Disclaimer: I don't own Les Miserables, only my original characters.

Chapter 10

Sophie rushed forward and fell to her knees. At first she thought her eyes had been deceiving her, but it really was him. She ran her hands over his face until she reached his neck. There it was; a steady pulse. She choked back a sob. He was alive.

She shook him slightly. "Antoine? Can you hear me?"

He showed no sign of having heard her, and her chest tightened. Alive he may be, but almost every inch of him was covered in blood and dirt, and she had no idea how extensive his injuries were. How he'd gotten there, she couldn't think about. A miracle, it seemed.

She sat back on her heels, hand on her forehead. "What do I do?" He was too heavy for her to lift up the stairs on her own, and there were more pressing matters. He needed a doctor, and quickly. Doctor Meyer! She'd get Doctor Meyer! Leaning over him, she pressed her lips against his. "I'll be right back, I'm getting help."

Rising, Sophie sprinted up the stairs, praying the doctor was home. She pounded frantically on the door, and when it finally opened she almost fell into the open doorway.

Docteur Meyer reached out to steady her. "Good Lord, Madame. What's happened? Are you injured?"

She shook her head vehemently. "It's my husband, please, I need your help. Come quickly!"

He followed her downstairs, and as she fell to her knees next to Enjolras, his jaw dropped. "Good Lord! We need to get him to a hospital."

"No!" She looked up at him, hands still on Enjolras' chest, barely containing her sobs. "Please, no. If you take him to a hospital they'll arrest him."

The doctor frowned. "Arrest him? What-" he trailed off. "He was in the uprising."

"Please help him. I can't live without my husband. Please!"

The doctor hesitated, then sprung into action. Bending down next to he felt around for injuries, and then looked at Sophie. "Help me lift him up, we'll take him to your flat."

Together they managed to lift Enjolras' lifeless body and carry him upstairs. They positioned him on the bed, and Sophie stepped back as Meyer started his examination. Lingering by the dresser, she wrung her hands. Minutes went by, the only sounds in the room the doctor's occasional mumbling and her own erratic breaths.

Finally, he turned to her. "Madame-"

She rushed forward to the bed. As she glanced down at Enjolras, bile rose in her throat. His bare chest was covered in crusty blood, and his right shoulder was swollen and bruised. There was a bullet hole on his left side, close to his ribs, where a steady stream of blood was running down his side. "Oh my god..."

Meyer cursed and pressed against the wound with his hand. "Focus, Madame. I need you to run to my flat, and get my medical bag. It's right by the door, you can't miss it. Go, now!"

Doing as she was told, Sophie was back in the flat not two minutes later. "Is this the one?"

He nodded. "Yes, perfect. Come, if we're going to save him I will need your help."

Her heart was racing as she knelt by the doctor's side, eyes not leaving Enjolras' unmoving body. His skin was pallid, but his chest was moving steadily up and down. She was barely aware of the tasks the doctor gave her, but she couldn't contain a cry when she saw another bullet hole, this time on his upper thigh.

It felt like hours before the doctor sat back and wiped his forehead. "I've no idea how this young man is still alive; the wound to his thigh should have killed him within the hour. He must have gotten some medical care prior to you finding him. Someone did a crude job of cleaning and binding these wounds, but they probably saved his life."

Sophie hesitated. "Will he live?" She was afraid of the answer, but to her relief, the doctor nodded.

"I believe so."

She collapsed on the floor, and could no longer hold back the tears. "He'll live?"

There was a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Madame, but he's still unstable. I'd prefer it if he went to the hospital, but I'll do my best to treat him here. Let us pray he makes it through the night."

She flinched as she watched him stitch up the laceration near Enjolras' hairline, but the patient made no protest other than a small groan. Wetting a cloth, Sophie set out to wash the dried blood off her husband's body, gently dabbing around the bandages.

"Is it a bad sign, that he hasn't woken up?" she asked as she ran her hand down the side of Enjolras' face. His skin was clammy and warm, and a sheen of sweat had broken out on his forehead.

"Not necessarily," the doctor said, wiping his hands on a piece of cloth. "As long as he's responsive and his condition doesn't worsen there is no need to worry just yet."

Looking down, Sophie noticed for the first time her hands and the front of her skirt were covered in blood. Her stomach turned, but she forced it down. "I should clean up."

Doctor Meyer stood to leave. "I'll give you some privacy."

"Thank you," she said, fighting tears. "Truly."

