WARNING: Possible medical and law inaccuracies, there will be a tiny bit coarse language and RATED M FOR VIOLENCE AND BLOOD [Aramis has lost it, that's all I can say.]

It was odd to find the place buzzing at this hour, people carrying stacks of folders and boxes of old files moved between the desks, sharing information, organizing, dividing and noting who was covering what as the chatter of those hooked to telephones filled the space with white noise. This was not what Athos had expected when Leon had told them to just come down to the office before cutting the call.

They weaved their way through the contained chaos until Athos spotted Leon deep in a discussion with Treville. The Captain glanced their way, turned back to Leon but wiped his head back around a second later. The grin that broke on his face was nothing like any of them had seen before.

In long bounds the Captain covered the distance between them and pulled Athos and Porthos in an embrace. Athos looked to his friend and found the big man just as surprised by the welcome; it wasn't that they had thought they wouldn't be missed but it seemed the reach of their loss had been wider and deeper then they had assumed.

Treville pulled back but grasped them both by a shoulder, his eyes suspiciously bright as he gave them a squeeze.

"I couldn't believe it when Leon said you called," he smiled, "I'm so happy you boys are alive. And you," Treville turned to d'Artagnan and grabbed him by the shoulders, "you were right and I have never been this thankful that I was wrong."

"We can't be rid of that easily Captain," Porthos smiled and tilted his head towards the activity going on, "what's going on here?"

"That," Leon nodded towards the muted television set up on the wall, "that's what happened. It's on every news channel. We're trying to control the damage over here. "

There were sifting images, fading one after the other on the screen, the tags shifting with the names of the people in the photographs. The slideshow paused on a black strip that showed the jumping peaks of voice recording and Leon shook his head in disgust.

"Someone just handed over evidence of a decade's worth of cold cases to these people," he rubbed the back of his neck, "we don't know what the backlash would be. There are some big names involved and the dangerous ones we already had on our radar would likely exit the country before we can get warrants."

Leon's hand clenched in a fist beside him and Athos halted in his eagerness to share the information Aramis had left behind. He would have to play this carefully, making sure not to incriminate his brother for the worst of it.

"What if you could arrest the man at the center of it all," he asked the Detective, "if you had proof enough to get his arrest warrants right now?"

Leon frowned.

"We'll need to take this somewhere private," Porthos spoke up before the Detective could.

And that was how the five men found themselves in the supplies cupboard, Constance having flatly refused to follow them in. Leon shifted against the far wall lined with narrow shelves and crossed his arms before his chest.

"Anytime before we run out of oxygen in here," he said.

Athos nodded to d'Artagnan and the boy handed Leon the plastic bag. Treville eyed the packet then looked back up at Athos, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Are you telling me that I've been holding on to what I think I've been holding on to?" he demanded.

"The evidence in there is against Rene d'Herblay the Third, I can decode it for you," d'Artagnan told the Detective.

"And we can tell you where you will find the man in the next few hours," Porthos added.

"But we need your word that you will pull Aramis out of there unscathed," Athos told the man before considering the luck the four of them had been having, "relatively unscathed," he corrected.

Leon looked down at the object in his hand then back up at the three men, understanding dawning over his face even as an incredulous look crept in his eyes.

"He's behind this isn't he? Aramis is the reason this can of worms has blown wide open," Leon shook his head and raised a hand before anyone could get a word in edgewise, "don't – just don't tell me – let me have plausible deniability. I mean what the hell was he thinking?"

Athos refrained from answering that, but he had a deep desire to demand the same from his absent brother. Once they had saved Aramis he would shake the man until some explanation rattled out of his brain as to what he was thinking taking such an insane step.

"So will you help us then?" Porthos asked.

Leon clenched his jaw and gave them a sharp nod. They followed him out and to the empty office the Detective Inspector led them to. Leon nodded to the computer set up on the table and placed the evidence beside the monitor.

"That all you need?" he asked d'Artagnan.

"I'll need a biometric scanner,"

Leon's eyebrows rose to his hairline and he looked to the others as though waiting for them to break out grinning. When the punch-line wasn't forthcoming his shoulders deflated and he left the room with a grumble, dodging Constance on his way out.

The woman dumped her armload of cold sandwiches and water bottles on the table.

"Sit, eat," she ordered.

"Constance –" Porthos shook his head.

