"Go to the right! Aramis, to the left! I'll try and head them off." Athos leaned low over his horse's neck, urging Roger forward, away from d'Artagnan.

"This is madness!" d'Artagnan shouted at Roger's hindquarters. "All we're doing is abusing the horses! They'll have to slow down eventually!"

"We can't wait for them to reach their troops!" Athos bellowed back at him. "We haven't got reinforcements!"

"They can't keep up this speed much longer. We're gaining on them already!" God damn it, why was he being the reasonable one here?

"And they've got Porthos!" Aramis shot past him, his mare's hooves barely touching the ground.

"Jesus Christ have mercy…" D'Artagnan loosened the reins and let Désirée race after the others. Yes, right, they had Porthos. And the bag with the compromising letters. He did get that this was all very important, but that was no reason to ruin a horse, much less seven of them.

The big coach thundered along the rough forest road, teetering precariously when it hit roots and rocks. This really wasn't a racetrack. But they hadn't exactly picked this route. At least they were indeed gaining on the carriage. Even with four horses, it was still a big, heavy box to pull and musketeer horses were no mugs. How Athos wanted to head these men off was anybody's guess though. Unless…

"They're slowing down!"

He'd been right, there was no way they could keep this up. What next? They had the coach for cover, so might risk a shoot-out. What about Porthos? Use him as a human shield, or would they try to trade his life for the letters? Either way, they would lose.

The carriage slowed down to a walk. They were still too far away to risk a shot, but Aramis already had his gun in his hand, ready to fire at the first opportunity. Bad call to mess with Porthos on Aramis' watch, really bad call…

D'Artagnan kept to the right side of the road, which meant he had a good view of that side of the coach. The door opened and a single figure in black flung itself into the undergrowth.

"They're making a run for it!" D'Artagnan went for his own gun as Aramis' shot rang out. Both bullets fell short of their target. The man scrambled up the hillside. D'Artagnan cursed and urged his horse on. A coach and a walker to catch now. Aramis was already reloading, guiding his horse only with his legs.

The crack of a whip made all of them flinch. Again and again and that wasn't a crack in the air anymore, that was leather hitting flesh. D'Artagnan growled and bared his teeth. He'd make them pay for treating horses like that. The poor animals were already giving their best. The coach flew forward. So that was their game. Split them up.

"Stop those horses, d'Artagnan!" Athos shouted. "Aramis, see to Porthos! I'll go after the other one."

Then everything happened at once. The driver jumped from his seat and rolled a few times before struggling to his feet. Aramis screamed. Before d'Artagnan could figure out why, the third man abandoned the coach as well.

Then he saw it.

Porthos.

They'd thrown him.

Only he wasn't rolling and getting up. Bound or unconscious or maybe both, d'Artagnan couldn't tell. What he could see clearly was the taut rope stretched between Porthos' tied wrists and the rear end of the carriage which was still shooting down the road.

"Stop the horses!" Athos' voice caught at the end.

D'Artagnan didn't need to urge Désirée on. She understood. They raced onwards, gaining steadily, but oh so slowly. And there was Porthos, being dragged behind the coach, bouncing like a ball from root to rock, unable to shield himself.

It felt wrong to ride past him, but Athos and Aramis were following right behind. They'd take care of him.

"Shoot the rope!" Athos screamed.

"I haven't got a clear shot!" Aramis sounded panicked. Of course with Porthos being thrown up and down and the coach lurching across the uneven ground, he wouldn't be able to fire without fear of hitting something that wasn't the rope.

Hitting someone. Porthos.

Focus.

He finally caught up with the wheelers. All four horses were in a mad panic, sweat flying off their drenched coats. He'd have liked to cut off the leading pair but was afraid he'd cause more harm than good with a blade so close to them now.

Oh god, of course they'd have the same problem at the back with Porthos. Cut the rope and risk cutting him along with it.

"Woah." He tried to pitch his voice loud enough to be heard, yet calm enough to not scare them even more. "Alright, alright. Slow down, you're alright."

If he could only get through to the back two. They were the only ones who could brake and bring that coach to a standstill. He kept talking to the horses, while also reaching for the reins.

This was taking much too long. He hoped to God they'd freed Porthos by now. There hadn't been another shot. But sweet Lord, he hoped they'd cut that rope without harming him.

The horses didn't hear. He didn't blame them, poor things. They only knew they were getting away from where they'd been hurt. They had no idea what they were doing to Porthos. Finally, finally he got through to the horses. Whether it was him pulling the reins, his calming words, or just their sheer exhaustion, they stopped. They stood, snorting and steaming with exhaustion. He'd take care of them later. For now—

Angelina was trotting back towards him. Without Aramis. She must have overtaken him at some point and he'd been too focussed on his task to notice. Which must mean that Aramis… God, he better hadn't broken his neck in any heroics.

