The marksman was clearly agitated, although the source of his stress was anyone's guess. It was also obvious that Athos had been having little luck calming the man and was grateful for the arrival of reinforcements.

"What 'appened?" Porthos asked, his shock at seeing his friend in such a state evident in his tone.

Athos spared a moment to throw him an exasperated look, indicating his own confusion with Aramis' behaviour as well as his frustration at having been unable to soothe the man. Porthos seemed to understand what the older man hadn't verbalized and muttered a soft "sorry" before carefully putting down the bottles he held and moving closer to the bed, his eyes now firmly fixed on his anxious friend's. "Aramis," the tone was one that might be used with a young, frightened child. "What's the matter?"

Aramis' eyes were wide and his pupils were blown, making his dark eyes seem almost black, and causing them stand out in sharp contrast to his overly pale face which was shiny with sweat. Porthos' voice seemed to draw his attention, and his gaze momentarily connected with his friend's before skittering away again as he shuddered. The larger man listened intently to the marksman's low mumbling, and watched the way his eyes danced across the floor that separated them before trying again. "What do you see, 'Mis?"

Again he was rewarded when the marksman's eyes moved in his direction, pausing in his unending stream of babble to say one word. "Ravens."

"What?" the question was blurted out and both Porthos and Athos sharply turned their heads in d'Artagnan's direction, the young man looking apologetic for interrupting their attempts to help their injured friend.

Despite the Gascon's unintentional outburst, Aramis turned his attention to the young man as his breathing quickened, softly saying, "They've finally come for me." He was quickly moving from fear to panic as he managed a few more words. "They like the eyes best." Aramis' hands came up to his head, fingers twining into the curls there as he collapsed to his knees atop Athos' bed, his eyes tightly closed as a low keening wail erupted from his chest.

Porthos wasted no time in covering the remaining space between them, seating himself on the mattress next to the distraught man and pulling Aramis close to his chest. As he held the marksman's gently swaying form, he looked up at Athos and mouthed "Savoy."

The older man scrubbed a hand across his face, momentarily relieved that they'd made some minor progress in calming their friend, but completely at a loss about what had prompted such an episode to begin with. "Savoy?" d'Artagnan repeated softly behind him, and he turned to face the Gascon, giving a quick shake of his head, fearful that repeating the name would trigger another extreme reaction.

Focusing once more on Porthos, Athos asked, "How is he?"

The large man seemed uncertain and unwilling to release his friend and disturb the fragile peace they'd achieved. Seeing Porthos' hesitation, Athos motioned with his head towards Aramis and communicated his intention to come closer, the larger man offering a small dip of his head in return. Taking a seat on Aramis' other side, the older man assured their friend. "It's just me, Aramis. You're fine."

When the marksman stayed calm, remaining pressed against Porthos' chest, Athos continued. "I'm just going to take a look at you, alright?" When Aramis didn't voice any protest, Athos moved a hand slowly to his friend's forehead, surprised at the cool, clammy skin he found there. Continuing his careful movements to avoid startling the man, he took Aramis' hand in his, pressing fingers to the marksman's wrist and frowning at the hammering beat he felt there.

At Porthos' questioning look, he murmured, "His heart is racing." Turning his attention back to Aramis, Athos noted the furrowed brow and he leaned closer and whispered, "Does your head hurt?" The marksman began to nod, halting the motion abruptly as his headache spiked and he whimpered with pain. Although the sound was quiet, the admission it represented sent a new jolt of worry through the men, the images of Aramis' most recent battle will illness still freshly etched in their minds.

d'Artagnan looked on helplessly as Athos tried to figure out what was wrong with their friend, and he watched as the two older men communicated silently and then worked together to remove Aramis' doublet and boots before gently laying him down on the bed. Porthos stayed seated on the edge of the mattress, a hand carding through the marksman's tangled curls, while Athos rose and moved to speak with the Gascon. "What happened?" the words escaped before the young man could stop them, his concern over the man's condition just as great as the others.

Athos gave a small shake of his head. "I've no idea. Did something happen today?"

"What?" d'Artagnan blurted in surprise before thinking back on their quiet day and replying. "No, nothing at all. We cleaned weapons, and then he rested in his room all afternoon while I was in the kitchen. He'd literally just finished eating when you arrived." Athos was listening intently to his words, but had still avoided answering his earlier question and d'Artagnan needed to know what had led up to the scene that they'd walked into earlier. "Athos, what about when we left to get the wine?"

Athos' mind retraced their steps, recalling the conversation they'd had and the times the marksman had stumbled. He'd sensed that Aramis was struggling as they'd ascended the stairs but had dismissed it as ongoing weakness from the man's most recent wound. They hadn't been in the room long before Aramis' eyes had begun to dart around the space and he'd dragged himself back to his feet, despite the fact that Athos was certain his friend didn't feel up to standing.

The older man had been able to ignore the strange behaviour for a few minutes until Aramis had begun to pace, his distressed state seeming to appear before his eyes. It was shortly afterwards that the mumbling began, which culminated in the marksman's uncoordinated leap onto Athos' bed. Porthos and d'Artagnan had arrived shortly afterwards to see the older man's unsuccessful attempts at reasoning with their friend.