"Don't you dare deny that you're exhausted," Constance shoved a bottle of water and a sandwich in his hands, "when was the last time you ate something? You're worried for Aramis and I get that, but what good would you do him falling flat on your face?"

"She's right Porthos," Athos added, "you're running on fumes."

He did not expect the young woman turning to him with a glare.

"And you too, you've been rescued from a burning building, only hours ago for crying out loud!" Constance frowned, "I don't like the haggard look you two are trying to bring into fashion and don't think I can't hear the rasp in your voice Porthos."

Athos looked to the big man who shrugged back in a helpless sort of a way and the two of them took a chair each, with as much dignity as they could. It didn't help that d'Artagnan and Treville were sharing wide grins.

"You didn't tell us what you're doing here Captain," Athos said.

"I came down initially with Ms. Ostair. She escaped from Rochefort who attempted to kidnap her," he said as he leaned against the table with a shake of his head, "but then I got the call that Richelieu was murdered."

"What?" three voiced echoed.

"In one of Louis' waterfront properties," the Captain clarified, "Leon said they had rescued Fleur from the area only hours before and tonight Richelieu's body was found there as well as a woman's. She's identified as Isabelle Grey. Louis had contacted the Chief to solve the matter urgently."

Athos hardly listened to what followed after the name of the woman; his mind had gone blank at the name and he suddenly felt like there was a lot that they were missing.

"Isabelle Grey?" Porthos asked quietly, "are you sure it was Isabelle Grey?"

"Yes, why?"

Porthos dropped the sandwich he had bit into and swallowed thickly.

"She was Aramis' wife," he groaned, "ex-wife – he loved her,"

The silence that followed was heavy and broken only by d'Artagnan muttering under his breath. Athos looked at the younger man who had his brows drawn in concentration as though he was trying to decipher some obscure code.

"What is it d'Artagnan?" Athos asked, "Out with it."

The younger man's frown deepened and he looked to the Captain.

"Were they found at Louis' property that's called the Three Flats?" he asked.

Treville gave him a surprised nod and d'Artagnan shook his head in a painful sort of denial.

"d'Artagnan?" Constance urged the man to explain.

"Aramis was there," he spoke in a whisper, "he was there tonight."

Athos felt the bottom of his stomach fall out; had Aramis crossed the line? Had he murdered Richelieu in revenge for the murder of his ex-wife?

"How can you be sure?" he asked.

"The trackers," d'Artagnan said, "two of them stopped transmitting signals from that point and the third was damaged there until it gave out near Meunier's café."

"He didn't do it," Porthos snapped at everyone, "he's not a murderer."

"There's only so much a man can take Porthos," Treville reasoned.

The big man shook his head and Athos reached out to grasp his arm. He shoved away all the horrible possibilities that were vying for his attention and cleared his throat.

"We're not assuming the worst," he said and turned to d'Artagnan with a rare wry smile, "as for your trackers, when we're done with this I'll sit you down and explain the concept of boundaries."

"Boundaries?" d'Artagnan rolled his eyes, "you two don't get to talk about boundaries when neither of you could sleep without a cuddle pile after we got Aramis back."

Constance broke into a giggle even as Porthos snorted and Athos found himself smiling. Leon returned with the required hardware and d'Artagnan quickly set up the system, making a short work of the decoding before turning the screen towards Leon.

The Detective Inspector flipped on the head phones as he went over the evidence. Athos was glad that he didn't see the results because Leon went a shade greener and clicked out of the proof just a few minutes in.

"Let's get this bastard," Leon said.

The road stretched empty before him; illuminated by the lights of his car as the world poised on the edge of the night, holding its breath for the coming dawn. A silence had descended in his mind from the second he had settled behind the steering wheel about half an hour ago. It was the quiet of a sniper taking aim, finger curled around the trigger but stilled; waiting, alert.

His gaze shifted onto the rearview mirror; cataloguing the first glint of the car far behind before he turned his attention back onto the road. It was the speed with which it approached that told him something was off. Aramis was braced for the hard jolt when the car hit his from behind, throwing him in a wobble.

He glanced in the rearview mirror again; Rochefort grinned as their gazes locked and Aramis ducked when he saw the flash of weapon extending out the window, just before muffled shots broke the air. The sound of shattering glass was drowned by the screeching tires as Aramis severed to the side, dislodging the car tailing him.

