A/N: This brings us to the end of our story. Leave a review if you enjoyed it or have suggestions

Dr Clarkson strolled up the sloping lawn to Whitby Manor, enjoying the view of the well kept grounds and the crunch of the raked gravel beneath his feet. He was soaking up the calmness of the natural world in preparation for what he felt sure would be an unpleasant interview.

When he reached the front entrance he was greeted cordially by Lord Whitby, who seemed surprised to see him in Thomas's stead. John calmly delivered the agreed upon lie and he could see Lord Whitby did not question it. Somehow he suspected his patient would be more shrewd. He was not disabused of this theory on his first meeting with the Duke.

"I suppose Thomas sent you," were the first words out of his grace's mouth.

"Thomas is ill with a slight cold," John answered stiffly, "if he infects you, you could develop double pneumonia, which would weaken your chance of survival".

"Indeed," the Duke said in a voice that suggested boredom.

"After your behaviour to Thomas, you should consider yourself lucky he still cares enough about your survival to take measures against your infection," Clarkson could not help saying as he proceeded to examine his unpleasant patient.

"Thomas never did answer my question yesterday," the Duke drawled. "I suppose he told you about it. That must be why you're here. I made him uncomfortable, I fear. But perhaps you can answer it for me?" the Duke spoke as if commenting on the weather at a dinner party.

Clarkson paused in his examination and looked the noble man in the eye. "You're recovering your health rapidly," he told him, "and I'm going to do my best to speed the process along. The sooner you're healthy, the sooner you'll no longer be my patient".

"And I thought we were having an amiable conversation," it seemed the Duke used sarcasm liberally when it suited him.

"I look forward to the day when you're no longer my patient," Dr Clarkson reiterated. With that he walked smartly out of the room, swinging his medical bag.

When Clarkson arrived to check up on his patient a week later, he was asked up into the tea room by one of Lord Whitby's daughter's. There he found Lord and Lady Whitby taking tea with the Duke who had regained colour, health and animation.

"You seem to have made a full recovery," Dr Clarkson commented pleasantly, accepting a cup of tea from a footman by the door.

"Indeed," his grace answered. "I feel quite as though I were never ill"

"I suppose this means you're no longer my patient," Clarkson observed.

The Duke gave a wry grin. "I suppose not," he said with his habitual smirk.

"I'm glad," John said, replacing his tea on the footman's tray. "For if you were, this would be rather unethical". With that, John stepped forward suddenly and threw a well aimed punch. He grunted with satisfaction as his swing connected with flesh and when he withdrew he was pleased to see the Duke on the floor with a bloody nose.

The shocked silence that followed was broken only by the shattering sound Lady Whitby's teacup made when hitting the ground. She had allowed it to slip through her fingers in shock. It appeared John's unexpected action had caused her to have an attack of the vapours. Lucky he was a doctor.

A few hours later Thomas was speaking to a constable at Whitby's only jail. "I'm terribly sorry about this," he apologised. "Since the war you see, he's had a few funny turns. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally he'll hear a sound or see a certain colour and think he's back on the lines. I'd be very grateful if you didn't press charges". Thomas felt a little guilty about using the effects of the war as a scapegoat for bad behaviour, as he knew they were all too real. But surely whatever good could come out of such a tragedy should be utilised?

The constable nodded understandingly. "My son came back from the trenches not quite whole," he said with tears in his eyes that pricked at Thomas's conscience. Without further question he released Dr Clarkson back into society.

As they walked back to the small cottage they shared, Thomas glared at John from the corner of his eye. He had his head down and his hands shoved into his pockets, a sign he was angry. "You don't have to go around defending my honour like I'm some virgin lass," he scolded.

"Admit it," John Clarkson said in an uncharacteristically cocky voice, "you're a little turned on".

Thomas continued walking as he had before, but John swore he could detect a slight blush. John grinned to himself. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.