Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine, I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

Notes: This is my first fanfic for three years, and my first ever Musketeers story. Feedback would be very welcome.

Summary: Even in the blackest hour, you can get by with a little help from your friends.

With a Little Help...

It was a beautiful summer's night. Stars shone out of a black velvet sky like tiny chips of diamond, the smell of jasmine wafted in the warm breeze and somewhere in the trees an owl hooted lazily. In the stables, the horses whickered to themselves, all fed, watered and content. If ever the garrison could be said to be idyllic, this was it, and yet he felt none of it.

Stumbling slightly over the cobbles, Athos clutched the bottle tightly in his hands, not wanting to spill a precious drop of the wine that had become his only salvation. Around him, the garrison slept, very deeply if the resonating snores that could only be coming from Porthos were anything to go by. In these early hours, he did not have to pretend to be in control, he could finally let go, and let the black feelings that sat on his shoulder all day finally have their say. He looked up at the wooden stairs that would lead him up to his room and finally to bed, but realised that in the state he was in, he stood no chance of making it that far. Instead, he sat down on the steps, taking another swig from his bottle, and leaned his head against the wall. Who needed a bed anyway?

They didn't understand, his friends, even though they said they did. He had no doubt that they meant well, trying to make him feel better, not knowing that their platitudes only made his guilt feel even worse. How could he ever explain what he felt? If they truly knew the depth of his despair they would walk away, know that he was unreliable, and at worse, pity him. He could not have that. From the moment he had been born, his fate had been sealed – one day he would be the Comte de Ferre ,govern his people as his father, grandfather and others had done for generations before him, firm but fair, never harsh and never cruel. It would not have been a bad life, a marriage to Catherine, hopefully blessed with children, never freedom to live as he wished, but not a harsh prison. He and Thomas had spent their boyhood together, as most brothers did, fighting, playing, scraping their knees and bloodying their noses, either thick as thieves or bitter enemies as only brothers could be. Catherine too had been there, one of the constants in his life, she could shoot an arrow better than either he or Thomas, and ride a horse as if she had been born in the saddle. It seemed only natural that she would become betrothed to him, an alliance between their two houses, but one forged in friendship and respect that one day would become love.

Then She had come into his life, with her dark hair and flashing eyes, her spirit as unpredictable and fascinating as an unbroken horse. And he had wanted her, wanted to feel his fingers on her milk white skin, feel her breath on his face, and take her body in his arms. He could think of nothing else but Her. He knew he had become obsessed, that everything else had begun to fall by the wayside, but he did not care. She was the drug that his body craved. Catherine's feelings hadn't even crossed his mind, so enraptured had he been. She was quietly betrothed to Thomas instead, something that Thomas hadn't minded, he had always loved her anyway, resigned though that his brother would have the pick of a good marriage. For him, things had appeared to be looking up. No one had asked for Catherine's view, it simply wasn't thought necessary and that shamed him. Then, that fateful day, when he had come in to Catherine's screams, seen Her standing over Thomas's lifeless body, the knife bloody in her hands. From that moment, he had ceased to exist, his life, what it was, what it had been destined to be, vanished. It was as if his soul had been frozen, caught forever in that moment. When he had watched her hang, he had felt nothing, he had no emotion left, a hollow man, worthless, no use to anyone. Nothing that had happened since had changed that feeling.

He had excelled himself as a Musketeer, he knew how to fight, how to kill, and how to inspire others, but it was just going through the motions. Every time he fought, he hoped against hope that he would die, that he could leave this life behind, but someone somewhere had a sense of humour and he stayed alive. The friends he made in the garrison were the nearest thing he would get now to family, but they could never truly know what went on in his heart. He took another drink - in vino veritas.

His drink addled brain became aware of footsteps behind him on the stair, and for a moment he hoped he would feel the cold steel of an assassin's blade against his throat. Instead a familiar voice whispered: 'Athos, are you alright?'