A volley of shots buried in the side of the car as Rochefort drew parallel and fired, doing his best to ram into the side of Aramis' car. Aramis hit the brakes hard, the seatbelt bit into his skin as he jerked violently to the side when the engine of his car caught in tail end of Rochefort's skidding vehicle.

He watched in a haze of suffocating pain as the car before him slid onto the dirt edge of the road, spraying dust and stone and still careening sideways until it tipped; landing on its side like a dead bull.

Sharp cutting pain hitched his breath and Aramis unbuckled the seatbelt with shaky hands before swinging open the door. The air he tried to gulp burned in his chest and exploded in a cough, forcing him onto his knees on the ground beside the open door.

Red stained the asphalt.

His fingers pressed against the cold rough surface as he tried the clutch the slipping world, not ready to fall into oblivion before finishing what he had started. He pulled in another breath and exhaled slowly, forcing his stuttering breathing into a rhythm.

He owed this.

To Athos and Porthos; their deaths wouldn't be in vain.

To d'Artagnan; whose life wouldn't be shadowed anymore by Senior.

Aramis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rested the other on his chest. He dared not loosen the bulletproof vest; acutely aware that it was likely the one thing holding his ribs in place. The stumbling feet in his view forced him to look up at the man.

Rochefort swiped the hand holding his mobile phone under his bleeding nose and raised the other with his weapon trained on Aramis' forehead.

"Gimme tha packhage," he said.

"Senior sent you," it wasn't a question.

" 'magine my thurprize that y' called 'im," he shifted his weight, "thought y' were dead."

"And what did he say?"

Rochefort pressed his nose with the back of his wrist and sniffed. He glanced down and a grin spread on his face.

"That I could finish the job after I secured the package," he said.

Aramis didn't know what was worse, that his father had given a go ahead for his murder or that he wasn't surprised that Senior had done it. He took in Rochefort's appearance; his mind rapidly sorting through the information, noting advantages, disadvantages, possibilities, probability and Aramis moved between one breath and the next.

Grabbing the wrist of the hand holding the gun he pulled the man forward; dodged the bullet that buried next to his foot and kneed Rochefort in the sternum before stepping aside and behind the man, wrenching his arm up and around until he felt the shoulder give and Rochefort screamed.

He dropped the gun as his arm hung useless by his side and swung back with a punch from his left.

Aramis ducked under the wild fist coming for his head and kicked the ankle he had noticed Rochefort favoring. The howl of pain from the man as he fell on his back turned into a string of curses when Aramis didn't retract his foot from where he had stamped down on the other man's ankle; the bones shifting under the pressure.

He didn't let up even when Rochefort clawed at his foot with his good hand, cursing and mewling between ragged breaths.

Aramis shook his head lightly to clear the flashing dots in his vision and felt the taste of coppery warmth at the back of his throat. Coughing up the blood, he stepped back from the man and Rochefort rolled onto his side with a screech of pain.

Aramis kicked away Rochefort's weapon and stomped down onto the mobile phone he had dropped in favor of clutching his leg. He couldn't have the man contacting Senior.

"You shouldn't have come in my way," he said.

Rochefort spat curses at him but Aramis was already getting in the car. He heard Rochefort scream after him then, pleading and angry, telling him that he couldn't leave the man behind.

"I'll die out here Aramis! You can't leave me!"

Aramis revved the car back to life.

"I need help!" Rochefort yelled, "ARAMIS!"

But he was already pulling away; his mind already set back on the path he had fallen on. It was too bad for Rochefort that Aramis had died right alongside his brothers.

Leon had alerted the local authorities and warned them of the danger they could face at the Manor. The property was sprawling and built away from the settlements nearby, there were too many variables to cover if they were to close the net around Senior.

Porthos watched the Detective pouring over the map he had laid out on the engine of his car as the back-up got ready. He checked his watch and silently urged the people to hurry up; Aramis already had an hour's head start over them. Porthos didn't want to imagine what awaited his friend at the Manor.

The crisp air of the not-quite-dawn felt cold on his face and tickled down his throat like a thistle. He really hoped that he wasn't coming down with the bronchitis again, the one after his near drowning was enough to last him a life time.

Porthos cleared his throat and forced himself to not give in to the urge to cough.

"Constance isn't the only one who can hear the rasp," Athos came to stand beside him.

"Have you heard yourself?"

