My first sick fic (I think!) and first fic in this fandom! Thank you ITV for finally airing this series (possibly for the first time since the original broadcast, according to my research, though I could be wrong) so I've been able to watch such a classic and often spoken about program. I adore it! I'm now saving up for the series DVDs and the CD of 'The Knights of the Apocalypse'.

And I now might have a bit of a crush on young Jason Connery.

Robin, once Robert of Huntingdon, woke slowly, senses returning one at a time.

The first thing he was aware of was of his cheek resting on something warm and soft, shifting slightly as it breathed. Then an arm across his back propping him up as he lent against something solid. A gentle touch brushed against his forehead then down his face as a firmer one pressed against the inside of one wrist, as his fingers mingled with soft soil and sturdy leaves. The other arm was draped across his middle, shoulder to elbow pressed against whatever was holding him up.

The scent of wet dog and wood smoke entered his nose with every breath. Somehow it brought to mind Little John. Beneath that was the ever present smell of earth and rotting leaves that could only mean Sherwood Forest.

Bird song started twittering all around him, the low whistle of the blackbird and the wood pigeon's cooing call rose above the rustling of the leaves.

A voice spoke.

"I don' like this." The fur under his cheek rumbled as the words were spoken. "We should go back to camp. To Marion. Marion can help, can't she?"

"Yes, John," said another voice. "We'll give him a few minutes more to wake up before we make our way back. It'll save you carrying him if he can walk back and it'll give the Sheriff's men more of a chance to give up looking for us."

Sheriff's men? Oh yes, they had been running. Then what had happened?

As he became more aware his body started getting heavier and heavier, head filling with lead and limbs turning to wood. A rough pain snaked its way up the back of his throat as his stomach churned. Ice bit at his fingers, face and a strip of skin at the base of his spine where his tunic had ridden up by the arm across his back.

"Chances are," continued the second voice, "he's got the same illness as Much and Will, only they had the sense to stay in camp and rest. He should not have been walking the length of the forest with this fever, let alone running from the Sheriff's soldiers."

Robin tried to swallow the burning pain back down his throat but it only made it worse. A cough suddenly exploded out of him, shooting fire both down his throat and up into his head. His fingers unconsciously dug into the soil only relaxing when the fit had passed.

The arm across his back held him tighter in an awkward sideways hug.

"Robin?" inquired John into his ear.

"I think he's coming back to us," replied Tuck.

Opening his eyes was a struggle. Robin wished for the pain free peacefulness of unconsciousness again but Tuck's gentle but instant tapping on his cheek and the rare sound of worry in John's voice made him fight.

The light was blinding when he managed to open his eyes but it faded into low winter sun after a few seconds, revealing Tuck's concerned face.

The monk smiled.

"There you are."

"Tuck," Robin groaned, voice grating over the name. "Where are we? What happened?"

"You fainted!" stated Tuck. He looked to the sky as he crossed himself then fixed Robin with an unimpressed stare. "You gave us quite the fright passing out like that. With the speed that you dropped I thought you'd been shot!"

"You aged me twenty years in a few seconds, seeing you fall," said John. "Wasn't sure I wasn't carrying a corpse until we hid here and found you were still breathing. Which I'm glad about, by the way, though I've got half a mind to throttle you for frightening Tuck and I."

Robin sluggishly searched for John's disembodied voice, surprised that he wasn't hovering behind Tuck's shoulder, before suddenly realising that he was seeing the world tilted on its side; his heavy head, as if weighed down by some invisible hand, still rested on Little John's shoulder.

He fought against the invisible hand, raising his head as the world spun, blurring around the edges. His head started to flop back, halted only by Tuck, his hand holding him steady.

"Get your bearings, lad," he said.

As the world was slowly blinked back into order Tuck removed his hand, smiling as Robin gathered his strength and started to be more aware of his surroundings outside of the little huddle he and his two friends made.

He looked around. They were crouched in a deep boundary ditch, thankfully dried, wide enough for both John and Robin to sit between the mud walls and just deep enough for Tuck to scramble out of without help, though it was a close call. He stood by the edge, brushing the mud off his hands on his habit and peering out across the forest.

