Aramis was stunned as d'Artagnan collapsed unconscious across his bed; no one had any idea the Gascon was even sick. The medic fought the dizziness and nausea washing over him as he threw his legs over the edge of the cot to stand; he stopped short as he nearly pitched forward to the floor.
"What do you think you are doing, eh?" Porthos cracked. The large Musketeer glared at Aramis as he squatted beside the Gascon, still slumped over the bed. "You can't get ou' of bed, you're not well enough yet."
"Porthos, d'Artagnan is sick, I can manage sitting in a chair so he can have the bed," Aramis argued. "We have to take care of d'Artagnan now; I'll be alright."
"Rubbish," Porthos protested. "I'll go get another cot so you can lie down. If you start wearin' yourself out by gettin' up too soon, you'll be sick again in no time. You are not well enough to take care of yourself—let alone the pup—I ca' handle this."
"Porthos. . ." Aramis stood to protest but a wave of dizziness toppled him sideways onto the bed, landing beside d'Artagnan.
"Stay put dammit, 'Mis!" Porthos growled. He looked around the room to see where he could place the extra cot.
"Porthos, just let him lie here on the bed with me," Aramis sighed. "There's plenty of room and I don't mind sharing."
"I don't know if that's such a good idea." Porthos shook his head against the suggestion. "What are you going to do when he starts vomiting," Porthos paused as he thought. "Can you get sick again?"
"I don't think I can get sick again. . . catarrh is already in me," Aramis countered. "Besides, I don't mind taking care of him; he took pretty good care of me when I was sick." The medic smoothed hair away from the Gascon's fevered brow.
"Alright, but if I see you startin' to get sick again, I'm gettin' another cot and you are moving!" Porthos ordered.
"Fine," Aramis said as Porthos laid the Gascon down on the bed beside his new bunk mate. The medic moved to the edge of the bunk as far as he could go up against the wall; he lay on his side to give d'Artagnan plenty of room.
"Are you sure there's enough room, 'Mis?" Porthos asked as he watched Aramis scrunch himself against the wall.
"Yes, there's plenty of room for the both of us." Aramis let his head drop back down on the pillow and closed his eyes. He reached an arm over the Gascon's chest and watched him sleep until he could no longer hold his eyes open. Only then did he allow himself to finally drift off to sleep.
~§~
Aramis was awakened by the sound of coughing next to him on the bunk. The harsh coughs wracked the body of the Gascon as he tried to catch his breath—to no avail. D'Artagnan turned onto his side with dread as he felt the bile begin to rise.
D'Artagnan vomited over the edge of the bed, the contents sent splashing across the floor. He heaved up liquid and bile again and again; his stomach tormented him with furious savagery.
"God. . . it hurts!" D'Artagnan pounded the bed frame with his fist, fighting against the pain. His aching muscles twisted in agony as dry heaves tortured his body and robbed him of his breath. When the retching stopped, he was left depleted and weak. He spit the sourness from his mouth and fell back against the pillow, panting and soaked with sweat.
Porthos swabbed the Gascon's face with a cool cloth while tenderly moving the clumps of wet hair from his fevered skin. "Take it easy, pup. You're gonna be alright."
"I know it hurts, d'Artagnan, believe me." Aramis rubbed soothing circles on the Gascon's chest. "Don't fight the pain, flow with it," the medic advised. "Breathe through the pain—it seems to help. I know it sounds easier said than done, but I've been through this; if I can beat catarrh, you can too."
"No. . . you are s-stronger than m-me, Aramis," d'Artagnan shivered. "You've always b-been stronger than me. You s-seem to handle everyth'ng life throws at you wi-with such gr-grace. . . I'm n-not like you." The young Gascon gasped as another wave of pain coursed through his middle. "Damn. . ."
"What are you talking about, d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked softly. "You're right about not being like me; you're better than me. Remember what you said when you first came storming into the garrison looking for Athos?"
D'Artagnan nodded slowly, letting out a slight huff of amusement.
"You said, 'prepare to fight, one of us dies here.'" Aramis remembered the moment with a smile.
"And you said to m-me, 'now, that's the w-way to make an en-entrance."
"That's right," Aramis nodded. "You stormed your way into the garrison and you stormed your way into our friendship—and into our hearts—with your boldness and tenacity. You're not weak, d'Artagnan—far from it. You are strong enough to beat this and I'm going to help you, I promise."
"I promise too," Porthos interjected as he put aside the bowl of water.
~§~
D'Artagnan awoke with a constricting pain in his chest. He panicked as he tried to draw breath but found his lungs too heavy and sluggish; he felt as though he was suffocating. He writhed as pain shot through his middle like he had been stabbed, adding to the misery in his chest. " Ar'mis. . ." he gasped.
"I'm here, d'Artagnan, breathe with me." Aramis turned the Gascon's chin toward him as he leaned on his elbow. "Breathe in slowly. . . breathe out. . . breathe in. . . and out." The medic breathed with d'Artagnan until the young man was wracked with another fit of harsh coughing that put him right back where he started—unable to breathe.