"Pots and kettles then," Athos agreed.

Porthos offered him a tiny smile and watched the young couple on the other side of the car. D'Artagnan was leaning back against the vehicle as he tried to convince the young woman before him, but it was obvious in the way Constance stood that she was having none of it. She crossed her arms before her chest and glared at the man.

"She's perfect for him isn't she?" Porthos said.

"And he's perfect for her," Athos murmured.

Porthos glanced sideways at his friend and wondered if the young couple brought back memories of Athos' own romance. He may have never warmed up to Anne but Porthos wasn't blind to the way Athos and her had seemed to have fit into spaces of each other's sharp edges. There was a reason Athos had fell for her after all, and he had fallen for Anne, hard and fast.

"Can you imagine losing 'Mis and I together?" Porthos couldn't keep the question down anymore.

He ignored the way Athos turned to stare at him and kept his gaze fixed on Constance who looked like she was suppressing a grin.

"I'd probably follow you two one way or another," Athos confessed in almost a whisper.

Porthos' gut churned, he had found himself on the same path when he had put himself in Aramis' shoes. It may be wrong; it may not make sense to anyone else but them, still it was frighteningly clear to him. Porthos turned to look his friend in the eyes.

"That's what I thought for myself – if I lost you two like that, blink and you're gone – out of the blue. And that's what I think he's doing," he said, "the two of us can't fault him for that."

Athos eyes widened, the blue lit clear and bright in the grey light of the dusk peeking through the edge of the sky, and Porthos saw the anger, one that had been simmering there from the time they had talked to Meunier, melt away like ice on water. Only the fear it had veiled was left behind.

For all his strategic thinking, Athos could be blind to the simplest solutions because his heart would deny them; but Porthos didn't mind pointing out the obvious.

The roar of the engine had them both turning to the road in unison. The motorcycle came around the curb with a squeal of tires and they saw d'Artagnan pull Constance away from the road just as the man on the on the motorcycle opened fire.

It was purely on instinct that they hit the floor as fiery spray of metal arched above them. The police fired back and the motorcycle zigzagged on the road before crashing into the pavement.

Porthos and Athos were moving forward even before they had gotten to their feet. Stumbling up they dashed to where they had last seen the young couple; stopping only when they had hit their knees by the two on the ground.

"d'Artagnan? Constance?"

The young man lifted his face from where he was lying on top of the woman. Pushing back strands of dark hair with a shaky hand he gave a silent nod, before looking down at the wide eyed woman under him.

"He didn't get you did he?" he asked in a quivering breath.

Constance shook her head.

Porthos helped up the younger man as Athos eased Constance off the road.

The arm in his grip shivered with the rush of adrenalin and the big man pulled d'Artagnan in a one armed hug. Constance had her face buried in Athos shoulder who was looking drawn and pale as well. Suppressing the shudder that threatened to break out, Porthos gave d'Artagnan another squeeze and pushed him gently towards Athos and Constance.

He didn't wait to see the younger man pull Constance in his arms as he went over to the man the police was hauling up to his feet. Porthos grabbed the man by the front of his jacket and punched him in the face. Seething with barely contained rage he dimly registered the hands holding him back as he raised his fist again.

"Porthos calm down! Please! You can't –" Athos grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze, "don't," he said.

He hated it, he hated the turn their life had taken and Porthos wished he could pound into something to just throw off the fear and rage pressing on his chest. Instead he breathed through his nose and nodded to his friend, aware that Athos had still not let go of him.

"I'm alright," he told his friend and glared over his shoulder at the man in handcuffs, "Senior sent you didn't he?"

The man with the broken nose cast a quick glance at all the uniforms surrounding him.

Porthos growled.

"I had orders," the man breathed out, "four hours, had to wait four hours,"

"For what?" Leon demanded.

"Wait four hours before taking out the boy, unless he called," the man licked his busted lip, "he didn't call. Look I'll give a full confession, I'll tell you all about the orders I was given, there are others too with their own marks to tail –"

"Get him out of my sight and cover the people he names as targets" Leon turned to the nearest officer, "and we're going to need helicopters, I'm not risking anymore lives."

The officer nodded and hurried away.

"We're moving out in fifteen minutes," Leon told Athos.

As the police ebbed back, Porthos realized it was only four of them left. Constance regarded him with a smile, her eyes red-rimmed but no longer wet. Athos didn't let go of his shoulder even as the other two stepped close.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked the couple again.

