Author's Note: I do not own these characters! They belong to the BBC. This is my first fanfiction - I am a writer who is used to creating my own characters, so this is new for me. However, after reading fanfics for so long, I finally had to try it myself. I am a huge whumper, so there will be a lot of that plus some much needed fluff happening... ;-D Anyways, here's my attempt at some D'artagnan whump, as well as a little drama between him and Constance (I absolutely love her - and I absolutely can't stand the way Monsieur Bonacieux treats her, coming from someone who's witnessed abuse firsthand...so it makes my blood boil.). I had this set sometime during season 2 in my mind, and I particularly drew inspiration from events that actually happened in episode 7. Alright, without further ado, hope you enjoy.

Just A Little Help

Chapter One

D'artagnan made his way down the dusty street past townsfolk hastily finishing the last of their duties for the day. He had just returned from fetching a few apples in the market, which he had been craving throughout the long day of training in the garrison. He was looking forward to maybe getting a little more rest tonight, as he was technically off-duty until morning.

Passing by the Bonacieux home, D'artagnan slowed his walk a bit and nearly decided to stop and say a hello to Constance. However, he could hear conversation drifting out from the open window and could tell that Monsieur Bonacieux was home and, by the tone and volume of his voice, not in the best of moods. D'artagnan felt the urge to go and protect Constance from his behavior, but he knew he might make more trouble for her later. The sound of a dish breaking was what made him halt suddenly and stiffen a bit. D'artagnan quickly changed his mind. He could not ignore what obviously was a little more than a simple argument.

Hurrying up to the door, D'artagnan rapped his knuckles on the wood. He slung the now forgotten small leather bag of apples over his head, freeing both his hands for whatever might happen next. A lot of shuffling was heard before the latch was undone and the door was pulled open slightly. Constance peered through the few inches of space, and the instant she saw D'artagnan, she pulled the door open wider. Immediately, D'artagnan's insides churned with anger. Constance's face was streaked with tears, and her eyes were red. D'artagnan resolved then and there that he was not about to leave until things were set right here.

"D'artagnan? Why are you here?" Constance asked, giving the slightest sniff and blinking her eyes to rid herself of the last few tears still visible.

"Nevermind why," D'artagnan said. He looked at her pointedly. "What has he done to you?"

"Nothing," Constance replied quickly, biting her lip.

"No, this isn't nothing," D'artagnan said, his frustration mounting.

"D'artagnan, please," Constance said, looking at him with pleading eyes. "You might make him angrier. He is just upset about something else and took it out on me. It's alright, I'm used to it."

"It's not alright, Constance. It's not alright at all." D'artagnan stepped closer. "Perhaps you should come take a walk with me? Get out of the house for a bit?"

Constance seemed to be relieved a little at the thought. "Maybe," she said. "I'll –"

"Constance!" Monsieur Bonacieux's voice called suddenly. "Who is that?"

Constance froze for a moment, and then called back in reply. "No one of great importance, really. They are leaving now. I will say, I might step outside for a bit of fresh air."

Before Constance or D'artagnan could say another word or move another inch, the door was suddenly pulled open wider. Constance jumped slightly, having not realized her husband had come up behind her. The moment Monsieur Bonacieux's gaze met D'artagnan's, he practically scowled.

"A bit of fresh air, eh?" he asked Constance in a mocking tone. "And what are you doing here, Musketeer?"

"Checking on a friend's welfare, monsieur," D'artagnan replied coolly. His hands were clenched so tightly that they nearly hurt.

"Indeed," Monsieur Bonacieux said with a huff of annoyance. "You expect me to believe that is the only reason. You are intruding on our lives. These are personal matters which do not involve you. Go on, get away with you, Musketeer. You are not welcome here. Ever." The last word was spoken as though it tasted bitter in the man's mouth.

D'artagnan opened his mouth to protest and give a sharp reply, but a quick glance at Constance made him stop short. She was shaking her head very subtly and giving him wide, pleading eyes. Fine. He would deal with this later. This was not over.

"Alright. I'll go. I was trying to offer just a little help. I wanted to make sure Constance was doing well.." D'artagnan looked back over at the irritated man standing before him.

"And now that you've seen her, you may leave. Now," Monsieur Bonacieux said, his voice clipped.

