Soooo, while rereading la Brique, I realized that Victor Hugo (curse you for killing them all! *sob*) killed off all the Barricade Boys (ya know, with the exception of Marius)….EXCEPT JOLY. ALL THE OTHER DEATHS ARE DESCRIBED. AND ALL THE DEAD ARE MENTIONED. AND JOLY IS NOT AMONG THE DEAD. HE LIVED! THIS IS PROBABLY GOING TO HAVE MULTIPLE CHAPTERS ONCE I GET OFF MY BUTT AND START NOT BEING LAZY. SO, AS I AM LAZY, THIS WON'T BE QUICKLY UPDATED BECAUSE I AM NOT PREWRITING THE FIRST THIRD OF IT. I AM UPDATING AS I WRITE. SO BEWARE. PLEASE, PLEASE, COMMENTS, QUESTIONS, IDEAS, ANYTHING, IS APPRECIATED. AND I HOPE THIS LITTLE DISCOVERY MADE YOUR DAY THE WAY IT MADE MINE!

I yawned and sat up in bed, nearly forgetting the date. As soon as I remembered, my happy mood was spoiled. Of course. Today. The anniversary. June 6th, 1833. One year after the barricade. The sun streamed in the window, promising another warm, beautiful day like yesterday. I frowned. I didn't want it to be beautiful. It should be dark, dreary, cold, and most of all, unforgiving. Unforgiving. The word left me with a bad taste in my mouth, and as I went to the bathroom to inspect my tongue, I was struck with a memory of the people I had tried so hard to forget. Les Amis always used to make fun of me for being so afraid of illness sometimes, but they really hadn't understood how dangerous it really was. Like it mattered. In the end, it wasn't an illness that killed them all.

No! I tried to block the memories, but they always returned. Just outside of the Corinthe, a low wall of furniture, paving stones, and an omnibus. And about in particular, nine young men out of the thirty-odd people fighting for their future. I gave in and sighed. Jean Prouvaire, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bahorel, Marius Pontmercy, Feuilly, Grantaire, Bossuet, Enjolras. All of them- gone. Never again hear Courfeyrac lament about his newest grisette and how he misspelled her name, nor Prouvaire recite verse; never hear Pontmercy talk with wonder about Napoleon, nor Feuilly about Poland. Bahorel would never fight again, Combeferre would never read another book. Grantaire wouldn't become drunk and raving, and Enjolras would never talk again about the future they were going to create. And Bossuet…my best friend. He would have no bad luck, not where he was now.

I dressed in black and went downstairs, under my flat, to the place I called my office. I had finished medical school two months ago, and now was a practicing doctor. There was a sign outside my window, and as I went to flip it to ouvert, open, I paused. No. Let it stay closed.

I let it be and sat in a chair. I didn't know what to do. Suddenly, there was urgent knocking on the door. Walking over, I wondered who it could be. As I pulled the door open, a young blonde woman fell, breathless, over the threshold. She was quite pretty, but her face was tear-streaked and distraught.

I gestured for her sit, but she shook her head and, gasping, cried, "non! Monsieur, it's my husband… I don't know what's wrong with him! He is feverish, and raving mad!" At this she burst into fresh tears.

"Please, Monsieur, I know you aren't open, but…"

I nodded. She thanked me again and again, and rushed out the door. I followed her to the fiacre, which rumbled along until we got to a grand-looking house with the gate wide open. She urged me along, into the house. There I followed her up a large, wide staircase and into a bedroom. There was a figure lying prone on the bed and she rushed to its side.

"I've brought a doctor, oh, Marius! Please! You must get well!"

I stared in shock at the man lying on the bed. Marius Pontmercy. I didn't believe it. It must be another Marius, another man, different from the one who had saved us all on the barricade, only to die, a year ago.

I stepped closer, hardly daring to believe it. It was Marius. The same. He was shaking, and feverish, muttering under his breath the names that had haunted my nightmares.

"No! ...Eponine, no…Gavroche…stop! No! No! Stop! No!" Tears were rolling down his flushed face, and he moaned softly. I knelt by the head of the bed and shook his shoulder slightly. "Marius..." I said.

He awoke, saw me, and said hoarsely, "go away! You're all dead! Stop! Go away, Joly!"

The blonde, who I realized must have been Cosette, her eyes still swimming with tears, said, "he does that to everyone. He doesn't know who he is seeing. It was a year ago today, you know. When he…" her voice lowered almost conspiratorially, "went to the barricades."

I looked at her. "I know," I whispered, "I was there, too. I didn't know of anyone else surviving."

Cosette looked at me, shocked. I didn't wait for a reply but instead turned to Marius. "Can you bring me some cloth? And some water."

Cosette did so. While she was gone, Marius woke up again. He looked at me. "No! you aren't alive! Am I alive? I should be dead! No!"

I looked at him. "I am alive, Marius. Really. I don't think anyone else is, but I am."

He just frowned.

Cosette came back with the water and cloth. I told her to keep his face fool, so that the fever would break.

"Ah! Merci beaucoup, monsieur! Merci, merci!"

I nodded. As I did so, Marius again turned towards me, saying hoarsely, "do you ever feel like you shouldn't be alive, Joly? Do you? Because that's how I feel. We should have died a year ago."

I turned and nodded.