Realizing d'Artagnan was still expectantly waiting, he gave a small shrug and said, "The further we walked, the more unsteady he seemed, and he became agitated soon after we arrived. He sat briefly and then began to pace before his ramblings began and he ended on top of my bed." Stroking his beard for a moment in contemplation he admitted, "I'm at a loss to explain his odd behaviour or what reminded him of Savoy."

Further conversation was cut short as Porthos joined them, his bloodshot eyes pinning them both with a hard look as he declared, "We can't leave him alone." d'Artagnan was already nodding in agreement that they would stay with Aramis before the larger man went on. "He needs to be kept safe."

Athos raised an eyebrow at the unusual comment and he questioned, "Safe from what?"

Porthos looked at him incredulously for a moment before he replied, "From those that mean him harm, of course." He began to pace slowly across the room while Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged puzzled looks, wondering if their friend was aware of some threat to the marksman's life.

"What do you mean, Porthos?" the Gascon asked. "Who wants to hurt him?"

The large man's pacing paused long enough for him to answer, "The ones that were followin' us, of course."

Athos looked to d'Artagnan for an explanation, but the young man had little to offer. "Porthos kept looking around when we were on our way here. I didn't see anything, but he seemed certain we were being followed."

The information only deepened Athos' frown as he tried to decide whether or not a real threat existed against them. Porthos was at the far end of the room now and he stopped abruptly, pulling the pistol from his belt as he pointed it at the door. "They found us!" he shouted, his cry followed moments later by the sound of a shot. Athos gasped and Porthos swayed, his spent pistol hanging loosely in his grip. Seconds passed in silence and then the large man crumpled, his body falling against the wall at his back as he slid bonelessly to the floor.

d'Artagnan was stunned and his head snapped to the still closed door before turning back in time to see Porthos collapse, but he still had no idea why the large man had fired. A low groan caught his attention and his head swivelled toward the sound, his eyes drawn to the stain of red that was spreading from underneath Athos' fingers where they were clasped around his upper arm. "Athos," he moved quickly to his mentor's side, the man's face already pale and pinched with pain.

"No," the older man tugged himself free from d'Artagnan's grip. "Check on Porthos." The Gascon was torn but the look on Athos' face brooked no argument, and he grudgingly moved to do as he'd been asked. Sinking down beside the large man, d'Artagnan plucked the pistol from his loose fingers where they wrapped around the stock. Placing it to one side, he noted the sheen of sweat covering their friend's face. "Is he alive?" Athos asked, the strain in his voice clearly telegraphing his discomfort.

Reaching a hand forward, d'Artagnan found the reassuring heartbeat at Porthos' neck, somewhat surprised at the speed at which the thrum underneath his fingers repeated. "It's really fast," he replied. Athos' head dropped to his chest in relief, another part of his brain already cataloging the fact that the two men's symptoms were eerily similar. The young man moved his hand to Porthos' head next, repeating his mentor's earlier actions with Aramis and discovering the same results. "Cool and clammy," he said, removing his hand. Porthos' eyes fluttered and d'Artagnan placed a hand on his friend's chest, hoping to both comfort him and keep him from turning violent again.

"Porthos, how are you feeling?" the Gascon asked worriedly.

The large man groaned, his lids rising only partway before he squinted in pain. "Head hurts," he managed before taking a steadying breath, "a lot."

"Can you stand?" d'Artagnan asked, hoping to get the man up off the floor and into a chair. Porthos merely moaned and let his eyes close in reply.

The Gascon turned to face Athos, looking to the older man for direction. "Get him a blanket and let him stretch out on the floor." The young man gave a quick nod of acknowledgement, pulling a blanket and pillow from the chest and making the large man as comfortable as possible.

"Now what?" he queried as he stood, eyeing the still-growing stain on Athos' arm.

The older man seemed distracted though, and not at all worried that he'd been shot. His gaze moved between the two sleeping men as he said to himself, "This is no coincidence."

With a huff of annoyance, d'Artagnan crossed the space between them and guided Athos to a chair, matching the older man's expression with a determined one of his own. "I need to check your arm," he said, waiting as Athos pulled his hand away and then allowed the Gascon to widen the hole in his sleeve. The ball had passed through the fleshy part on the inside of the man's upper arm and he silently said a prayer of thanks that he wouldn't have to dig around to retrieve it. "Needle and thread, and clean bandages?" d'Artagnan questioned, needing the supplies to properly care for the wound.

"Top drawer," Athos replied distractedly, still studying their two friends' sleeping forms.

While Athos removed his shirt, the Gascon retrieved the supplies and then used one of the newly purchased bottles of wine to thoroughly clean the entry and exit wounds, the older man grunting in discomfort but otherwise staying silent. Before the young man could pierce his mentor's skin to place the first stitch, Athos took the half-empty bottle from him and gulped down a large portion of it as he steeled himself for the unpleasant experience of having his wounds sewn closed. d'Artagnan absently took note of the older man's action before grabbing a hold of his arm and positioning it so he could begin. As he carefully pushed the needle into Athos' flesh, he asked, "What do you mean about this not being a coincidence?"

