Alexandre Dumas and the BBC own the Musketeers, I'm just borrowing them.

Chapter Two

Pain. That was the first thing that registered in d'Artagnan's mind as he began to rise from his unconscious state. Everything hurt. He tried to remember what had happened to him but all that would come to mind were staggered images of fists and boots pounding at him from all angles. Slowly, the young man became aware of hands on him and he began to panic, fearing his assailants had returned. The boy began to thrash around, as much as his weakened state would allow, determined not to give in to his attackers. Quickly, two hands turned to six as somebody gently held his legs still and another pair of hands grasped his wrists, carefully pressing them to his chest. The last pair of hands found their way to his hair, fingers running through the sweaty locks as calm words began to break into his semi-conscious mind.

"-ok, boy, you're going to be ok. Just calm down. You are safe now." Vaguely, d'Artagnan registered somebody speaking to him. Just who the voice belonged to, his muddled mind could not comprehend. Still, he knew that it was the voice of someone he could trust, and the young man took comfort in that as he drifted back into the depths of unconsciousness.

The three friends relaxed their grip on the Gascon slightly as he calmed with Athos' words and fell back into unconsciousness. Aramis took a calming breath before launching back into his work.

"I need you to grab those cloths and the warm water," Aramis addressed his friends. "Start cleaning him up. We need to make sure we find all his injuries. I'm going to start stitching the wound in his stomach." After carefully washing the wound with alcohol he had found amongst the other medical supplies, Aramis carefully but deftly began to stitch closed the hole in d'Artagnan's side. As soon as he was done there, the sharpshooter-turned-surgeon moved across to the gunshot wound in the boy's thigh before tending to the cut to his chest and the still weeping head wounds. By the time he was able to put down his needle and thread, Athos and Porthos had finished cleaning the mud and blood from the rest of their friend's body. Having found no new injuries in need of stitching, Aramis announced that it was time to put the lad's shoulder back into place.

"Porthos, can you sit him up and hold him from behind. Athos, I need you to hold his legs still, just in case he wakes up. I don't want him ripping any of his stitches. This is going to hurt."

As the three friends moved into position, d'Artagnan stirred slightly, a weak groan escaping his lips. Aramis sent up a quick prayer that the poor boy would stay unconscious for this, but it was not to be. As the medic took hold of his arm and began to move it into position, d'Artagnan's eyes flickered open. Feeling the pain in his arm intensify as Aramis readied to push it back into its socket, the boy began to struggle; attempting to move away from the source of his discomfort.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said as he quickly moved the limb back into place. D'Artagnan's strangled cry of pain before he promptly passed out again brought tears to the eyes of the men who had adopted him into their little family. Silently, Aramis reached for bandages and ointment to bind the boy's arm in place and wrap his other injuries after covering the broken sections of skin with the cream to try and prevent infection. He also made sure to tightly wrap the injured knee and sprained wrist and ankle after caring for the rope burns on the boy's arms. Eventually he was done and all three of the musketeers slumped visibly with exhaustion. The sun was now filtering through the clouds outside, filling the room with dull light and Athos guessed they had been at work for a good few hours. Looking at his three comrades, he took charge.

"Porthos, help me move d'Artagnan over to the bed. Then I want you to help Aramis get cleaned up and make sure he eats something." Porthos did as he was asked, carefully cradling the boy, who despite their best efforts to feed him up, was still far too light, in his arms and moved him across to the bed at the other end of the room. He placed him gently on the mattress as Athos arranged the pillows and sheets around him.

Although Porthos had no desire to leave d'Artagnan's side, one look at Aramis had him moving to do as their leader had asked. The Spaniard was slumped on the stool where he had collapsed soon after tying off the last of the bandages. He looked pale and drawn after the hours of work and was staring down at his hands in his lap, still stained with their young friend's blood.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Porthos said quietly as he wrapped his hand around Aramis' upper arm, gently pulling him to his feet. The two men left after one final glance back to where Athos sat, running a cool cloth over d'Artagnan's neck and forehead. The boy hadn't developed a fever as such, but he was slightly warm to the touch and the older man hoped to fend off the heat before it truly took hold. Knowing that Aramis believed the boy to have a concussion, Athos decided to try waking him, afraid that if he slept too long he may not wake up. Refreshing the towel in his hand, the senior musketeer wiped his friend's brow while speaking to him quietly. Gradually, d'Artagnan began to stir.

"That's it, boy. Open your eyes." Athos continued to talk to him as he slowly blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light in the room.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan's voice was little more than a whisper, but Athos heard it none the less. He put his hand on the back of the boy's neck and eased his head up, bringing a cup of water to his lips.

"Drink slowly, d'Artagnan." Once the boy had taken a few tentative sips, Athos laid him back down. It was then that Aramis and Porthos returned to the room. Upon seeing his patient awake, Aramis smiled.

"You gave us quite a fright," Aramis said, mostly to distract the boy while he checked on his wounds.

"Where am I?" d'Artagnan asked quietly, eyes watching Aramis as he worked.

"Thought you'd recognise the infirmary by now," Porthos chuckled quietly as he sat on the other side of the bed. "You certainly wind up here often enough. Though usually not with such serious and unexplained injuries. What happened, lad?"

Before they could get a response out of him, the boy had fallen back to sleep. Porthos frowned and seemed about to wake him again before Aramis stopped him.

"Let him sleep for a couple more hours before we wake him again," the medic said. "He seemed alert enough but I still would like to wake him regularly for a while to make sure those head injuries didn't do any unseen damage."

Everyone was quiet for a moment before Athos shifted to stand. "The two of you stay with him. I'm going to talk to the Captain. See if he has any new information on what happened to our young friend."

With that, Athos left and Porthos and Aramis settled in to watch over their little brother.