"Not a scratch," d'Artagnan's smile was genuine if a bit shaky.

"Good," Porthos cleared his throat, "he said four hours to wait before Senior contacted him again. If Aramis had four hours to give the evidence to Senior and he told the Captain to hand it to Leon at eight, it's a five hours drive to the Manor from here –"

"Aramis wasn't planning to keep Senior in place for the authorities," Athos nodded, "he's doing it to provide a window to Senior's enemies."

Porthos didn't want to believe it, he didn't want to think about it but the fear was too persistent. He looked to Athos and knew his brother was on the same line of thought; Aramis planned to see Senior dead this day and Porthos wondered if the man's enemies failed, would Aramis then do the deed himself?

The gates were closed and curved in where the car had smashed in them. He walked past the broken driver fallen half out of the open door and the crushed engine that was still giving off steam. Wedging himself between dented metal, he shouldered his way in from where the gates met each other.

A few of the ornate lights lining the pavement were missing their globes, the tiny shards of exploded glass glittering at their base over the gravel of the winding driveway. The long curling driveway of the Manor that was dotted with bodies. His father's enemies had tried the direct route; clearly they didn't know the man like he did.

You had to trap him, to hold him down in one place to make him a target or Senior would slip away like water in a fist.

As the glass crunched under his boots, a loud crack followed the bullet that drilled a hole before his toes. He stopped and looked up, following the trajectory to the shooter. Even from the distance he could tell the man in the tree was startled when their eyes met.

"I'm here to see my father," he spoke as loud as his lungs would allow.

There was a heavy grip settled around his chest that he didn't wish to dwell on, it was like a claw was squeezing his lungs with every breath he took. Instead he focused on the four men who came up to meet him. He wordlessly handed over his the weapon on his belt, not wanting them to know about the one strapped above his ankle. Aramis raised a brow at the man who came near to pat him down. It stopped the black clad man in his tracks who glanced uncertainly at his fellows.

"No special treatments Rene," the leader scowled and stepped forward.

His fingers touched Aramis' shoulder and an audible snap preceded a scream.

The man staggered back, cradling his broken wrist to his chest as three guns aimed at the newcomer. Aramis cocked his head to the side just a little, assessing the situation and the scenarios panning out. He didn't care about these men one way or another but if they planned to delay him longer he would object.

Brutally.

"Take him, just take him to the boss," the leader groaned as he turned away.

Aramis nodded to the closest man as a signal to lead the way. He wasn't bothered by the weapons trained on him by two men following after, he could only think of what lay ahead.

They led him through the hall that was lit up with the early morning light pooling in from the long open windows and up the stairs. It left him feeling like he was treading water, out of breath and weightless but he refused to let it show.

Calm, controlled and measured, no one needed to know the damage behind that.

The distant echo of gunfire in the rear grounds of the Mansion stopped the men in their tracks and they shared some silent conversation Aramis wasn't privy to.

"I think you'll be more useful to greet the company just arrived," Aramis inclined his head towards the doors at the end of the corridor, "I can find my way to his study."

The sound of firing was nearer in the next round and the men left hastily. Aramis turned his back to the retreating figures and made his way to the thick doors; for all the times he'd been dragged through them kicking and screaming he felt nothing at the sight of these doors anymore.

He was past the point of pain and fear, having taken too much of it. It was time to give it back now, to destroy the heart of it and maybe save those who could still be saved.

Not bothering to knock he pushed open the doors of his father's study.

The man by the window turned to face him with a crystal glass of liquor in one hand, looking for all the world like he was enjoying the early morning on a day off from work. But it was the gun stuck in the side of his belt and the tightness around his mouth that told Aramis his father was stressed.

"You're late," Senior said.

"Only fashionably," Aramis closed the door behind him, "seems like you have been busy entertaining my guests."

His father's blue eyes narrowed imperceptibly, his jaw tightened before his perfectly aligned teeth flashed in a grin. Senior raised the glass in a taunting salute towards his Aramis.

"Well played son," he said.

Once upon a time the title had made him flinch; now it just rolled off of him, because Aramis realized that it wouldn't matter soon. He extracted the packet he had stuck under his belt at the small of his back and tossed it on his father's table.

"I brought what you asked for," he said.

