AN – Sorry for the delay, being back at work his brought real life crashing down and swallowed up my time to write. However, here is an extra long chapter to make up for it and I'm hoping to post the final part over the bank holiday weekend. Hope you enjoy.

In the days whilst they waited for Athos to return d'Artagnan gradually began to recover his strength and was passed fit to return to light training. After a little deliberation Aramis decided that now was a good time to develop his shooting skills.

"Clever," Porthos murmured as he returned from Palace duty to see what Aramis had the younger man doing. "Using the long barrelled musket, so he has to rest it on a forquette. Means there ain't no pull on his back."

"I have my moments," Aramis preened before he lowered his voice to whisper conspiratorially. "Don't tell him. He thinks I'm just broadening his skills. You know what he's like when he thinks he's being coddled."

"He has been overdoing things." Porthos worried.

"So says the man who pronounced himself "fine and fit" the day after 15 stitches," Aramis reminded him. Then he sighed. "Although, you're not the only one who's noticed. Treville's been watching again."

"If Athos was here he'd be resting, like it or not."

They both recognised the truth of that. D'Artagnan was wilful and headstrong, but he valued Athos' good opinion more than anything, which, of course, was the root of the present difficulty.

"If Athos was here our young friend would not feel the need to be running himself ragged to prove to the world at large that Garnon's treachery has left him utterly unscathed." Aramis pointed out.

"Thought maybe he would have been back by now," Porthos bit his lip.

"Athos can take care of himself," Aramis reminded them both. "And he has LeFevre and DuPont with him. If anything of note had occurred they would have sent word."

"You saying you're not worried about 'im?" Porthos challenged.

"I wish I could." Aramis admitted quietly.

They both watched with no small degree of sympathy how d'Artagnan's concern built as Athos still did not return. It showed in the way his eyes flew to the archway at every sound of approaching hoof beats. In the slump of his shoulders each time he returned to put his horse up in the stables and saw the stall belonging to Athos' mount still empty. In the manner in which he took every opportunity to speak of him as if trying to fill the void left by their absent friend.

Five days after Athos had left the three remaining sat down to lunch, huddled together under the arches as the rains, which had been falling for the last two days, continued to pour down. Aramis and Porthos kept up their usual flow of conversation, but their attempts to draw d'Artagnan in fell flat. The young man sat, his eyes fixed on the entrance, his stew growing cold and all but forgotten.

"S'good this." Porthos nudged d'Artagnan. "Eat up."

D'Artagnan stirred his stew, knowing that it had been a good five minutes since he had even tried to put any in his mouth. The few spoonfuls which he had forced down lay uneasily in his stomach, making him feel a little bilious.

"Treville was expecting him back three days ago." He said instead.

"It's probably just the rain that has delayed them. That road is always difficult this time of year." Aramis soothed.

"'Specially if it floods," Porthos agreed, around a mouthful of stew.

That caused d'Artagnan to sit up straight. His eyes going wide with panic at the thought.

"You don't think they might have been washed away?"

Aramis cast Porthos a "now look what you did" look. The other man had the grace to look a bit sheepish.

"All Porthos meant was that If the bridge was out they would have to come the long way around. It adds a few days to any journey."

"You're worried about him," d'Artagnan pointed out stubbornly. "I can tell."

"Treville is not mistaken when he calls Athos the finest soldier in the regiment," Aramis dodged the question. "He has skill with a sword, accuracy with a musket and the wits to find ways to avoid using either unless absolutely necessary. In that respect your worry would be best reserved for anyone who dared to cross him."

"So why are you worried?" D'Artagnan insisted. "You weren't, at first. When you thought he would be gone only a few days you were glad he had something to occupy him. But now I see the way you two keep frowning at each other when you think I'm not looking."

"It doesn't do for Athos to be too much alone," Aramis admitted. "Especially, when he's brooding."