Nobody was at the back of the coach. The frayed end of the rope trailed in the dirt. No Porthos.

They were a little further down the road, Athos on horseback, Aramis crouched on the ground next to an unmoving Porthos.

Merde.

Merde. Merde. Merde. Merde. Merde.

D'Artagnan looked at Athos, watched him sheathe his blade. Had he cut the rope? One of them had. Which was good. But had it been too late?

"Do you need help?" Athos asked.

Of course he did! Porthos was badly hurt. They needed to do all they could to help him. D'Artagnan was about to dismount.

"No," Aramis said.

"Let's get the letters," Athos said.

Screw the letters. This was Porthos! "But—"

"Letters first."

Athos turned to go after the men. D'Artagnan was torn. Porthos was on the ground, unconscious. Aramis was checking him for injuries. That was clearly where he needed to be. And yet… Duty called. Duty made Athos crash through the undergrowth, surely trusting him to follow.

With a curse, d'Artagnan followed.

Letters first, then Porthos.

And God help them if that wasn't the right decision.

No more time to think. The men had a head start, but on horseback Athos and d'Artagnan were gaining on them quickly. Shots rang out from the bushes. They were close enough to be within range. They slid off the horses, sent them on their way. Easier to find cover on foot.

It was difficult to make out the men in the shifting light of the forest, but they'd been stupid enough to give away their location with shots.

It was quick. Athos did not hold back. He never made a sound, but he killed ruthlessly. He left two of the men dead on the ground and was already searching their pockets for the letters by the time d'Artagnan had dispatched the final man straight to hell. The lost documents were a little worse for wear, edges tinged red with fresh blood, but they were back in the right hands now, stored securely at Athos' chest.

There was no question of burying the men. If their companions didn't find them in time, the crows and wolves and foxes would take care of them. At least they'd be of some use then, feeding the animals. After what they'd done to their horses, to Porthos…

The way back stretched to an eternity.

"Did you cut the rope?" d'Artagnan asked, more for something to say than because there were any other options.

Athos nodded. "Nearly trampled him in the process."

Two horses galloping along a narrow road, eight hooves and one man on the ground. A miracle they didn't trample him, really.

"Do you think he…?"

"He was breathing."

"That's good." D'Artagnan had to jog to keep up with Athos' determined strides.

It had been a long time. And that road wasn't in great nick. And they had been going very fast. And what if….

"Aramis will take care of him." He wasn't sure if he was reassuring Athos or himself. "Aramis knows how to handle injuries. And we've got the coach. We'll get him back to Paris in no time and then—"

"Shut up."

D'Artagnan snapped his mouth shut and focused on running after Athos. If he had needed any more confirmation that this was serious, Athos' tone was it.

He ran into Athos, literally, when Athos came to a sudden stop. They were on the hillside overlooking the road. Overlooking… Porthos, still flat on his back, and Aramis, bent low over his head. Aramis… Aramis' whole body was shaking. He was…

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.

He looked at Athos. Surely…

Athos' face had drained of all colour.

Oh no.

He was so pale, d'Artagnan half expected him to keel over. Instead he stood up straight.

"Right." Athos didn't move. Squared his shoulders, set his jaw. Still didn't move.

D'Artagnan took a single step forward. "He was breathing," he said.

Well, he had been breathing. How long ago? They'd been quick about it, yes, but how long? Long enough to… No, they hadn't been gone that long. If anything was… Aramis would be doing stuff now. He'd be binding wounds and… something.

It was fine.

It was fine.

It really was.

He stumbled down that hill, got his feet tangled in some dry leaves, tripped, nearly fell. Behind him, Athos crashed through twigs and leaves, tumbled over rocks. Down, down, down they went. Back to the road. Back to Aramis. And Porthos.

Porthos who grinned up at them and gave them a little wave.

"Don't move." Aramis' voice was choked with tears.

"Is there anything wrong?"

"No," Porthos said. "Did you get the letters?"

"Yes," Aramis said. "He might… if… he could… his back, his neck…"

He was cradling Porthos' head in his hands, thumbs on either side of his jaw, forcing him to look straight up. D'Artagnan looked at Athos. Athos gave a small, jerky nod. The portcullis went down behind his eyes. Fortifications up now, ready for whatever battle was to come.

D'Artagnan sat on the ground next to Porthos. "How you feeling?"

Porthos chuckled. "Like I was dragged behind a cart for half a mile."

D'Artagnan smirked at him. "You need to check your numbers. There's no way that was half a mile."

"Aramis?" Athos went down on his knees. "What injuries?"

Aramis stared at him.

"Pretty bruised," Porthos said. "Ruined the new trousers as well. Honestly though, I'm fine."

He made to sit up.