The older man bit down on a gasp of pain, letting out a slow, controlled breath as he kept his gaze fixed on a point beyond d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Don't you think it odd," he paused as the Gascon placed another stitch, "that both Porthos and Aramis are acting so strangely? Both of them seem to be seeing things that aren't there, they're unsteady, and both complained of headaches."

d'Artagnan frowned as he pulled the thread through Athos' skin, considering the logic of his friend's words. "So if not coincidence, then what?"

Athos gave a low grunt as another stitch was placed. "When you're done, I want you to go back to the garrison." He paused and bit his lip at the sharp pain of the needle's entry. "Update the Captain and find out if he's received any word of planned aggression against the regiment." Athos let out a long sigh as d'Artagnan tied off the last knot and cut the thread free, efficiently wiping the stitches with wine before covering them with clean linen.

As the Gascon cleaned up the supplies, he appraised his friend and asked, "And you?"

Athos gave him a tolerant look as he pointed out, "Clearly they're not in their right minds, and it would be remiss of us to leave them unattended."

d'Artagnan bit his lip as he observed the two men, both seemingly asleep, but already having proven they could be a danger to others as well as themselves. "Maybe I should stay," he began, unhappy at the prospect of leaving the older man alone with the two apparently ill Musketeers.

Before Athos could reply, Aramis began to moan and toss weakly on the bed, his head rolling from one side to the other as his breaths rapidly increased. As one, they moved toward the man, both wearing identical looks of worry and confusion. Moments later the marksman had managed to fling his face over the side of the bed, his upper body barely raised off the mattress as he began to vomit. Athos cursed softly under his breath as he sat down next to the ailing man, steadying him so that he didn't collapse onto the floor. "d'Artagnan," the older man barked, his attention focused solely on Aramis' weak heaving as his stomach continued to clench painfully.

The Gascon didn't need any further direction and he moved at once to bring over the chamber pot, positioning it underneath Aramis' mouth to catch the last remnants of his earlier meal. When it was clear that the marksman was finished, d'Artagnan deposited the soiled vessel outside, shaking his head sadly at the fact that his friend had been unable to keep down the first proper meal he'd eaten in weeks. Meanwhile, Athos had wet a cloth and was wiping Aramis' face, removing the sweat that had accumulated from the man's exertion.

The marksman looked terrible, his face even paler than before and his eyes closed tightly against the lingering pain of his illness, harsh breaths sawing loudly as he panted through his distress. d'Artagnan scrubbed a hand across his face as he was reminded of Athos' earlier words, wondering if there was a significant threat of which they were unaware, but that had targeted their two brothers. A look at the older man's face confirmed the fact that his thoughts were of a similar vein, and the young man sighed quietly as he resigned himself to the need to return to the garrison.

As he took a step toward the door, his movement was halted by a low groan from Porthos who was becoming restless. Exchanging a quick look of horror with Athos, d'Artagnan strode toward the larger man, seeing the signs in the nick of time and turning him so that he could be sick. With Athos at Aramis' side and the Gascon at Porthos', there was no one to get the chamber pot and d'Artagnan accepted the fact that they would have two pools of sickness to clean up. The large man's vomiting was just as intense and painful as the marksman's if the look of pain on his face was any indication.

Looking over at his mentor as he helped Porthos settle onto his back, d'Artagnan queried, "Now what?"

Athos' reply was interrupted by a knock on the door and he couldn't help but roll his eyes, wondering what more could possibly befall them. With a quick check of Aramis' condition, the older man stood up and answered the door, surprised to find Serge standing there, twisting his hat in his hands. At Athos' questioning eyebrow, the cook gave the Musketeer a short nod in greeting, scanning the rest of the room until his eyes landed on the Gascon.

Sensing Serge's intent, Athos stepped back and allowed the man to come in. His gaze fixed on the young man, the cook asked, "Aramis and Porthos, they been sick?"

"Yes," the older Musketeer replied, "and before that they seemed agitated, saw things that weren't there and complained of headaches."

Serge's face fell as he nodded, clearly having expected Athos' reply. "At the garrison too."

Still standing at the cook's side, Athos pressed, "Has the Captain sent orders?"

Serge shook his head slowly, "d'Artagnan, did you have any of the sauce you cooked tonight?"

The Gascon answered without thought, startled by the odd question, "No more than a couple tastes. Why do you ask?"

The cook didn't reply but turned his attention to Athos instead. "It was the nutmeg the boy used in the sauce. Too much can cause all of the symptoms you've described and sometimes even death."

Silence descended on the room like a thick cloak and several long seconds passed before Athos could drag his eyes away from Serge to focus on the Gascon. Wearing a stricken expression as he met the young man's gaze, he said, "d'Artagnan, what did you do?"

A/N: Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Many of you guessed correctly that d'Artagnan made a mistake with his secret ingredient. Although Bechamel sauce may contain nutmeg, the amount would obviously not be enough to produce the symptoms described here. I hope you'll forgive me for taking liberties with the recipe and twisting facts to suit my purposes.

Continued thanks to AZGirl for her beta skills. Thanks for reading!