"But he's not alone. He has LeFevre and DuPont with him." D'Artagnan was confused.

"Yeah, but he doesn't have us," Porthos said simply.

"And on patrol, since he does not have his usual recourse to drink, he is more likely to punish himself in other ways," Aramis looked pained. "Do you remember that ambush on the road to Abbeville not long after you joined us?"

D'Artagnan thought back. That mission had been in his early days of accompanying his friends. Some important documents had to be delivered in the upmost secrecy. To that end Athos and a company of men had set off from the garrison under cover of night, laying low during the day and taking a random route as if to deflect attention.

The following day, when those who had been watching the Garrison had firmly attached themselves to Athos' false trail, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had left in broad daylight, as if on a matter of no importance, heading in the opposite direction with the documents tucked securely in Aramis' jacket.

"I remember, you telling Treville that taking me along would be the perfect cover, because no-one would ever suspect he'd send a Gascon farm boy to protect state secrets." He scowled.

"And I was right," Aramis reminded him smugly. "The documents were delivered without anyone the wiser. That part of the plan at least was sound."

"'Cept the other part worked too well," Porthos' expression darkened. "Athos got hurt."

D'Artagnan remembered that all too clearly. With the documents safely delivered they had ridden with all haste to meet up with Athos and the others on the road and let them know that the ruse was no longer necessary. Unfortunately, by the time they reached them the company had already been attacked.

"It was an ambush," Blanchard greeted them, a bloody bandage tied around his arm. "We were outnumbered almost two to one, made for a devil of a fight."

"Any losses?" Porthos was the one to ask. D'Artagnan held his breath. They still hadn't seen Athos.

"Not on our part," He grinned. "Athos' plan of having the bombs as well as muskets and swords, scared the living daylights out of 'em."

"Gentlemen."

D'Artagnan felt a wash of relief as he saw the now familiar figure striding across the small campsite dotted with wounded musketeers. He was a little curious as to how they would greet one another after such a separation, but to his surprise Athos seemed cool, even distant.

"Since you are here can I assume our plan was a success?"

"You're wounded." Aramis frowned.

D'Artagnan blinked. Athos looked perfectly fine to him. He carried himself with his usual bearing. Now he looked closely he was a little paler than usual, but a week's hard riding, always on the lookout for danger would be wearing for the best of men. Surely, Aramis was mistaken?

"The documents?" Athos insisted tersely.

"Safe where they ought to be and no one the wiser," Porthos was succinct. He gestured at Athos. "How bad is it?"

"It was but a glancing blow," Athos dismissed his concern. "I saw to it."

"You'll forgive me if I wish to check your needlework?" Aramis enquired genially.

"Needlework?" d'Artagnan managed in a slightly strangled voice.

"Just below his ribs I reckon," Porthos narrowed his eyes at Athos. "There must have been three of 'em at him. No way only two would have got through Athos' guard like that. Most likely one of 'em saw their chance to get a blade under his jacket when he lifted his arm to block a parry."

"That doesn't sound like a glancing blow." D'Artagnan frowned un-happily.

"Gentlemen," Athos sighed in true exasperation, without the usual hint of fondness. "I assure you my stitches will hold until we return to the Garrison. Until then we all have our duty to perform."

Aramis stepped forward, physically closing the distance between them until they were almost touching. Porthos closed ranks from the other side.

"Every step you take pains you," Aramis murmured. "No doubt you struggled to clean the wound and infection has set in. More than likely between the pain and the blood loss your stitches became larger and more ragged so it is not fully closed."

"That's gotta hurt, 'specially after a day in the saddle. You'd feel every pull on a wound like that." Porthos looked grave.

"Come, my friend," In an act that d'Artagnan thought was either greatly daring or impossibly foolish Aramis reached out and took Athos by the elbow to lead him aside. "Let us help you."

Athos closed his eyes briefly and then leant into that touch.