They both turned their eyes to the window when the sound of gunshots felt like it was coming right from under it. The younger man didn't miss the way Senior's fingers tightened around the glass.

When the din faded, the older man sauntered over to the table and picked up the packet, turning it in the light with just a hint of a frown on his face.

He tossed the package on the carpeted floor and pulling out his weapon he shot it full of holes; the packet of hardware slipping and shifting from the force of the bullets like a twitchy living thing. Aramis drew his eyes up to regard his father when silence reigned again.

"Overkill," he said.

"Cathartic," the older man shrugged a shoulder and downed the contents of his glass in one go. He smacked it onto the table and scowled.

"You've caused me a lot of trouble boy," he said.

"It seems not enough though," Aramis tilted his head to listen to the distant sirens of police cars, "you're still alive,"

"Trapped me in here like a – a –,"

"A rat?" Aramis bared his teeth in not quite a grin "welcome to my world then. Not so fun to be the one looking over your shoulder is it?"

Senior pushed away from the table and smoothed a hand over his suit jacket. He was pulling back from his fears and gaining control, Aramis could tell, he had learned the trick from the man himself after all. It was amusing to see him on the back foot for once; Aramis chuckled when the older man wiped his head back to stare out the window as the grating sound of a voice through a loudspeaker scratched the air. The policeman still sounded far off, likely stopped at the gates of the Mansion.

Aramis cleared his throat to suppress the tickle in his breath.

"I think they're asking you to surrender," he said.

For a second absolute fury seeped into Senior's visage and his hand tightened around the weapon he pulled out from his belt. His eyes pierced the younger man; hardening at the defiance he hadn't been able to beat out of him still.

"I should have snapped your neck the day you were born," he said.

Aramis wasn't surprised that his words didn't hurt.

"But you wanted an heir," he said, "That's why you murdered her and not me that day, my mother was an obstacle in your way and no matter how much you hated me, you still needed a successor."

The younger man ignored the battle ensuing outside, this room, this man was what mattered right now. A grim smile played on his lips as he looked at his father.

"But everything ends here father, you won't leave behind the empire you've built. The d'Herblay legacy will end today and that includes both of us," he grinned when shock dawned on the older man's face, "don't look so surprised father; your game ended for me hours ago."

Aramis was not expecting the door behind him to be kicked open. He had to grab the back of a chair to keep his balance when he turned around. The shiny dots floating in his vision didn't clear as quickly as he hoped but the hazy man in the doorway seemed familiar.

"And who the hell are you?" Senior enquired.

"You don't know me?" the man sounded incredulous.

Aramis knew that voice, had encountered it first in a snow covered forest and then in this very Manor, both times this man had left him damaged. He shook his head to fix a glare onto Victor Amadeus.

"You don't know me d'Herblay?"

"Should I?"

"My father was Vincent Amadeus and today I'll finally be able to put his memory to rest,"

Senior frowned at the man and Aramis saw the recognition in his father's eyes a second before he saw a flash of something else. He barely had time open his mouth when Senior gunned down Victor. The shock of the dying man etched eternal on his face.

"A waste of time these sentiments, don't you think?" Senior toed the body of the man at his feet, "stops you from taking decisive action."

Senior cocked his head to the side as the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors chopping through the air reached them. He smiled as he stepped away from his son a little bit.

"Never could make you see that," he raised his weapon to his son's head, "guess you can't beat sense into people,"

Aramis met his father's eyes as the man pressed the trigger.

He didn't close his eyes.

He didn't feel the pain.

And it took his some seconds to realize he hadn't heard the shot fired.

Aramis glanced down at the weapon his father was staring at and it clicked a little belatedly in his mind that his father was out of bullets. As the older man cursed and threw the weapon in a rare display of frustration, he missed the weapon his son had unstrapped from his leg.

Aramis saw his eyes widening, saw the raw surprise on Senior's face.

"Son?"

Aramis smirked and took the shot.

A rough scream tore from Senior as he fell on his rear, blood and bone fragments spraying from his shattered knee cap. He clutched his thigh and moaned, screaming again when Aramis kicked the foot of his damaged leg.

"But you can teach them how to make people suffer," Aramis spoke conversationally, "thank you for the lessons father."

He raised his weapon again and Senior dragged himself backwards. Despite his bleeding leg he tried his best to get away. Aramis arched a brow at the futility of it as the man pushed himself between his desk and the wall, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.