Looking back, Sophie had no recollection of how she got through those first few days after the barricades fell and Enjolras somehow ended up on her doorstep. He spent most of that time lingering on the edge of unconsciousness; drifting in and out of feverish dreams in which he called out the names of his friends and gave orders as if he was still on the barricade, and Sophie could do little but sit by his side and dab his hot forehead with damp cloths.

On the third night, Sophie dozed on and off on the chair next to the bed. The doctor had retreated to his own flat for the night, with instructions for Sophie to come get him if there was any change. She jerked awake and looking confusingly around the room. The first rays of the sun were filtering through the room, bathing everything in a soft light, something else had awoken her. Then she felt it; a soft but still there pressure on her hand. Looking up, she met Enjolras' blue eyes.

"Antoine!" she gasped and fell to her knees. She touched his face and felt relief that his skin was not longer burning with fever. His eyes drifted closed for a second at her touch. "Thank God," she breathed, pushing back against the urge to cry in relief.

He licked his dry lips. "Water," he croaked out and then winced, as if the word had caused him physical pain.

She helped him hold his head up and took the cup from the nightstand and held it up to his mouth. He drank deeply, then relaxed against the pillows. Looking around, his eyes settled on Sophie again. "Sophie," he whispered, voice rough.

Tears fell down her face, but she smiled through them as she kissed his hand. She heard the front door open but didn't look away.

Doctor Meyer appeared next to the bed. "Welcome back, Monsieur. You gave us quite a scare."

Enjolras looked from the doctor to Sophie, and wet his dry lips. "What am I doing here?"

Her brow furrowed, and she wiped away the tears. "What do you mean? You're in my flat, surely you recognise it?"

"I thought..." He shook his head slightly. "I thought I was dead."

Her stomach dropped, and she squeezed his hand. "No, no. You're alive."

"You've had quite a fever for the past days," the doctor said. "I shall need to examine you, to make sure your wounds are healing properly."

Giving his approval with a silent nod, Enjolras lay back as Meyer unwrapped the bandages and checked the wounds. He made no movement through the prodding, only flinched and clenched his jaw as pain coursed through him. Sophie held his hand tightly through this, as if needing to have a physical reminder that he was alright.

"Your wounds are healing nicely," the doctor finally said. "It's going to be a long road to recovery, but you're young and healthy and that is a good thing."

"Thank you, Doctor. From the bottom of my heart," Sophie said earnestly.

He smiled. "There is no need to thank me, Madame." Looking from Enjolras and then back to Sophie, he nodded slightly. "I'll give you two some privacy."

As the door closed, Enjolras spoke. "How did I get here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I came home, and you were laying in the entrance hall." She closed her eyes against the image of that day. Opening her eyes, a question formed which she didn't want to know the answer to, but had to know. That their revolution had failed she was aware of, but it didn't mean all was lost. "What about the others?"

His jaw tightened, and he swallowed hard. "Dead."

She gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth. "Everyone?"

"You should have let me die," he whispered and then turned his head away.

Choking back sobs, she exhaled shakily. She couldn't let herself grieve for the others, not now. Enjolras needed her. "You don't mean that," she said softly. Reaching out, she touched his uninjured shoulder gently. "Antoine, please."

He made no reply, and she didn't know if he was asleep or just faking. She sat for several minutes, giving him a chance to reply. When he didn't, she rose on shaky knees and left the flat. Stopping outside the door, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe calmly. Her chest was tight with unshed tears, and she bit her lip until it hurt. There was no sound from inside the apartment. After a minute or two, she pushed herself off the door and headed upstairs.

Doctor Meyer opened at the first knock. "Is everything all right?" he asked, looking worriedly at her.

"Yes. I need to go to Antoine's flat to collect some of his things. Could you stay with him while I'm gone? I don't think he should be alone."

"Of course."

Enjolras was asleep when she re-entered the flat, his breaths deep but harsh. She hated to leave him, but his clothes were bloody and ruined, and she doubted he'd want that reminder of what had been lost. There would be enough reminders, for all of them. She pressed a kiss to his forehead before grabbing her two valises and heading out. Once outside she blinked against the harsh sunlight. She hadn't left her flat in days, and the sounds of the bustling city were slightly startling. Walking quickly to Enjolras' flat, she banished all thoughts from her mind other than the task at hand. When she arrived, she let herself in with her passkey and stopped inside the door.