"Stay down," Aramis hissed. "Your neck, your back… if it's broken and…"

"Can you check?"

Aramis took a deep breath and blinked his eyes rapidly. "Can you…?"

"I'll do it." D'Artagnan changed places with him and Aramis transferred Porthos' head to him. Gently, very, very gently. It couldn't be broken, right? People didn't just… and not Porthos. Not his neck. Definitely not Porthos.

"Can you move your toes?" Aramis asked.

Porthos lifted his left leg.

"Don't." Aramis snarled at him. "Toes only."

He held on to Porthos' boot. Porthos smiled. Probably directed at Aramis, but with how d'Artagnan was holding his head, the angle didn't quite work.

Aramis nodded. "Other foot."

He nodded again. "Right."

On to the legs. Porthos was right. Those trousers were goners. Completely shredded. So was his skin. There were big, shallow wounds on both legs where the road had burned away the skin to leave blood and dirt behind. D'Artagnan winced.

"God damn it, Aramis." Porthos groaned.

Aramis ran both hands up his leg, feeling for broken bones, but mainly touching all those cuts. Bruises, too, probably. God, he had to be so bruised after all that.

Other leg, same result. Nothing actually wrong, but pretty messed up as a whole. Hips next.

"I'm sorry," Aramis said. "I know that's got to hurt, but I don't think it's broken."

Porthos groaned. "Could have told you that."

Aramis frowned. "Don't move. I've got to… your spine…"

"Go ahead." Porthos smiled.

"Your ribs as well. I need to..."

"I know, 'mis. It's fine."

It hurt. Clearly. Porthos wasn't as scraped there. His jacket had taken the brunt of it, the leather scuffed and dusty. But Porthos growled. It built slowly in his chest, but the higher up Aramis got, the louder the growl got.

Aramis stopped. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"God… Merde…" Porthos groaned. "I dislocated my shoulder."

"You might have broken…" Aramis' breath hitched. "Let me see your collarbones."

"I'm telling you, I felt it pop." Porthos rolled his eyes and d'Artagnan had to try hard to suppress his smile. This felt normal already. As long as they could snark at each other like that, there wasn't really any danger.

"Let me…" Aramis fiddled with the buttons and opened the doublet to expose Porthos' shirt.

"Cold fingers in three, two, one…" Porthos smirked.

Aramis didn't smirk. He focused. D'Artagnan felt for him. Had to be odd to know all the things that could be wrong. No wonder he was worried. But he was also very methodical. Ribs. Left side. Right side. One after the other. Collarbones, left, then right.

Porthos sucked in a breath through his teeth. Aramis stopped.

"Pain?"

"I'm ridiculously bruised. Yes, I'm in pain."

"Bruises?"

"Yes, Aramis, bruises. Will you get on with it?" He had to be tired of it by now. Lying there in the dirt, hurting. Probably desperate to get home.

"I'm trying to…" Aramis' voice was faltering, his hands flailing on Porthos' shoulder.

"I know. I'm sorry." Porthos reached out a hand for him only to have it slapped away.

"Lie still."

"It's not that bad, Aramis, really."

"You were dragged behind a carriage. It is that bad."

"Aramis…" Athos put a hand on Aramis' shoulder. "You're doing fine. He's doing—"

"Let me work."

That shut them all up.

Nothing was any more wrong than had been obvious. Bruises, Porthos' legs were an absolute mess, his shoulder dislocated, some rope burn on the wrists. Those wounds made d'Artagnan flinch. That was awful. Big, red, bloody marks where Aramis had cut away the ties. No wonder really. He'd had four galloping horses pull at those wrists. No wonder his shoulder had popped either. All in all, it could have been a lot worse.

D'Artagnan handed over Porthos' head again and Aramis made sure every bit of his neck was aligned and all in the right place. All good there as well. All in all, it could have been worse, clearly. Aramis helped Porthos sit up. Helped him up by the uninjured shoulder.

"Look at me."

"Always." Porthos smiled. Reached out a hand to hold Aramis'.

"Look to the left." Aramis stared at him intently. "Now to the right."

"Yes, I've got a concussion," Porthos said. "What'd you expect?"

Aramis snarled at him. "I expect you to not die on me."

"I'm not."

"Cause I'm making sure of that."

Porthos dragged him over and held him against his chest. "You are." He pressed a kiss to Aramis' hair. "You're always looking out for me."

Aramis gave a tiny shake of the head. "Not good enough."

Porthos tipped his head up to look at him properly. "You're wonderful, you know that. You've got my back all the time in a fight and you always come for me and then you check me over and patch me up again after. You're perfect."

Aramis shook himself and sat up straight.

"That shoulder…"

Porthos grimaced. "Better do it now, I guess."

