently, though. I can't afford the good stuff anymore."

"I do not mean your taste in whiskey, Niklas," Viola said. "What medication do you take?"

"Nurofen," he answered. "But fear not, I don't mix it with my whiskey. I'm weary of an upset stomach, you see."

"Do you expect me to believe that you manage the level of pain you're experiencing with simple painkillers?"

He jerked his shoulders, which she assumed was supposed to be a shrug, but would be too painful for him to execute.

"Niklas, I danced with you at the Festival," Viola reminded him. "And anything you share with me here would be confidential. So how about you tell me the truth?"

"I have a prescription for Zanaflex and Atasol-30 and a few other magical pills, so if needed, I can perk up for one evening," he said venomously. "On the other hand, I do not intend to develop a habit, so I do not take either of them regularly."

"Right," Viola said and made a note in her tablet. "How many servings of alcohol do you consume a week?"

"As many as I can get," he said with a chuckle. "Preferably enough so I don't have to stay conscious at all."

"Well, that explains your weight," Viola said. "But you still paint, so I assume you are awake occasionally."

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Who says I still paint?" he asked.

"The paint on your jeans," Viola answered and pointed at his denim with her pen. He looked aside glumly, and Viola put her tablet down. "Alright, let's get you out of your clothes," she said.

He chuckled dryly.

"Well, that's a sentence I haven't heard in years," he said, and gave her a taunting look. "Do you mind helping a cripple?"

Viola got up and picked up the hem of his jumper. Just as all his clothes she'd seen him in, it was too wide for him, and so was the tee underneath. She slowly took them off, letting him raise his arms at his own pace.

There was only one scar on his chest, jagged and wide, crossing his right pectoral muscle. His forearms, meanwhile, looked like Miss Rosa's raspberry scones drizzled with white chocolate. She counted more than a dozen on each arm, and for the first time she asked herself, what exactly had happened in that car accident that had turned the glorious Klaus Bjornsson, an athlete, a wickedly talented painter, and a playboy, in the broken man she saw in front of her, the very car accident, the consequences of which had gotten Sam's wife, Semra addicted to opiates - after having taken the life of her older sister, Caria.

There was another long scar - on his back, to the left of his spine. Viola didn't touch it cautious of allodynia. It was long, broader in the middle, as if left by a slim, foot wide object entering his body - which perhaps had been exactly what had happened.

"Are you taking your antidepressants?" Viola asked, knowing the answer.

"No," he said. "Not a fan of addictive substances, you know."

She turned away from him and took off her gloves. She heard a suppressed groan behind and looked over her shoulder. He was trying to pull on his tee, and she saw how ashen pale his face was.

"Let me help, please," she said, and he stopped jerking his arm in the sleeve.

Their eyes met, and after a few seconds, he finally slowly nodded. Viola straightened his top, avoiding touching him. She didn't put another pair of gloves, worried he'd change his mind and go back to inflicting this torture on himself.

"Islay whiskey is an addictive substance, Klaus," she said, stepping back from him.

He smirked lopsidedly.

"Well, you know, doc, I can quit anytime I want," he drew out sarcastically. "But why would I? It's not like I can go for a drive. They took away my license."

Viola sat back in her chair and gave him a pensive look over.

"Do you attend therapy?" she asked just as levelly, once again certain of his answer.

He didn't even deem it necessary to answer her and gave her 'why do you even ask?' look.

"So, you refuse the pain management protocol prescribed to you, you do not attend your therapy, or take your mood regulating medication," Viola said levelly. "Then why are you here, Klaus?"

Such sharp change in tone tended to startle uncooperative patients - and he was no exception. He dropped his eyes under her firm stare.

"I need a referral," he said. "I'd like to get an operation."

"A referral for an operation?"

He nodded. "It's been– challenging recently to–" He swallowed, and she saw him take a regulating slow breath. "To manage my pain. So, I came back to Fleckney, hoping my Uncle would– sponsor my operation."

"So, there's a specific surgeon you'd like to be referred to."

"Dr. Muriel Sinanan," he said quickly.

"I've heard of Dr. Sinanan," Viola said. "You do realise that to become her patient you would–" Viola started speaking softly.