It had been barely a week since she'd been there, but it felt like years. Looking around, she started packing as much of his belongings as she could. As she started gathering his books, the grief she'd pushed back caught up with her. She sank down on the bed, fighting tears. Realising she was sitting on something hard, she reached down to grab the object. Pulling it out, she saw it was A Discourse on Inequality. The binding was cracked and worn, the crinkled pages telling of many readings by the owner. Sobs overtook her; tears blurring her vision and her chest tightening. A part of her had hoped her friends would escape the uprising unhurt and Enjolras' words, expected as they had been, had still come as a surprise. She could hardly believe they were gone. Witty Bahorel, the good-humoured Bossuet and Feuilly's dreams to deliver the world. Jehan's gentle soul and beautiful poetry, Grantaire's cynicism and Joly's kindness. Combeferre's wisdom and philosophical mindset, and Courfeyrac; always fierce and warm.

She sat on the bed sobbing until she felt like she would burst. Her throat was raw, her eyes were swollen and there was a great weight in her chest. Drying her tears, she made a decision to lock away her grief. Enjolras needed her to be strong, now that he wasn't. She took a fiacre back to her flat, ignoring the curious look the driver gave her dishevelled appearance.

When she entered, the doctor stood from his place by the bed to meet her by the door. Enjolras was still lying unmoving in bed, looking up at the ceiling.

"I'm concerned about his mental state," Meyer said, voice low. "The physical recovery is dependant on the patient's will to get better."

Sophie swallowed hard. "It's only been a few hours since he woke, perhaps he just needs some time? He's been through quite an ordeal."

He nodded. "Let us hope so."

She approached the bed, putting down the bags by the dresser. "I went by your flat and got as many of your things that I could fit. I wasn't able to get all your books though, but I'll try some other day to get the rest."

"Don't bother," he answered, still not looking at her.

Tears burned at the corner of her eyes. "Antoine, please."

He didn't answer, so she sighed and went back to where Doctor Meyer was still standing, watching them. She smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry."

"You have no reason to apologise," he said. "This is a lot for a young woman to take on by herself. Do you have any friends or family in the area who can assist you?"

There was a stab of pain in her stomach. "I lost a lot of friends in the uprising, and I have no family in the city." Then she gasped. "Oh my god, Musichetta! Doctor, I hate to ask, but I need to run out again. Do you mind staying? I won't be long."

"I don't mind at all. Take all the time you need," he reassured her.

She took care to splash some water on her face and re-pin her hair before leaving the flat again, and a wave of guilt rolled over her as she hurried down the stairs. She couldn't believe she'd forgotten about Musichetta for three days, but what was more worrisome was that she hadn't contacted Sophie either. Walking through the streets was peculiar; there were no signs of the uprising in this part of the city, people were going about their lives as they usually did and all businesses were open. It made her sad, but mostly it made her angry. The people had betrayed them when it mattered the most. Their blood was on the city's hands, on the hands of those who stood by and did nothing.

She knocked on Musichetta's door for several minutes, and the longer the door remained closed the more worried she became. She'd just decided to go down to the concierge's flat and ask for the spare passkey when she heard a noise from inside the flat. The door opened, and she gasped. Musichetta was pale with dark circles underneath her red and puffy eyes, her hair was unbound and unkempt and she was dressed in a stained morning dress with one of Joly's coats thrown on top. Without a word, she fell forwards into Sophie's arms and started sobbing.

Leading her friend inside the flat, Sophie was struck by the state of it. Both Musichetta and Joly were tidy people and their flat was always immaculate, but now it looked like it had been ransacked. Clothes and books were strewn all over, an overturned wine bottle was on the kitchen table and the shutters were closed, leaving the flat in only a dim light. Sitting down on the sofa, Musichetta wiped at her face with a sullied handkerchief.

"I can't believe they're gone," she sobbed.

Clasping her friend's hand, Sophie tried not to cry too. "We must be strong, Chetta. It's what they would have wanted."

"I just- I don't know what to do. How do we go on after something like this? They're all dead."

"Not Enjolras."

Musichetta looked up sharply. "What?"

"Enjolras is alive. I don't know how, but somehow he survived. He's in my flat, badly wounded, so I can't stay long." She spoke of it almost mechanically; the past days had taken such a toll on her emotional state that she was completely drained.

"Oh my god."

Sophie wrung her hands. "He only woke this morning. It's bad, but I think he'll make it."

Musichetta wrapped Joly's coat tighter around her. "Maybe more of them made it out? Maybe..." she trailed off, seeing Sophie's shaking head.

"Enjolras said no one else made it. I'm so sorry, Chetta."