"Looks like we lost them," he said. "Not a soldier in sight. I think it's safe to get back to camp now." He tumbled back into the ditch with his usual grace, dead leaves scattering in his wake. "We'll rest for a few minutes more then move. Do you think you can stand?" he asked Robin.

Robin wasn't sure but his head had cleared from the initial grogginess and his stubborn pride had returned. He sat up under his own stream, no longer leaning against John, trying to ignore the heaviness still weighing his head and body down and the soreness in his throat.

"We can go now," he replied. Tuck looked at him worriedly.

"Just you wait a bit, get your strength back."

"The others will be wondering where we are."

"They can wait. You're sick, you need the extra rest before the walk back. Or do you need John to carry you back?"

"I'm fine."

"Sure you are."

"You passed out!" exclaimed John. "You're not alright."

"You should be in bed," stated Tuck, "or what passes for one around here."

Robin huffed out a resigned breath, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to ease the relentless throbbing there. There was no way that he could pretend that he was well. He should have known that before leaving camp that morning.

This was his first winter and he hadn't wanted to seem weak in front of the others. Especially not Marian, who not long ago had nursed him through the fever that had taken hold of him after taking the poisoned crossbow bolt to his leg. Any chance of that now seemed impossible, even if he did manage to walk back to camp. And an increasingly large part of him just wanted to get back to camp and lie down beside the warm fire and try to sleep, no matter what the others thought of him. Anything to ease the ice that had sunk into his bones.

He drew in a large breath to speak, to agree to a wait, but the cold winter air caught in his throat and the breath came out in a rush of coughs. He hunched over, each cough shaking his entire frame, pain trailing a river of burning from his tongue down into his lungs. Tuck and John crouched beside him, rubbing his back and steadying him, murmuring platitudes as he tried to get his breathing back under control.

"Easy, Robin," said Tuck.

"I got ya," said Little John, holding Robin against his chest again as his body shuddered. "I got ya. Tuck, he's not sounding good."

"No, not good," was the reply. "But his breathing sounds clear so he's not as sick as he could be."

Robin knew what Tuck meant. He'd heard the laboured breathing and wet, hacking coughs of one of the old stable hands when he was a child before being quickly rushed away by his nurse. He'd been told that the man had died a few days later, drowned by his own lungs, or so said one of the stable lads he secretly played with when his father wasn't around. He hoped he wouldn't get that bad.

It was the cold air that was tickling his throat, causing the coughing fit, not sludge shifting in his lungs. He'd been suppressing coughs since he had left the warmth of the camp's fire that morning.

It felt like hours had passed by the time the coughing had eased. Robin slumped bonelessly in John's arms as he got his breath back. A familiar hand worked its way under the hair that had fallen across his face, pressing against his forehead for a few moments.

"Your fever's not getting any worse," sighed Tuck, withdrawing his hand. "But I don't like you being this far away from camp with it this high. You must have felt this illness coming on for the last few days. There is no way this has developed in only a few hours." Robin nodded, not wanting to speak in case he triggered another round of coughing. Tuck sighed again. "You should have said something this morning and not try to hide it."

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

John fisted a hand in his tunic and gave him a gentle shake but he could feel the power restrained behind the action.

"Don't do it again," he growled.

"I won't." Robin patted the hand still gripping his clothing. "I promise."

John pushed him away as he growled, looking off into the trees some way in the distance. Robin couldn't see his face but could see the muscles in his jaw working as he ground his teeth together. The shove was careful compared to his usual strength and his hand stayed on his arm just long enough to ensure that Robin was sitting steadily before withdrawing. He had a feeling that if it didn't cause more problems than it would solve John would deck him for taking so poor of his health and causing so much worry.

"Now, enough of that," said an exasperated Tuck. "It's about time we made our way back to the others. Robin, do you think if you have a few more minutes rest you could walk back to camp?"

Robin nodded again then looked down at his hands, noticing the mud that had been embedded under his fingernails.

"Sorry for being such a problem."

"Aye, lad," said Tuck as he clambered to his feet. "You are but you're forgiven-" John grunted in his direction as he too climbed to his feet and walked away. "Or soon will be," Tuck amended. "But let this be your lesson not to hide any sickness."

Robin spent the next few minutes of waiting leaning against the side of the ditch, eyes shut, listening to the sound of the birds and Little John tramping around them searching for any sign of soldiers on the path ahead.