D'artagnan did not say another word, but with a nod of understanding to Monsieur Bonacieux, and another nod to Constance with a silent apology, he turned on his heel and left. It was against his better judgment, but he knew there was not a whole lot more he could do at the moment. For now.

Retreating back to the street, D'artagnan tried not to hit something out of frustration. He did not know how much longer he could take seeing Constance being treated in such a manner. As he was contemplating this, he was distracted enough to be suddenly taken by surprise when a hand came from nowhere, trying to snatch the leather pack of apples he carried.

"Hey!" he snapped quickly. The thief, a tall and thin beggar man with a dirty beard, growled back at him in response, frustrated that he had failed to grab the bag. D'artagnan felt a thread of compassion for the obviously starving man, and fished out an apple, tossing it to him. "Here. All you have to do is ask."

To his surprise, though, the man threw the apple back at him. "I don't want yer food, Musketeer, I want yer purse!"

"Alright, you want money?" D'artagnan asked, reaching for his pouch of coins. He pulled out two coins. "Here, two livres. That should help you some."

But the beggar was still unhappy he was only getting a portion of D'artagnan's money. So, he did the only logical thing he could think of. He pulled out a knife. D'artagnan saw the glint of the fading sun of the weapon, and reacted instinctively. He dodged the offending blade and managed to disarm the man quite smoothly. However, he was unaware of the man's accomplice until the beggar's eyes flicked to look at something - or someone - behind him. D'artagnan whirled about to neutralize the second threat. But he was a couple seconds too late. The second beggar man, nay a youth with a dirt smudged face, brandished another dagger in his hands. And in the blink of an eye, he had plunged it up into D'artagnan's left side, just under his ribs. A pained, near silent gasp flew from D'artagnan's mouth as he hit the wall behind him with his back. After this, he stared at the man who had just stabbed him, a little dazed and shocked at the reality of it. The young beggar yanked out the dagger, swiped D'artagnan's pouch of money, and the bag of apples, and took off with the first beggar man, leaving the Musketeer slumped against the wall.

D'artagnan reached up and pressed his right hand against his wound, wincing at the sharp, burning pain it caused. He glanced down and was surprised at how much blood was already saturating his clothing and leather armor, and how it dripped onto the ground below. He pulled his hand away and saw how much red was on his hand. It was too much…was it not? He wondered. He knew he needed help - the blade had gone deep; this was no mere scratch. He placed his hand back on the wound.

Bracing himself, he pushed off from the wall and tried to get his bearings again. He saw that he had barely gone thirty paces from the Bonacieux home, and he also realized that he was closer to their place than he was to the garrison. Of course, he had just been sent away from the Bonacieux residence, never to return. D'artagnan looked about at the other homes nearby and thought how he could take his chances at being helped by someone else. But perhaps…would not Monsieur Bonacieux make an exception? Surely he would see that this time, he needed serious help, and would not be intruding on any personal matters. And he knew Constance would be able to help him, undoubtedly. Therefore, D'artagnan willed himself towards the house where he had just been unwelcomed.

When he had at last managed to get to the door, he finally noticed the silence that came from the window now. He hoped that was a good sign. Lifting up his bloodied, shaking hand, D'artagnan knocked on the door. After a few long moments, he could hear someone coming at last. The door cracked open, and then swung wide. It was Constance again, and she took in D'artagnan's state with her mouth agape.

"D'artagnan! What happened!" she asked.

"I was robbed by some beggar thieves," D'artagnan replied, surprising himself with how raspy his voice sounded. He could feel how lightheaded he was becoming, and guessed he probably looked extremely pale by now from the blood loss. Which he was getting concerned about just a little. It felt like he was losing too much too fast, like there was a leak he couldn't stop. "Please," he said, hoarsely. "I need some help."

Constance was already moving toward him before he had even said please, and she was in the process of trying to assist him inside when her husband appeared near the doorway from another room.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Did I not just tell you to leave and stay away from here, Musketeer?"

"Jacques! Stop, he's hurt! Can't you see?" Constance spoke in an exasperated tone.

"I can see perfectly well, thank you," Monsieur Bonacieux said curtly. "And I know he can get as much help as he needs back with his own fellow Musketeers and a physician."

"But he can't make it back to the garrison like this!" Constance protested. "Just let me help him!"