Hiding her face in her hands, Musichetta started crying again. Sophie sat helplessly by her side, knowing there was nothing she could say that would offer her friend any comfort. Guilt welled up inside her. Musichetta was obviously in no condition to be alone, but neither was Enjolras. A while later, Sophie spoke.

"I can't leave you like this. Have you been to work at all in the past days?"

Shaking her head, Musichetta sniffed. "I suppose now Foulon has dismissed me for missing so many days, so what does it matter?"

"You should go back," Sophie prodded. "Locking yourself in here will do you no good. Foulon is a fair man, he'll understand the reason for your absence."

"What about you? You haven't been back either, have you?"

Sophie shook her head. "I can't. Enjolras is still unstable, I can't leave him for hours at a time. Doctor Meyer is with him now, but he needs to go back to the Necker soon. He's not doing well, and I..." she stopped herself. The tight ball in her chest in which she had locked away her tears threatened to spill open. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she forced it shut again. "If I lose him now, I will not survive."

Musichetta smiled sadly. "Go back to him. I'll be all right."

Sophie squeezed her friend's hand. "Come and visit me soon, my friend."

–

Despite the melancholia that settled over his mind, Enjolras physical state improved quickly. He resisted the recovery though and for each passing day he didn't rise from the bed, even though he probably could, Sophie became more worried. No amount of urging from her could get him up, and he rarely spoke. To see him like that, so unlike the fierce and passionate man she'd fallen in love with, was heartbreaking. She spent her nights on a pallet on the floor, trying to quench her sobs as not to disturb him.

One day almost two weeks after the uprising, Sophie had had enough. Enjolras was still in bed, staring sightlessly at the ceiling as he did on most days, and she'd just taken back his uneaten breakfast to the kitchen. Looking at the untouched food, something inside her snapped. Spinning around, she marched over to the bed.

"Antoine, you need to get up."

"Why?" his voice was low and rough with disuse.

"Because I'm asking you to. I'm your wife, and you made me a promise. Or have you forgotten that?"

He looked at her, but his eyes were dull and lifeless. He said nothing.

"Doctor Meyer said if you don't get up walking soon, you might not ever."

Still, there was no answer. Gripping her skirt, she decided on a different approach. Leaning over the bed, she grabbed his left hand and pulled. Automatically, he followed until he was sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His right arm was still tightly bound to his body in a sling, and his rumpled shirt was half open and showed the bandage that was wrapped around his torso.

She sank to her knees in front of him. "You have to try to get better. If not for yourself, then for me, or your friends. They would want you to get better."

His eyes flashed. Slowly and shakily he stood up, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the old Enjolras. "They're dead. You don't know what they'd want."

She stood as well. "They were my friends too!" The words echoed in the room.

His face darkened. "You blame me for their deaths?"

"Of course I don't! How can you even say that?" Stepping in close, she clasped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes even though they were watering with tears. The stubble on his cheeks was prickly against her hands. "Do you think a single man was on that barricade out of anything else but his own free will? They died for what they believed in." Tears blurred her vision. "I may have lost them, but I'll be damned if I lose you too."

"Maybe I should have been lost," he mumbled, and the words hit her like a ton of bricks.

"Is that what you wish for? That you would have died on the barricade?"

He pushed her hands away. "Don't you understand, Sophie, I was meant to die! I had accepted it, but life cheated me on my one wish."

She recoiled as though struck. "I need to go."

A wave of frustration rolled over Enjolras as the door slammed shut behind her. He sighed. He hadn't meant to lose his temper like that, nor say the things he did. It was difficult to now try to think of his life as anything else than wasted. The guilt consumed him, and seeing Sophie's weary eyes and hearing her sobs during the night only added to that. Still, he couldn't bring himself to reach out to her.

Taking a deep breath, he winched when the pain in side flared up. Sinking down on the bed, he prodded the wound slightly. His wounds were healing quickly, and soon he'd only have pale scars as a reminder of what almost had happened. The sling keeping his shoulder immobile was more of a hindrance than an aid, and with a frustrated sigh he flung it over his head and to the floor. He looked around the flat; for the first time in weeks noting the overflowing wardrobe and bookcase where his belongings were now sitting alongside hers, and the pallet where she spent her nights pushed up against the wall.

Closing his eyes, he could practically hear the cannons and the screams, smell the blood and the gunpowder. Most of the final attack and the time after he couldn't remember, and he hadn't decided yet if that was a good thing or not. It all seemed part of some feverish dream, and he couldn't distinguish what was real or not. There was only pain.

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