'Go away D'Artagnan.' He mumbled, half to himself, trying to disappear into the shadows. D'Artagnan could not believe the state his friend was in, obviously drunk, he was dishevelled, dark shadows around his eyes, his voice thick with emotion. They all knew about Athos' dark moods, the times that he left the garrison to wander alone, to drink himself into oblivion, but he had hoped that after their trip to Pinon that things would get better. For a time it seemed that they had, but D'Artagnan knew that Milady De Winter's return to his life had affected his friend in a deeper way than he would ever admit in the sober light of day. He sat down next to his friend, placing a comforting arm around the older man's shoulder, pleased when Athos didn't shrug it off.

'Tell me what's making you like this. We're all worried.'

'I don't need your concern D'Artagnan. Save your energy for someone who deserves it.' D'Artagnan didn't know whether he wanted to hug his friend to show him how much he did deserve it, or shake him until his teeth rattled and snap him out of his self pity. He settled for gently taking the bottle away, and tipping the wine on the ground.

'You won't find what you need at the bottom of a bottle.'

'I can't find it anywhere.' Athos closed his eyes. Then, somehow the dam burst, and the words came tumbling out, falling over themselves, almost incoherent, desperate to be heard 'Sometimes I think I have, and then She's there again. I should hate her D'Artgagnan , for all that she is and all that she's done, but I cannot. When she is gone, I want, I need to see her again, but when she is here I can't bear to look at her.' He rammed his finger into his hair, unable to deal with his own frustration. 'I am losing my mind.'

'Athos, I can't imagine what you've gone through,' D'Artagnan said softly, wishing he could take away his friends' despair, 'But this has to stop. Drinking yourself into a stupor is the coward's way out.'

'Are you calling me a coward?' Athos swung round, and D'Artagnan thought he was going to try and throw a punch at him. He would have probably missed by miles, but he still didn't want to put it to the test.

'Of course not, you are the bravest person I know. But you're the only one who can change this situation. Don't forget I know how manipulative Milady can be. If she thought you were in this mess, she would feel nothing but pleasure.' Athos fixed him with a confused gaze, as he tried to process the words.

'I told you, I am an idiot.' But his tone was lighter, less self condemnatory than it had been. D'Artagnan hoped, somehow, that his words had seeped through.

'You need to sleep.' D'Artagnan stood up, holding out his hand to help Athos to his feet. 'Let's get you to bed.'

'You are a good man D'Artagnan.'

'I've had a good teacher.'

Sometime later, the barracks was quiet once again. Athos lay in his bunk, eyes closed, and oblivious. He had almost been asleep on his feet as D'Artagnan had steered him into his room, and eased his boots off. Now, the younger man was sitting uncomfortably in a rickety wooded chair listening to his friend breathe, wondering what, if anything he would remember in the morning. Out of all of them, Athos felt the most and showed the least, and if he needed to be shielded from the force of his own emotions, then D'Artagnan would be happy to cast himself in the role of protector. There was nothing he would not do for his friend.

Behind him, the door creaked open, and Aramis and Porthos stood, silhouetted in the moonlight.

'He's sleeping' D'Artagnan whispered, clambering to his feet.

'Good lad,' Porthos' whisper was almost a shout, as he clapped a huge hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. 'I'm glad you sorted him out. All that pretend snoring has made my throat sore.'

'It hasn't made you any quieter.' Aramis smiled, checking on Athos' sleeping form. 'I wouldn't like to have his headache when he wakes up.'

'Will he be all right now?' Aramis shook his head.

'Athos has always had these episodes, but he'll know now that he does not have to go through them alone. You were a good friend to him tonight D'Artagnan.' Aramis led the others from the room, closing the door quietly behind them. In his bunk, Athos opened his eyes. He knew that he could not stop the moods that overwhelmed him, but he could fight them, and that his friends would always be at his side in the battle

The End