"Wouldn't be very comfortable on the road." Aramis looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm… I don't… I…"

"D'Artagnan?" Athos nodded to him. "Let's…"

He nodded towards Porthos.

What? D'Artagnan looked back and forth between Athos and Porthos and… oh. Aramis. Aramis who was pale and sweating like he was the injured one. Aramis who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, doing absolutely anything else. Right. Well. How difficult could it be? A shoulder. Put it back in. Pull on the arm a bit, that's what people did. Sure. They could do that.

"We've got this," Athos said and patted Aramis' shoulder. "Just hold his hand."

He got up and d'Artagnan followed suit. Shouldn't be too bad. Little pull, pop that shoulder back in, then put Porthos in that coach and straight back to Paris. Deliver the letters to the cardinal and then off they'd go to have a well-earned drink.

At least Athos was certain of what they were doing. We've got this. Right. Well, d'Artagnan sure hoped that was true because he had no idea where to even put his hands.

Oh damn it, yes, that didn't look right at all. There was a knobbly bump sitting right under Porthos' skin where there wasn't one on the other side.

"There's something like a cup in the bone." Athos demonstrated with his hands. "This bone has to go back in there."

"What can I do?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Stand behind him, let him lean against your legs and relax his shoulders."

D'Artagnan nodded and followed instructions. He could do that, definitely

Athos knelt in front of Porthos and Porthos leaned back against d'Artagnan's legs. From this angle d'Artagnan noticed he was slumping down on the injured side.

"Relax," Athos said.

Porthos groaned. "You try and relax. This isn't my idea of a fun night."

"It won't go back in if you're tense."

Porthos sighed and squeezed Aramis' hand. At least he seemed to relax the tiniest bit.

Athos put one hand on his forearm and the other on his biceps. Strange that Aramis wasn't giving him instructions. That's what he usually did when anyone had to do anything medical. Mostly when one of them had to stitch wounds he couldn't reach on his own body. Any other time it was Aramis doing all this. This felt very strange. Aramis was not being his usual bossy self at all. He sat there, biting his lip and looking at Porthos like he was some sort of saint that had appeared to him. And what was the world coming to if he started to trust that others knew what they were doing to Porthos? Hell had to be freezing over.

D'Artagnan braced himself for a fierce yank on Porthos' arm and the resulting scream. Porthos wasn't exactly one to suffer quietly.

Instead, Athos was very gentle. He didn't pull at all, just moved Porthos' arm very slowly up and rotated it. No bone was going to jump into any sort of cup like that. Had Athos lost his nerve as well? What on earth was going on? What were they not telling him? First Aramis and now Athos. Everything had been perfectly normal. Porthos captured, alright, that hadn't been part of the plan, but those things happened. It wasn't like anything had gone majorly wrong. Porthos would be cursing every time he moved for the next week or two, but in the grand scheme of things, it was a pretty successful mission. Only Aramis didn't seem to think so. And now Athos—

"Diable!" Something popped and Porthos hissed out a long breath between his teeth. He slumped back against d'Artagnan's legs. "Damn it, Athos." He panted, then stretched his arm and wriggled his fingers. "Thank you."

"Of course," Athos said. "You're more than welcome."

"Was that it?" d'Artagnan asked. Not that he was complaining, but… he'd expected a bit more. Whenever someone talked about putting a shoulder back in, it sounded a lot more spectacular.

Porthos glared up at him. "You try it next time if that wasn't good enough for you. I'll volunteer to pull both of yours out if you go on like that."

Athos smirked. "Occasionally, myth and reality are rather distant cousins. You never want to pull too harshly on these sorts of injuries."

Oh, right, so Athos was now giving lectures on medicine as well as military strategy, honour, and fencing. They'd have to deposit him at the university rather than the garrison.

D'Artagnan snorted. "And how do you know that?"

Athos shrugged. "It was a common ailment for my younger brother. I learned by watching the physician help him."

Pretty rare for Athos to speak of Thomas. D'Artagnan relished it. All those little pieces of the jigsaw that was Athos' life before the musketeers. They'd learned a fair bit, of course, couldn't really help it with the whole rigmarole of the dead-or-not-so-dead ex-wife reappearing to torture him and all of France. But still… it all remained a bit of a mystery. It had been such a different life.

A physician. That wouldn't have happened at the d'Artagnan house, that was for sure. Anything his mother couldn't help with, they'd ask the midwife about and if she didn't know, it was usually a case for the priest. Oh, and when the fair was on, there'd be a barber surgeon, but it was probably better to go straight to the priest than to deal with that butcher. He mainly trained his patients' voices making them scream like stuck pigs. Before the musketeers, d'Artagnan had never seen a medic as skilled as Aramis. And now there was Doctor Lemay who'd studied all sorts of things and was a proper man of science.