A/N - Rating due to mentions of alcholism and violence and the inclusion of Aramis :P. No slash or profanity. I will try to be historically accurate (I'm studying history at university so I get a bit picky) but no promises. Enjoy!


It was strange d'Artagnan realised, to see Athos without the locket around his neck. For so long had the metal imprisoned his colleague with the guilt of past mistakes that it had become part of his image. Yet now, watching him sparring with Aramis, leather jacket cast aside in favour of freer movement, d'Artagnan finally understood what had been nagging at his mind every time he laid his gaze on the elder musketeer.

There was no denying that Athos had changed since casting off the chain and the demons that came with it. For one, d'Artagnan had heard him laugh for the first time and he wasn't alone, so shocked had Porthos been that Athos had won a lot of money off him that night. For another his drinking had dropped considerably. Ever one for extreme action Athos had decided to stop drinking alcohol altogether following the rescue of Constance, to clear his system as well as his head. What followed had not been pretty, but Athos looked much better for it and it had brought them all closer.

Every now and then d'Artagnan would glimpse Athos's hand coming up to grasp the necklace, perhaps out of habit, only for the searching fingers to close on thin air. He would watch the confusion, realisation and sorrow pass through his expression as the Comte de la Fère reappeared for the briefest of moments, a flash of a past life now cast aside in favour of a better future.

"I yield." D'Artagnan glanced up to see Athos holding his sword to the defeated Aramis's throat, a grin lighting up his face, the thrill of a win making him appear ten years younger as he released his prisoner and drew Aramis up with a laugh.

"One day soon you might even disarm me."

"I thought that would only happen in my dreams?" Aramis replied cheekily clapping Athos on the shoulder, forgetting momentarily the still healing wound although Athos barely flinched. Full of apologies Aramis began to fuss over Athos like a mother hen, a display that Porthos, perched next to d'Artagnan helping himself to what he called 'snacks for the show' found greatly amusing.

Athos finally fought his way out from under Aramis's attention and joined them at the table, pinching some mixed nuts from Porthos's plate.

"Seriously though, are you sure you're alright?" Porthos asked, his grin fading as he glimpsed Athos's too-pale expression.

"I'm fine Porthos," a raised eyebrow, "well, almost, but if you really want to help you can go and give Aramis a sound thrashing for me to keep him off my back for ten seconds."

"It would be my pleasure," and there was the other change. Where Athos used to lean on drink and memories, he now leant on his brothers in arms. At first it had been tentative. Porthos and Aramis were a tight-knit unit that d'Artagnan had merged into, but Athos, as the unofficial leader, had always been aloof.

It helped that they had seen Athos at his worst and held him in no less regard. The nights during which Athos had suffered through withdrawal had been awful. Haunted by nightmares and afflicted by fever they had helped him through, listening when needed, comforting when the tears wouldn't stop flowing.

How much, d'Artagnan had thought, has Athos gone through in his short life to deserve this? During the worst nightmares Aramis had resorted to sleeping next to Athos, protectively holding the older man in his arms as though his presence could frighten away the ghosts of Milady de Winter and his brother and indeed Athos slept better with one of them beside him.

D'Artagnan was ashamed to admit he hadn't realised the depths of the man's loneliness, but with his defences gone Athos, shyly at first as though scared of rejection, then with growing confidence and need reached out for their presence like a man drowning.

Whilst Aramis was the champion comforter, Porthos, it had turned out, was an amazing cook. When Athos couldn't keep anything else down Porthos had turned chef and come up with some creations that were both soothing and filling. D'Artagnan on the other hand, was the one Athos confided in, much to his own surprise, being the youngest and least world-weary of the group. He had been taking his night shift, sat beside Athos who had subconsciously turned towards him in sleep, back against the headboard and book in hand when Athos had first spoken to him in search of answers.

"D'Artagnan?"

"Yes?" d'Artagnan laid the book aside, one hand coming to rest gently on Athos's arm, ready to move at a moment's notice should nausea overcome his companion.

"Do you think I'm a bad person?" the question came after a long embarassed pause, quiet and uncertain.

"Far from it, you're the best man I know," d'Artagnan paused, throwing wry smile at his elder, "present company excluded of course."

Athos chuckled wearily at the joke but his face turned serious again, unguarded as he was, d'Artagnan could see for the first time the extent of Athos's self-recrimination and doubt and all thoughts of jest fled from him.

"I mean it Athos," d'Artagnan declared, gripping his hands for emphasis, "you protect headstrong young Gascons who turn up and try to kill you and see the potential for good in everyone, even beggars in the Court of Miracles. I couldn't ask for a better or more loyal companion and absolutely nothing you are about to say will convince me otherwise. You've suffered enough Athos, I think it's time you let it all out and accept the help of the men who think of you as your brothers," a pointed look at the snoozing Porthos and Aramis, "and this man who loves you as a son would his father."

Athos was crying by the end of the speech and over the course of the night haltingly told d'Artagnan everything about the events surrounding his wife and brother. By dawn the man, all tears spent, had fallen into an exhausted sleep but the weight that had burdened his shoulders had been lifted.

When Athos had finally awoken with clear eyes and steady hands he had thrown himself back into Musketeering work as quickly as he could, although thankfully nowhere near as recklessly as he had done in the past.

He did, however, try to withdraw back into his shell. Happily, Porthos and Aramis agreed with d'Artagnan that they wouldn't ever let Athos feel unloved again, so they dragged him metaphorically kicking and screaming into social activities and cosy evenings in until they were sure Athos was acutely aware of his own worth.

Yet despite all this, some long lost fear still seemed to cling to Athos like a shroud that descended on his bad nights. It was these nights that Athos seemed to withdraw into himself, a depression fell over him face and manner and often he would be drawn to the bottle, although never as much as before, because now he was also drawn to them, to their embraces and distractions.

Every man, d'Artagnan supposed, had secrets and he was content to let it lie. Unfortunately Athos's past wasn't done with him and the musketeers found out what was preying on his mind far earlier than they would have done if it had not been for the arrival of a letter from Planchet, the man Athos had left in charge of his estates. It had taken three words for Athos's world to fall down.

Marie is alive.

Thinking back after the chaos those words had brought into their lives d'Artagnan wondered why it had never occurred to him that the ruined portrait in Athos's grand and abandoned manor might not be of his wife.