"Five years ago she promised me she could fix me," he said and lifted feverishly burning eyes at her. "And yes, I am aware how much it'll cost." He chuckled in a hollow joyless manner, and his face once again distorted, this time in emotional distress. "Everything was arranged then. I had all my tests done, and she'd even talked us through the procedures. It looked like–" He stopped himself and shook his head. "But my circumstances changed, and I couldn't– The surgery had to be cancelled. I thought I could manage, but–"

Viola listened patiently, while thinking that there was a reason why patients with spinal cord injuries were strongly advised to get therapy and follow a carefully crafted plan for mental health support: Niklas was obviously unable to even try to talk about the pain and the fear he had to face every day. She assumed that over the past five years his mobility had been slowly diminishing, while the pain levels rose. She wondered if suicidal thoughts had started already - and whether they were the reason he was sitting in front of her right now. Something akin to admiration stirred in Viola. As headstrong and unreasonable as he was, she could see why he would refuse painkillers and mood regulators. After all, the second survivor of that crash was a vivid example of the danger those drugs presented. And she assumed it was his mental health slipping from under his control that had scared him into acting. Mable had been wrong: he was every bit a Holyoake.

"I'm going to need to get your bloodwork," Viola said. "And you need to start taking your medication. We could adjust your prescriptions according to your personal preferences. You also need to stop alcohol consumption completely, firstly, because it will be in conflict with your medication, and secondly, your diet needs to change. Currently you're in no state to be operated on," she added and gave him an expectant look.

"But will you get me the operation?" he asked forcefully, leaning forward, and jolting from the pain this unconscious movement had, no doubt, cost him.

"We need to make a recovery plan for you, and–"

He made an angry low noise in his throat.

"Viola, can we skip the bollocking?!" he barked. "Will you help me get my back fixed, or not?"

"I will help you get your back fixed," she said calmly. "But I'm not promising you a surgery with Dr. Sinanan. And an operation isn't your only solution. We just need to do more tests, and–"

He burst into bitter broken laughter.

"But of course! More tests! It will surely solve all my problems!" he jeered. "Let's take my blood, enough to feed a coven of vampires, and then stick me into an MRI machine, to once again see how my nerves are dying. And then I can go and talk about my feelings and my anxiety surrounding the fact that soon enough I'll need a wheelchair and I won't be able to piss without a catheter." He spat out a dirty swearing. "No, Dr. Holyoake, I thank you with all my heart, but I'm afraid I have to refuse. Get me the surgery," he gritted through his teeth, every word separate. "I know the risks. Trust me, dying on that table is the least of my fears. And look, I'm ready to do anything. I'm here, am I not? I came back to these bloody green and rolling hills. I attend bloody dances and have tea with old biddies. For the money I need for the surgery, I'll sell myself into my Uncle's lifelong slavery of giving tours, and smiling for selfies with tourists, standing near the bloody portrait of the first Bjornsson because I fucking look like him. Anything but this hell I live in right now! So, please, don't give me your trained bedside manner, and your professional compassionate tone, and the smooth promises of the 'better everyday life quality,' because I've heard all of this shite so many times! And I'm so fucking tired of it!"

A knock came to her door, and Snezha asked if Viola needed her. Klaus' roaring had clearly carried. After assuring the nurse she needed nothing, Viola looked at Klaus again. He was breathing laboriously, and sweat glistened on his forehead. Suddenly, Viola had a funny thought: she was lucky that previously she'd had dealings with the most difficult of the Holyoakes. Had she been married to, say, John, Klaus would seem intimidating, and his rage would make her invite Snezha in and hint to the nurse to call the police. Instead, all Viola felt was acute sympathy and compassion towards him - and a bit of irritation. Something told her there was a tinge of theatrics in Klaus' shouting. She didn't blame him, though. He was clearly prepared to do anything to get the treatment he thought he needed.

"Are you done?" she asked nonchalantly.

He closed his mouth and glared at her.

"You see, that's why you need to go to therapy," she said with her usual poker face. "Discussing and processing your anxiety, your fear of paralysis and death, as well as your mistrust towards medical specialists would prevent such outbursts. Instead, you're yelling at a village doctor who has neither the power, nor the necessary knowledge to 'fix your back.'" She gestured quotation marks in the air. "I'd save your well-written, thoroughly rehearsed, and masterfully delivered tragic monologue for an actual surgeon. As for me, I'm here to stop you from drinking yourself to an early grave, to get your weight back up, and to make sure you don't develop some long-term internal organ damage that would prevent you from having said surgery altogether. So, why don't you stop behaving in this uncivil manner and let me run my tests?"

They held eye contact for at least ten seconds, and he was the first to look away.

"What do I need to do?" he asked quietly.