He started when Tuck shook him awake. He hadn't meant to fall asleep.

"Let's get you back to camp."

With John and Tuck holding onto each hand and wrist and with a tug from both, Robin was quick to rise to his feet, glad that his legs would hold his weight. But the pleasure at being upright was very short lived.

Blood rushed in his ears as it fell to his feet, loosening his limbs and making his head swim. His knees buckled as the earth turned into a raging sea, bucking and tossing him around.

His vision faded.

John swore in his ear.

He came to, held firmly between his two friends, their solid presences the only thing that had stopped him from crashing back to the forest floor. He willed his legs to hold his weight again as he waited for the dizziness to pass.

"You with us again, lad?" asked Tuck.

Robin lifted his head from where it had fallen, back on Little John's shoulder.

"Give me a minute," he replied. Everything was quickly righting itself again, faster than the first time, and he soon found himself standing on his own, whole, if not entirely healthy. Both Tuck and John had seemed a little reluctant to stand back from him, as if they expected him to drop as soon as their strength was taken away from him.

He smiled at them, fond but tired. An arm waved vaguely in the direction of home.

"Camp?"

"Yes, my lad," said Tuck. "Home."

John took the lead, Tuck hovering just behind Robin's shoulder. He had glanced at him as they walked and it seemed that Tuck was scanning either side of the path and not paying him any attention but he wasn't fooling Robin, sick as he may be. If Tuck came any closer he would trip on Robin's boot heels: a bad distance for walking but a good one to catch a falling body.

However Robin's legs felt good to be moving, to get the blood flowing gently around him again, not the hot rush that had sent him into unconsciousness whilst running from soldiers. His head wasn't so sure, brain sloshing around in his skull with every step. But he didn't feel like passing out again, thank Herne.

The longer Robin walked without repercussions, Tuck started to relax and eventually ended up shoulder to shoulder with him on the wider paths.

"I don't know what it was like growing up in a manor house," said Tuck, sounding nonchalant but Robin could hear the hard edge to his voice. He knew he wasn't going to escape the situation without a scolding, and he was sure he was going to be subject to another when they got back to camp, though with any luck he would be asleep before Tuck and John had relayed their story to the others. "But in the forest we don't take illness lightly. We can't afford to. We don't have a roof over our heads and a warmed bed to get into at the end of the day. A mild sickness can turn deadly by the day's end if we are not careful."

Robin stayed silent, just nodding to show that he was listening.

"Our first winter in the forest," Tuck continued, "Much got so sick we thought he would not survive. Robin, our first Robin, was distraught. He spent three days holding his brother up so he could breath, barely eating or sleeping himself. There was nothing we could do. We had no herbs and no village would let us under their roofs, not even in their barns. It was only by the grace of the Lord that Much lived." Tuck crossed himself. "So we take illness seriously, we don't want a repeat of those days."

"No we bloody don't," muttered John from ahead.

"Brother?" asked Robin. "I didn't know they were brothers."

"By bond rather than by blood," Tuck replied. "Much's parents raised Robin after his own father was killed. They grew up together."

Robin swallowed painfully and stayed silent. No wonder Much looked up to him like an older brother, he had stepped into Much's actual brother's shoes.

"Why did you hide your sickness?" asked Tuck. "You've already seen that we haven't stopped Much and Will from needing to stay at camp."

Robin fell silent again as he contemplated his answer, trying to pick out the right words from his tired mind to explain his feelings.

"I just...I think…" he stumbled. "I think I still feel like a bit of an outsider, even now." He waved a placating hand at Tuck before he had time to protest. "I know you and everyone else has made me feel welcome, or," he amended, remembering the fights he had engaged in against Tuck, John then Will on their first meetings, "at least you did after our first adventure. I guess I just worry that if I show any weakness you'll cast me out of the group. That I'm not doing my share of the work. That I'm not good enough to be Robin i' the Hood. Just an Earl's son playing at outlaws."

"Idiot," muttered John, shaking his head. "That fever's addling your brain."

Tuck sighed.

"We aren't going to cast you out for being sick. There are plenty of tasks you can get along with at camp, if you feel up to it. If not, you need to rest. Focus on getting better instead of trying to seem invincible. You are just a man, Herne's son or not, and men get sick."