"I will not allow you to touch this man again, Constance!" Monsieur Bonacieux said, his voice raising slightly. "I have had enough of it already."

"This is different –" Constance began, but she was cut off by D'artagnan, who placed a blood stained hand on hers.

"It's alright, Constance," he said, hoping to assure her. "I can make it to the garrison just fine. I was wrong to come back here so soon. I wasn't thinking straight."

"No, D'artagnan –" Constance tried, shaking her head.

"Please, Constance," D'artagnan said, straightening himself and putting on a fake smile. "I'm not hurt that bad. It's just a scratch. Don't worry." He gazed into her eyes and resisted the urge to touch her cheek and brush away the lone tear that had fallen. "I will make sure word is sent to you when I make it safely to the garrison. He's right, we have an excellent physician and there are plenty of others who can help me. Don't feel bad," he added.

Constance did not seem convinced in the slightest, but she merely stepped back and gave the barest nod. "You be careful. Please." she whispered, probably not trusting herself to potentially lose to her emotions if she didn't.

"I will, don't worry," D'artagnan repeated. He didn't even give Monsieur Bonacieux a glance, but was stopped short when the man stepped out to stand by his wife's side and then spoke.

"I can send someone to accompany you," he said, the strangest hint of concern in his voice.

D'artagnan looked up in surprise, and saw how the man who hated him seemed to show signs of worry. Perhaps he was thinking that the young Musketeer might drop dead on his way and it would be his fault for refusing to help.

"No, it's alright," D'artagnan said, waving a hand. "I'll be fine. Once I find just a little help." He nodded to the Bonacieux couple, turned, and walked away. He did not look back. And so he missed the way that Constance spun around on her husband after she lost sight of D'artagnan, called him a cruel, unfeeling man, and was struck on the mouth for her efforts. He did not see how she stepped back and then ran off, ignoring her husband's shouts of demands she stop and come back. No, this would have been the last thing D'artagnan needed to see, for he would have tackled Monsieur Bonacieux for certain, which would have been the worst for his state right now.

As soon as he had left the sight of the Bonacieux home, D'artagnan dropped his facade and nearly doubled over, catching himself on the wall of a building nearby. There was no one around that noticed him, and anyone who was there was too far for him to ask for assistance. And then, he was not sure if any of them would help him after all. It was not easy finding help, which he had discovered in the past as well. This made him grateful time and time again that he had some friends who he knew did care enough for him. Now, if only he could get to them before he passed out.

D'artagnan pushed off of the wall and began shuffling on toward the garrison, but the more steps he took, the harder it was to ignore the fiery pain that shot up and down the left side of his body. He could hear himself panting, and sweat rolled down his temples and into the stubble on his face. The sun had fully set now, but the light of day was still there enough that he could see perfectly. But his vision was blurring again and again as he stumbled along. It was soon becoming harder and harder to recognize where he was, and he was quite confused as to how he would get himself so disoriented. He knew these streets well, and hardly had he ever lost his way. After a short while, he made the mistake of looking down at himself and noticing the rivulets of blood flowing through his fingers where he clutched at his left side just under his ribs. It made him feel extremely light headed to the point of collapse. Realizing he was alone in the small alleyway he was nearly through, he tried to hold himself up with the wall once more. But it was too much. His body was finally done with the torture of walking in his state, and he lost the senses in his legs. The lack of feeling spread rapidly through him, and soon he was blinking dizzily, wondering how he had ended up suddenly sprawled on the ground against the wall, which barely supported his head and shoulders in an awkward manner. He knew it was a terrible position to be in, and that it should have felt uncomfortable, but he simply couldn't move. He felt utterly helpless, and that scared him. He chastised himself for having gotten into this trouble in the first place. If only he had paid more attention, perhaps, and was able to perceive that there were two thieves instead of one. He also vaguely wished he had taken up Monsieur Bonacieux's unusual offer of someone accompanying him. All he could do now was fight the desire that his exhausted body longed for - to fall into oblivious sleep - and hope some soul would show a thread of compassion and give him just a little help before it was too late.

Note: I actually have this story completed - I didn't know if I would still make these chapters or upload the whole thing together, BUT...since I'm impatient and want to post them all now, I'll do it - still as chapters. You're welcome. ;-D