It had been the small things, d'Artagnan realised that had brought Athos fully back to himself. The way Porthos had tethered the horses so that they were largely shielded from public view. The gentle hand in his hair as Aramis helped him to drink. Porthos holding him in his lap murmuring comfort in his ear as Aramis carefully re-did the brutal, ugly stitches, with tender loving care. Somehow Aramis had procured a bottle of brandy and d'Artagnan contributed by catching and cooking a brace of rabbits so they could all sit down to a companionable supper. And finally, they all took turns to watch over him as he slept.

"You're right," He realised now. "He will never confide in LeFevre or DuPont."

Nor permit any of the fond touches, or personal liberties which he tolerated with wry amusement from his friends. And which did so much to keep his darkness at bay.

"And the longer he's away the more we'll have to undo when he returns," Porthos sighed. "That's just how it is with Athos."

"But you've been friends for years," d'Artagnan frowned. "Shouldn't he know by now that you'll always stand by him?"

"It's not us he doubts, you clot" Porthos pointed out as if it should be obvious. "He worries that he's not worth our brotherhood."

D'Artagnan thought long and hard about that over the next few days. Athos was the best friend he had ever had. How could the man not realise how much his support and care had meant to a young man left all along in the world? He now understood where Aramis was coming from when he had said "This is Porthos" There was nothing he would not do for Athos.

Even if that meant he had to save him from himself.

It was seven days before Athos returned. The three men arrived in the courtyard on weary mounts streaked with mud. Each of them was soaked to the skin. LeFevre and DuPont told stories of the bridge washed away, of roads nothing but a sea of mud, of a young girl fetching water swept into a swollen river and Athos' dive into the freezing water to save her.

"We honestly thought we had lost him." DuPont shook his head. "He disappeared under the water for several minutes, but then the pair of them were washed up against some rocks."

Aramis was already cataloguing possible injuries, bruising, fractured or broken bones, head wound, related complications, lung congestion, chills, sickness and fever. Not to mention just been cold, wet and feeling utterly wretched.

"Did the girl live?" Porthos demanded.

D'Artagnan felt sick. Fully focused on Athos' well-being it had not even occurred to him that, despite his best efforts, the child might not have survived. He could not imagine what that would do to Athos.

"Yes, her family were grateful beyond words."

"And Athos?" Aramis asked.

"We're not sure," LeFerve admitted guiltily. "We made a fire and he changed into dry clothes. Robert made some stew but he ate very little. Against his protests we gave him our blankets and slept in our cloaks."

"He would say nothing, but a man could not survive what he did without some injury," DuPont's eyes were dark with concern. "We worried for his ribs and at the very least there must be some bruising given how they were dashed against the rocks."

"We are truly sorry we could not do more than we did," LeFerve clutched Aramis' shoulder. "But you know Athos."

"Indeed we do." Aramis covered his fellow Musketeers hand with his own. "Our thanks for bringing him back to us."

"This is worse than we thought," Porthos fretted once LeFerve and DuPont had departed in search of a hot meal. He hesitated, willing to defer to his friend's greater medical knowledge. "How did Athos look to you?"

Athos had rode in, handed off his horse to Jacques the stable boy, made his way up the stairs to Treville's office to report and then taken himself off the armoury to clean his mud caked weapons, with only the briefest of haunted glances in the direction of his friends.

"Thinner, paler and in a whole world of hurt," Aramis bit off each word. "We should never have let him out of our sight."

"Don't worry," d'Artagnan straightened up, his usual cocky smile replaced by a look of absolute determination as he met his friends' gaze. "I've got this one."

D'Artagnan walked quietly into the armoury. Athos was sitting at a table, his entire attention focused on cleaning his musket. To any casual observer it was an utterly unremarkable sight. To d'Artagnan who could see a whole world of pain in the slight stiffness of his shoulders and the total absence of any expression on his face to see his best friend thus was heart breaking.

