Thanks to everyone who's been reading along, and to those who've left reviews, or have followed or favorited this story.

Special thanks to AZGirl for doing a very last-minute proofread for me, and still catching all of my silly mistakes.

Aramis frowned at the young man who had recently been placed on one of the infirmary beds. The two men who'd brought d'Artagnan in, and helped to carefully strip him of his doublet and boots, exited past the marksman who was too focused on the Gascon to do anything more than give them a distracted wave of thanks. Porthos occupied the next bed, and he was now observing Aramis with nearly the same intensity with which the marksman was observing d'Artagnan's still form.

"You gonna check on 'im?" Porthos asked.

"Hmm, yes, I will, but…" Aramis trailed off distractedly as he considered his options. On one hand, it would be best if he tended d'Artagnan as quickly as possible, but on the other hand, it would be difficult to identify what was wrong while the young man was unconscious. Noticing Porthos' penetrating gaze as he waited for a response, Aramis said, "I simply think it might be easier if he was awake and could tell me where he hurts."

The larger man nodded sagely before replying. "True, but what if there's somethin' that needs to be dealt with before he wakes up?"

Aramis' face twisted in discomfort, bringing him back to his internal debate regarding whether to act or not. Sighing, he said, "I'm going to make a draught to help with the pain and relax you. Once it takes effect, I'll be able to fix that shoulder."

Porthos' raised a questioning brow. "And d'Artagnan?"

"If he's not awake by the time I've finished preparing your medicine, then I'll tend to him regardless," Aramis said, his tone tinged with resignation. "That will give the draught some time to properly take effect."

Porthos nodded as he scooted back on his bed, positioning himself so he could rest against the wall. He placed the majority of weight on his right side, not wanting his aching left shoulder to have anything pressing back against it. Bracing his bound arm at the elbow once more, he watched as the medic moved around the room, unerringly gathering the items he required, before covering a selection of herbs with a small amount of hot water that had been brought in by one of the infirmary attendants.

Aramis brought the cup over to Porthos, setting it on a small stool next to the man's bed. "Let that steep for a few minutes and then drink it all. It'll make fixing your arm somewhat less painful – for both of us."

The larger man grunted in reply, already dreading the bitter taste, but unable to argue against its effects. Looking around the room, he queried, "Physician not around today?" He knew that Aramis was doubting his ability to deal with d'Artagnan's injuries, despite not yet knowing what they were.

Shaking his head, the marksman replied, "He'll be gone for another three or four days; he's with a group out on training exercises."

Porthos gave a nod of acknowledgement, before motioning towards d'Artagnan with his chin. "Better get after it, then."

Aramis gave a nearly silent sigh, reluctantly accepting that tending the young man couldn't be delayed any longer. Removing his doublet, he draped it over the back of a chair, before rolling up his shirtsleeves. Pulling another stool from the corner of the room, he positioned himself at the Gascon's right side, gently turning the young man's face further towards him to examine the most obvious injury at the young man's temple.

Regardless of how he'd fallen, d'Artagnan had clearly struck his head on something, the evidence of which had begun to darken the skin around his temple and cheekbone. A small trickle of blood had wound its way down the side of his face, and Aramis resisted the urge to wipe it away until he was done checking for other injuries.

He'd warred with himself about tending the young man, worried that he might be allowing precious time to pass while d'Artagnan suffered from some sort of life-threatening damage. At the same time, he'd feared that his poking and prodding might make something worse, and he'd desperately hoped that the Gascon would soon wake to provide some indication of where to find his hidden hurts. Unfortunately, Aramis found himself disappointed and still lacking critical information, with no other choice but to try and identify d'Artagnan's injuries without his assistance.