Aramis stared at the stained carpet; this room had soaked up too much of his blood, in drops and trickles before he had managed to stumble out long after he was left alone. It had sopped up the pool of his mother's blood, leaving no stain of her murder behind; it seemed only fitting that it should taste his father's blood as well.

So caught up was he in his own mind that Aramis was startled when the doors of the study were banged open. Men in uniform swarmed in, weapons raised and pointed at him with Leon at the front.

But that was not what his eyes settled on, it were the two dear faces he hadn't imagined seeing again.

" 'Mis?" Porthos' voice was an embrace, warm, comforting and safe.

Aramis shivered and closed his eyes; his weapon didn't lower where it was trained on his father.

"Please don't do this mon frère," Athos tone was a balm, cool and soothing over the raw wounds in his soul.

Aramis bit his lip and ignored the ghosts come to haunt him. Maybe this was it, the blood loss finally affecting his brain, his draining life latching onto the one source of comfort it had always known.

Ghosts they may be but it took every ounce of his will power to not look at their faces, he would break if he did. Already he could feel something stirring in him, a strange sense of life that he hadn't even felt going out in his heart in the first place.

"Whoa shit! You can't do this Aramis!"

That voice.

He looked at the young face from the corner of his eyes.

"d'Art?" Aramis frowned, "you're not supposed to be here."

"And you're not supposed to do this," the boy countered.

"You're really here?" Aramis had to ask, he was seeing ghosts after all.

"Want me to punch you to show you how real I am?"

The corner of his lip lifted uncertainly, unsure of the smile in so many ways.

"Just do it Rene," Senior snapped at him, "just finish this."

Aramis looked down at his father, slumped bleeding and pale at the end of his weapon. For the first time he was the one with the power, the one standing over the cowering unarmed form to execute the decision he see fit.

And it made him feel sick.

In that moment he knew, the clarity blinding his mind like a detonated flash bomb. He knew that of all that he had heard of apples and trees it seemed that he may not have fallen far but he had rolled away, out of the shadow of his father. He was not Aramis, the persona he was chasing and he was not Rene, the past he was running from; he was someone else, someone who he didn't know yet but who was in parts both.

And that meant that he could not, no matter how much he wanted to, no matter how much he hated the man, he could not commit a murder.

Aramis lowered his weapon as he turned to look at d'Artagnan fully; their smiles matching in bright intensity. He stepped back from his father and let his eyes wander to the two pale ghosts, his hand rising of its own accord with an ache to touch them.

The move aborted in a cough as red warmth bubbled up his chest and dribbled out the corner of his mouth. His right knee gave out as he coughed again and something gave up in his chest.

The flash of white hot pain drowned in the realization that he couldn't breathe. There was a river in his throat, pouring out of his mouth and he couldn't breathe.

He didn't feel the hands on him, didn't know that he didn't hit the floor but was carefully lowered down; he didn't hear the panic in the voices that called for the paramedics.

He didn't like the way Aramis wouldn't even look at them. Hated how their brother ignored their presence but Porthos felt his heart screech to a stop when he saw Aramis fall. The hand that had been reaching out curled instead around his chest as his friend coughed.

It was the sight of blood that had Porthos moving.

He caught Aramis as he swayed on his knees, alarm kicking up several notches at the amount of blood pouring past his friend's lips.

"C'mon now, you're fine 'Mis, you're fine," Porthos tore his gaze away from the rapidly fading brother in his grip, "what's wrong with him Athos?"

"I – I don't –get him on his side, lay him down," Athos looked pale as a sheet as he called for the paramedics over his shoulder.

Porthos complied, setting him down carefully, his big hand coming to rest on the side of Aramis' neck where the skin was freezing under his palm. Blood still trickled past his friend's lips but the big man felt his heart stutter when he found the brown eyes opened.

Dulled and glazed over, pupils blown wide with pain, but still looking at him directly in the face.

"Hi there," Porthos' voice came out rough and low.

Aramis blinked slowly, his eyes sliding over the faces leaning closer, rolling up a bit when Athos' hand slid in his hair before slanting over to d'Artagnan. His breath hitched and whistled out in a faltering exhale.

"Thank you…" he said to their youngest.

D'Artagnan wiped harshly at his face.

"Thank me when you can stand up and take the beating I plan to give you," d'Artagnan spoke thickly, "You stupid bastard why didn't you wait for me?"