D'Artagnan distantly felt himself being lifted then draped over someone as large hands began pounding on his back. "Breathe, dammit!" Porthos growled as he pounded on the young man's back with the ball of his fist.
D'Artagnan fought, writhing and struggling to breathe. The burning in his chest sucked the air from his lungs until there was nothing left but the sweet approaching darkness.
"Don't you dare pass out. . . don't you do it, dammit!" Porthos gave one last hard smack on the back, freeing the congestion from the Gascon's lungs. The sputum came up, dribbling in slow strands from his mouth. "Spit, d'Artagnan," Porthos ordered. "Spit it out; I'll clean it up later."
The young Gascon spit then finally drew in a gulp of air; he wheezed and gasped, trying desperately to fill his lungs and breathe again. "God, please help. . ."
"Shh, don't try to talk, pup." Porthos' large hands turned from a fist to rubbing circles with the palm of his hand. He massaged with calming and relaxing circles over the tense muscles on the young man's back, trying to smooth out the knots. The large Musketeer watched with satisfaction as d'Artagnan visibly relaxed and began breathing normally.
A soft knock at the door made Porthos raise his head up, his concentration on the patient across his lap broken by the interruption. "Come in," he called.
Cécile poked her head into the room and stopped short at the sight of d'Artagnan draped across Porthos' lap, the Gascon's face still darkly colored from his struggle to breathe. "Oh dear Lord," the nurse gasped. "How long has d'Artagnan been sick? Porthos, why didn't you come get me? You don't have to take care of everyone by yourself!"
"I'm not by myself," Porthos smiled. "'Mis is helpin' some too." The large Musketeer motioned to the bed where Aramis was sitting up on the edge of the bed.
"Aramis!" Cécile exclaimed happily as she opened the door wide enough to spot him. "You are looking so much better than when I last saw you. How are you feeling?"
"Better, but still tired," Aramis answered honestly. "D'Artagnan is the one to be concerned about now—and Athos, of course. I'll be alright."
"Things are beginning to look up in the infirmary with the perfect mixture of herbs to combat the fever. We also found—through trial and error—that we have been treating the patients all wrong!" Cécile informed the Musketeers with mixed emotions.
"What do you mean we've been treating the patients all wrong?" Aramis asked.
"We found that by allowing the body to sweat, the fever will run its course faster than by cooling the body down with the cold compresses and sponging. If we give the patient hot tea and pile on the blankets so that they sweat enough to soak their clothes and sheets, the fever is usually broken within a day or two."
"You mean to tell me that if we had made Athos sweat, instead of coolin' him down like we did, he migh' no' be in a coma?" Porthos asked, incredulous.
"Oh God. . ." Aramis visibly paled and swayed on the edge of the bed. "Then Athos falling into a coma is my fault."
"What kind of talk is that, 'Mis?" Porthos grumbled. "How is it your fault?"
"I encouraged treatment of Athos by cooling his skin with cold compresses,"Aramis said, horrified. "Oh God, what have I done?"
"Aramis, it's not your fault," Cécile assured the medic. "We were doing the same thing in the infirmary. If we had known we were using the wrong treatment earlier, maybe we could have saved more lives. The only reason we know this treatment works is because M. Molyneux experimented with different combinations of herbs, along with the hot and cold treatments, just to see what worked best. Please, don't feel bad; we all had to learn this the hard way."
"Don't feel bad?" Aramis's voice cracked. "Athos lies in a coma because I put him there! I compounded this catarrh bug every time I sponged him down with cold water."
"Alright, then I put several Musketeers in their graves every single time I wiped their brows with a cold cloth, Aramis!" Cécile cried. "We cannot dwell on the mistakes that we made; we can only correct them and work toward saving lives with what we have learned." The nurse wiped the tears from her face.
"She's right, 'Mis," Porthos agreed. "There's no way we could 'ave known our treatment for Athos wasn't working. If you are guilty of puttin' Athos in that coma, then so am I and so is d'Artagnan; we all took turns wiping him down with cold rags. If you are goin' to blame yourself, then blame us too; we're just as guilty!"
"Gentlemen, no one is to blame for Athos' coma!" Cécile interjected. "Besides, I think the sweating treatment works only at the onset of catarrh, when the fever has initially begun. If the fever is advanced then, obviously, cooling their body down is top priority or else the fever rises to unsafe levels- and that is what leads to death."
"Then the treatment is too late for Athos," Aramis said in a low voice. "If only I had known about this when he initially fell ill. I assume that once he's in a coma there's nothing we can do, correct?"
"Correct," the nurse answered with a nod. "I'm sorry, Aramis, but Athos will have to wake up when he is ready. However, it's not too late for d'Artagnan. We can save him a lot of suffering—possibly have him well by tomorrow—if we get started on this treatment right away."
"Well, let's ge' started then," Porthos resolved. "I'll help you gather up anything you need, Cécile. If we can get d'Artagnan well by tomorrow, I'm willin' to do whatever it takes."