Gently, Aramis worked his fingers into the Gascon's hair, pressing and seeking any signs of shifting bones or blood that would suggest a skull fracture. Finding nothing, he moved down to the young man's neck and then along his torso, firmly pressing against each rib in turn, and noting the grimace of pain that appeared on d'Artagnan's face when he touched a tender spot on his right side. Lifting the young man's shirt up, he checked for the presence of bruising, but found nothing of concern other than the exceptionally dark discolouration over the damaged ribs.

Letting the shirt fall back into place, the medic continued his examination by running his hands along both of d'Artagnan's legs and arms, receiving another indication of pain when handling the young man's right wrist. Pulling the sleeve up, the medic was greeted by the sight of a badly swollen joint, which thankfully appeared sprained, but not broken. It was becoming painfully apparent that the young man's right side had taken the brunt of the fall.

Leaning back in his seat, Aramis found Porthos' gaze firmly fixed on him, his expression expectant as he waited for some information about their friend. "Two, possibly three, ribs broken on his right side. His wrist is also painful, but the bone is intact. He hit his head, but I won't know if he's suffering a concussion until he wakes." The medic glanced back down at the young man for a moment before admitting, "It's possible that he has other internal injuries…." He trailed off and shook his head. "I really need him awake so he can tell me what hurts."

As though hearing the marksman's plea, the Gascon groaned lowly, his head shifting slightly on the pillow that supported it. Cupping the young man's cheek with one hand, Aramis encouraged their friend to wake. "d'Artagnan, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes." Another moan of discomfort escaped the Gascon's slightly parted lips as he tried to roll his head away from the medic's touch. Gently moving it back to its previous position, Aramis gripped d'Artagnan's chin as he said, "None of that, now. I know you're hurting, but I need you to wake up and tell me where and how badly."

d'Artagnan's eyelids fluttered, opening and closing several times before he finally succeeded in propping them up, although to Aramis' practiced eye, it seemed that they might close again at any moment. "Can you tell me what hurts?" The medic prompted once more, determined to get some information from his patient before he lost his battle with unconsciousness.

d'Artagnan blinked slowly as he slurred, "Ev'rything."

Though not unexpected, the answer was not at all helpful, and Aramis had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. "I'm certain it probably feels that way, but what hurts the most?"

The Gascon's eyes grew unfocused as he turned his attention inwards, and Aramis had to stop himself from impatiently repeating his earlier question. Nearly a minute passed before the young man's gaze sharpened, and he focused once more on the medic at his side. "Head…wrist…ribs," he replied, his left hand drifting upwards to his sore side.

Aramis caught his friend's hand before it could land on the damaged ribs, guiding it back down to lay on the cot. "You've broken some ribs, and I'd advise against touching them."

d'Artagnan's brow furrowed in pain and confusion as he blearily stared at the marksman. "What happened to me?"

"You don't remember?" Porthos asked, prompting the Gascon to let his head loll to the left towards the large man. d'Artagnan answered with a tiny shake of his head, letting out a soft gasp as the motion aggravated the pounding in his skull.

The medic's hand was back, cupping the Gascon's face as he breathed through the spike of pain. "Don't do that," Aramis murmured unnecessarily, the young man already making a note of the fact that any jerky motions should be avoided.

"We were chasing Bernier," Porthos said, hoping his words would reawaken d'Artagnan's memories.

The Gascon slowly turned to face the large man again, his eyes narrowing as his gaze landed on Aramis' blue sash. "You're hurt," he stated, the concern obvious on his face despite his own discomfort.

Porthos had to stop himself from shrugging as he replied, "Nothing that hasn't happened before." He caught Aramis' stern expression, recalling clearly that the medic had warned him that his shoulder would be more susceptible to this particular injury the more frequently it occurred.

Rather than berating his friend, Aramis indicated the cup next to Porthos' bed. "Drink that so I can put your arm back into place before the swelling gets any worse."

Grimacing, the large man wordlessly reached for the pain draught, taking a healthy swallow under the medic's watchful gaze. Satisfied that the care of one of his patient's was well in hand, Aramis turned his attention back to the Gascon. "d'Artagnan, does anything else hurt aside from what you've already mentioned?" As the young man drew breath to reply, the medic stopped him with a look. "Think carefully; this is important."