"Time…limit…four hours…"

"Yeah I know – just this makes me mad alright?" d'Artagnan actually sobbed and clasped Aramis' hand that had twitched in an attempt to reach him, "it's all so wrong…"

Aramis cleared his throat wetly, his eyes finding Athos and Porthos again.

"Come to…take me with…?"

Porthos nodded instantly but stopped short at Athos' loud no!

"Damnit Aramis we're alive! We're not dead. NOT. DEAD." Athos' fingers curled tightly in his brother's hair, "Y' here me Aramis, we're alive, not dead and you can't – can't – you can't –alright?"

"Yeah, we're alive…. 'Mis please –" Porthos squeezed the side of his neck, "We're here, we're alive, we made it Aramis."

His brows pulled in confusion before smoothing out in a soft smile, his eyes lingered on their faces like they were an endearing mirage he wished to permanently sear in his brain. Aramis' gaze stayed on the three of them even when the paramedics pushed them back.

"Rib fracture –no breath sounds on his right,"

"– gimme a chest tube –"

His eyes remained on the three faces until they closed.

No fuss.

No fear.

Porthos clasped Athos' arm so tight he might have cracked the bone.

"You gotta beat?"

"Negative,"

"Charge it,"

The high pitched whine of the charging defibrillator and the slow beats that the electricity eventually coaxed out of his brother's heart would haunt Porthos for all his life. It was something that would remain with him forever even when he wouldn't remember a damn thing that came after watching Aramis get Medevaced.

There was a point, he thought he knew about it already but he was wrong, there was a point that he had only just found and it was a point where he was so exhausted that he couldn't possibly rest. It was a point of being charged by being wrung out and the point of it was that Athos had no idea what the point was – he was lost.

The chair under him would have been uncomfortable if he had actually been able to feel it.

He hoped d'Artagnan was getting some rest; Constance had dragged him home after Aramis had come out of the surgery. A seven hour surgery to put together the damage the three of them hadn't even known about. Athos still couldn't keep track of it, broken ribs, collapsed lung, blood loss, busted cartilages in his knee, fractured wrist; the damage was mostly to his right side. Athos had no idea how it happened although they had found three bullets buried in the bulletproof vest Aramis had worn. But that was not the point, the point was he was alive – for now – that's what the machines were saying any way.

One floor below him was Porthos; he had basically shut down when they had airlifted Aramis out of that forsaken Manor. Now he was being kept overnight for observation because the doctors were afraid he was at risk of contracting bronchitis – again – near drowning and nearly burned alive in a matter of months wasn't a good thing for the lungs. And the point was he was safe – for the time being he was under careful watch, the doctors were adamant about it.

Last Athos had seen him, he was asleep with Flea at his side; she had escaped the wound with muscle damage alone – but the point Athos had to insist was that she shouldn't have been injured in the first place, not at the hands of her friend.

The watch on his wrist told him it was night outside. Athos would have to believe it; the ICU cubicle didn't have windows – just curtains.

His eyes settled on the handcuff that linked Aramis' good wrist to the bed railing. The police weren't clear on the matter of his involvement in all this so they weren't taking any risks. He was hooked up to machines so that he could breathe, had gone into cardiac arrest twice and still they insisted on him being a flight risk.

Athos couldn't argue, his brother had gone to war with a wrist and knee that shouldn't work while his lung bled out in his chest – besides Leon had insisted Athos stay with Aramis so he couldn't really be mad at the man.

He was tired.

He was so exhausted that he could do with a night out with his friends.

They had won after all.

All day the news channels had covered the fall of the d'Herblay empire; every dark deed had come out of the woodworks and left behind its collapsing structure.

They had won because Senior was alive, he would go to trial, he would face the consequences and he would watch as all that he had worked to build tumble around his ears. He would suffer the loss he had inflicted on so many others, he was injured where it would hurt, his empire was crumbling – but the point Athos had to wonder was – he looked up at the still form of his brother pinned down by wires and tubes – the point was, at what cost?

Athos reached forward, careful to avoid the pulse-ox meter and grasped the limp fingers that were too cold for his liking.

It was over, they had won, but at what cost?

Thank you to all the people who read, follow or favorite this story! Thank you to all who leave me reviews your kindness has always been an amazing source of motivation. Thank you so so much!