"You're back." He deliberately kept his tone light. "Good trip?"

"I didn't have to kill anyone, which is always a blessing." Athos responded as if by rote. Then he hesitated and asked, almost as if he could not bear to hear the answer, but equally that he could not bear not to know the truth. "You're back on your feet I see?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan boldly took the words as an invitation to approach. Even though it wasn't at all clear that Athos had meant anything of the sort. "I'm doing well, much better, in fact."

"I am glad of it," Athos raised his eyes briefly to meet his own and d'Artagnan saw the raw sincerity in that gaze, as well as the lingering guilt, before Athos looked swiftly away.

"Is there something else I can do for you?" The voice of the Comte asked, with stiff formality.

"Well, the thing is, my back still itches like fury," d'Artagnan gave a small self-depreciating shrug. "I've got this salve I'm supposed to be putting on it. But it's really hard to reach. I thought perhaps you could help me?"

"I'm rather busy just now," Athos' tone was curt. "Ask Aramis. He has more experience with such things."

D'Artagnan took a deep breath and then did either the bravest or the stupidest thing in his whole life. Which considering his natural propensity to recklessness was rather saying something.

"I don't want Aramis to do it," He spoke with quiet determination. "You are the best friend I have in the world. I need you, Athos."

Athos paused in the action of cleaning his sword, his hand hovering over the blade. D'Artagnan wasn't at all sure whether to take that as a good sign or not. Summoning his courage he stepped forward so he could lay a hand on his friend's arm.

"If we are going to continue in each other's company you are going to have to become accustomed to looking at my scars," He deliberately made his tone nonchalant. "They will probably look much worse in the summer. My skin has always darkened with the sun."

"How can you speak of it so lightly?" Athos' eyes flashed as he pinned d'Artagnan with a glare. "After what Garnon did to you. What I caused him to do? And now you will carry those scars for life. Why do you not hate me?"

"Because Garnon is justly dead by your hand and I will not allow him this final victory by being the cause of any rift between us," d'Artagnan countered. "Or do you think my pride more important than my love for you?"

Athos said nothing as he considered that. But he held out his hand for the small jar and stood up, waiting patiently as d'Artagnan slipped out of his shirt and turned his back to give Athos better access. D'Artagnan held himself carefully still as he realised his friend was just standing and staring at the healing welts.

"They're getting better," He spoke quietly, giving Athos time to reconcile the truth of his words with the now pink marks on his back. "Aramis says the itching is a good sign."

Still Athos did not speak, but firm, careful, fingers, began gently rubbing the salve into his back. D'Artagnan took a moment to enjoy that that feeling of being cared for before he forced himself to broach the painful truth.

"If I am to be a musketeer there will be other scars," He pointed out quietly.

Athos' fingers stilled for a moment, before they resumed their careful ministrations.

"I know," He finally spoke. "But this was never musketeer business. With Garnon it was always personal. He came after you because of your friendship with me. I might as well have whipped you by my own hand." Athos' tone dripped with guilt.

"Really? Because I thought it was all Garnon's doing?" d'Artagnan affected bemusement. He turned around so he could meet Athos' gaze. "And if he targeted me because of you then I will wear those scars with pride, because I can think of no greater honour than to be counted friend to Oliver, d'Athos de la Fere."

He smiled.

"Besides, I have it on good authority that I frequently bring such things on myself. As Porthos said I can be "a bit mouthy."

Athos looked at him for a long moment. Truly he did not believe that he deserved the forgiveness that this fine young man so freely offered. But nor could he be so churlish as to reject it.

"You have never been the least hindrance to me," he vowed. "Rather you have been something of a salvation."

"For all you have tried to close yourself off you cannot help but care," d'Artagnan smiled at him. "Your kindness is as much a part of you as breathing. You might as well scoop out your own heart or cut off your sword arm as try to deny it."

He paused.

"So, just how badly were you hurt diving into that river?"