Seeing the serious expression on Aramis' face, the Gascon took several moments to consider how he was feeling, going to the extent of breathing more deeply, and flexing his arms and legs, before relaxing back into the support of the bed. "There's nothing else, Aramis; just what I told you before."

The medic let out a long sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a moment as his lips moved with an inaudible prayer. When he reopened his eyes, a smile alighted his face as he warmly looked upon the Gascon and said, "Thank God."

The medic's reaction surprised d'Artagnan, and he realized with a start that he had scared the marksman. Shifting his gaze to Porthos, he found Aramis' expression mirrored there, and he swallowed thickly as he forced his mind to dredge up the events that had led to his injuries. He repeated Porthos' earlier words to himself, pushing past the pain in his skull, which had turned his thoughts to molasses.

Suddenly, he startled, his entire body jumping as he recalled falling to the ground. "We fell," he gasped, while Aramis easily pushed him back down against the mattress. The movement had reawakened his injuries, and left him panting with his eyes closed, as he fought to deal with the pain. When he managed to open his eyes, he found Aramis staring at him with unconcealed concern, prompting him to softly say, "Sorry."

Gently squeezing the Gascon's shoulder, the medic replied, "There's no need to apologize, but I recommend not moving any more than necessary until I you've had something for the pain."

d'Artagnan wasn't any more of a fan of Aramis' draughts than the others were, but he merely dipped his chin in agreement, for once welcoming the relief that the medicine would bring. At the young man's response, the medic stood and moved to the other side of the room, collecting the second draught he'd made in anticipation of this exact situation. Retaking his seat next to the Gascon, he lifted d'Artagnan's head so he could drink.

After several swallows, the young man pulled away from the cup, needing to take a break before drinking the rest. Catching the medic's eye, he asked, "Have you ever seen a straw?" Aramis' eyes twinkled with amusement at the odd question, while Porthos let out a short chuckle.

At the marksman's nod, d'Artagnan continued, "It's the most amazing thing, and very useful when one is hurt. Why don't we have straws in the infirmary?"

Aramis grinned at the enthusiasm behind the young man's question, while Porthos replied. "They are too expensive for us common soldiers."

The marksman nodded as he added, "Perhaps they'll eventually become a common item in everyone's home, but I doubt it; they're just too costly."

d'Artagnan frowned at his friends' responses, idly wondering if the straw he'd stuck into his doublet pocket had survived the fall. Before he could ask Aramis to check, the door to the infirmary was flung open, Athos following quickly in its wake. He crossed the distance between the entrance and the occupied beds, looking from the Gascon to Porthos, and back again, before throwing Aramis a questioning glance.

His lips quirking at the normally reserved man's open worry, Aramis said, "Broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and" – he leaned forward a moment to check d'Artagnan's pupils – "a hit to the head, but no concussion. A miracle, really."

Athos nodded slowly, the weight of his relief resting heavily on his shoulders as his pounding heart finally began to slow. "Thank God."

Porthos' lips quirked slightly as he stated, "Seems to be a common sentiment today."

Athos frowned in confusion at the large man's statement, but Aramis interjected with a mock exasperated shake of his head. "It's time I fix that shoulder of yours," he said, rising from his seat. Porthos winced at the thought of having his arm reset, but he said nothing as the medic sat down at his hip.

Aramis threw a comment over his shoulder to Athos as he began to remove the blue sash from the large man's torso. "Why don't you keep our young friend company while I take care of this."

Over the medic's shoulder, Porthos could see that the older man had already taken the medic's former seat next to d'Artagnan's bed. With a smile on his face, he softly uttered to Aramis, "Looks like he already has." Both men grinned knowingly for a moment at Athos' concern for the Gascon, happy that their positions hid their expressions of satisfaction.