Robin looked down at the leaves crunching under foot, ashamed for doubting his friends.

"I know. I'm sorry."

Conversation trailed off, Tuck seemingly finished admonishing his leader and Robin needing all his remaining strength to keep from falling asleep on his feet.

"Do you need to rest?" asked Tuck after a while. "We can stop in the clearing up ahead."

"I'd rather we kept going," replied Robin, sounding exhausted even to himself. "I think if I stopped I'd never get going again. I just want to get to camp and sleep."

"If you're sure," John eyed him critically. "I don't want to have to carry you back."

"I relish the thought of being carried like a babe just as much as you, John. I'm sure I'll make it."

The rest of the journey passed in a haze, only Tuck's guiding hand to his elbow ensured that he made it back to camp without incident.

He brought himself back to awareness as the comforting smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat wafted up his nose. Only a few steps ahead was the camp, silent and still other than Marion deftly wielding a small knife by the fire. She looked up at their approach, rushing to their side as the small group stopped at the edge of their home.

"Robin? What's wrong?"

"He's sick," stated John bluntly. "He's been hiding it since morning."

"What?"

"Oh no," came Will's drawl from the other side of the fire. "My lord had better not expect us to wait on him hand and foot just 'cause he's sick." Will was just as acerbic as he had been that morning. He obviously wasn't feeling any better.

"I'm ok, Marion," said Robin. "A few day's rest and I'll be fit to be robbing Gisburn's men again." Marion pressed a cool hand to his cheek for a second, unimpressed at the heat radiating from his skin.

"You hid you were sick?" she said. "I had hoped better of you." She stormed off back to the rabbit she had been skinning, turning her back on them.

"I dare say you'll get an ear full from that one when you're feeling better," said Tuck, nodding his head towards Marion's back.

"She's not the only one," growled John as he stalked past to the fire to warm up his frozen hands.

"That'll teach you not to hide things from us." Tuck continued, reaching up and feeling Robin's forehead. "You're no warmer," he said withdrawing his hand. He motioned across to the other side of the camp. "Go lie next to Much. He likes people nearby when he's sick."

Much had rolled over at the sound of voices, hair mussed from his doze, patting the ground next to him and smiling at them with bleary eyes.

Robin answered back with a tired smile of his own and stumbled his way to where he had left his bed that morning.

On the way he passed Will, who sat hunched over on a log, whittling knife and reel of thread in hand and feathers at his feet as he repaired the bundle of arrows resting against the log next to him.

"You hid that you're ill, did ya?" muttered Will. "Too proud to admit you're a man like the rest of us, ay?"

"Will," Tuck admonished him from across the fire. "Leave it. Let him sleep."

Gathering the skins and blankets that made up his bed, so different from the one he had grown up sleeping in every night, he moved them to Much's side. It was times like this that he missed the old four poster dearly.

He kicked a skin out of the way, rearranging it with his feet before sinking down into his new nest. He sat down heavily, limbs suddenly refusing to cooperate. The jolt as he hit the floor knocked the breath out of him and the next automatic gasp triggered a fit of coughing. Much's worried face suddenly appeared beside him, brandishing a waterskin with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. He fought to control his breathing once more, nodding his thanks to Much as he took the waterskin and drank his fill, soothing the fire in his throat.

Any lingering energy he may have had was now gone. After handing the waterskin back to Much he just sat there, eyes shut and head bowed, too tired to even reach for his blankets and lie down. Sleep teetered on the brink of his awareness.

He heard movement approach him before a set of hands worked at something at his waist, the usual pressure from his sword belt suddenly easing. He hadn't even realised that Albion still hung at his hip.

"Oh, Robin," he heard John mutter under his breath. "You're in a sorry state."

A second pair of hands pulled him downwards and he let them, helpfully rearranging his limbs to a more comfortable position. One of the hands stayed holding one of his own as Much's happy little sigh floated into his ear.

His blankets were gently tossed over him, tugged here and there by the first set of hands. A hand pressed softly on his head for a moment, then withdrew with faint footsteps.

Robin slept, Much's comforting warmth by his side.

Little coda to follow. If you have a suggestion for a Robin of Sherwood fic, or just curious about other things I write I have a Tumblr - evieswritingjournal