Hiya everyone, welcome to my new series. I've been planning this for ages so I have a few chapters lined up and a couple of prompts on my wall but I'd really like you guys to end me ideas for things you want to read. know this kind of series has been done before and people have probably had similar ideas but I shall endeavour to make these shots as orignal and different as possible so you never read the same thing twice x Posting will be every few days to a week or so given I've just started my A-levels but I will try to keep it pretty regular x Thanks and enjoy! Special love and hugs to anyone who reviews, you guys always make my day. Oh and PS Be aware I don't have so many qualms with killing characters like other authors...I find it keeps you guys (hopefully)on the edge of your seats x

Fever

Porthos woke to darkness. The air was cold and musty, white puffs of breath just visible in the chink of moonlight that filtered through a tiny barred window, about the size of two bricks, far above Porthos's head. He was slumped against a brick wall, head rolling limply on his chest as he began his return from unconsciousness, bleary eyed and head pounding. He hissed at the stinging across his temple and the sticky blood that had dried down the side of his face and irritated his skin. The Musketeer tried to bring his hands up to prod at his swollen face but they refused to part, bound together with thick rope that dug deeply into his skin. Growling in frustration, Porthos tried to pull himself free, foggy mind trying to set itself straight as he unsuccessfully fought for freedom.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom as he thought, remembering their mission; the four of them, having been sent to investigate a number of highway robberies said to be perpetrated by offenders a few leagues outside Paris. Athos had suggested they split up, cover as much ground as quickly as possible, going to the latest site with Aramis whilst Porthos and d'Artagnan-

D'Artagnan!

They had been together when they had quite literally stumbled upon the basement where the owners of the local inn had been concealing their treasures and that was when they had been set upon. But what happened after that?

Porthos searched his short-term memory desperately - his dulled senses vaguely supplying Aramis' voice about concussions and temporary amnesia—before registering the dark shape across the room. Frowning, Porthos squinted in the poor lighting and tried to identify the figure, seeing a slight rise and fall—almost invisible to none but a trained eye—that indicated breathing. Porthos' body jolted as he recognised his friend's lithe shadow and slowly shuffled toward him, ignoring the dizziness and nausea that threatened him.

"D'Artagnan?" he called out softly, eyes looking toward the stone steps that led up to the oak door in the corner of the room "Wake up."

He reached over with both his hands, balancing a little precariously as he touched the young man's shoulder and rolled him to face him. Porthos almost reeled back as he touched the Gascon's skin and felt the heat radiating off him as though touching an open flame. D'Artagnan's face was coated with sweat so that it glistened in the pale moonlight, highlighting the hollowness of his cheekbones and the greyness of his skin leading to the red in his cheeks that showed his high fever. Dark hair hung limply over his sunken eyes that rolled behind his eyelids and he mumbled incoherently at being disturbed but did not wake.

Porthos almost choked on air, the breath caught in his throat at his panic. He had seen too many great soldiers succumb to their own body in fevers much like this one and he frantically tried to remember everything Aramis had ever taught him about medicine. First things first, work out what was wrong with the kid. Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek, Porthos leaned forward and did as much as he good to examine the young Musketeers lying prone before him but found no outward sign of injury other than the effects of the raging fever.

D'Artagnan's breathing was short and raspy and a harsh cough made him curl into himself and Porthos rubbed the young man's back soothingly as the fit continued.

"Quiet lad, just breathe. You're going to be alright." he lulled quietly, heart feeling tight in his chest as he felt the dampness under his hand of the sweat-soaked shirt.

"N'" d'Artagnan groaned weakly as his coughing fit ended "F'th'r…he's inn'c'nt…Ath's…fri'nd…no…n't tra't'r…pl'ase f'th'r."

The nightmare that had gripped d'Artagnan's mind was obviously fuelled by the sickness and Porthos pitied the boy as he squirmed and frowned in his dream. There was a creaking sound and Porthos' head snapped up toward the staircase in the corner of the room, his body instantly moving forward to cover the young Gascon protectively but the ominous sound of feet on floorboards stopped just outside the door at the top before a muffled voice yelled.

"What are you doing?" a feminine voice called, panicked, sounding old "What if they've woken up?"

"They tracked us down, Marie. They already know who we are!" a deep baritone argued back, sounding only marginally calmer and Porthos finally recognised the voices as those of the innkeeper and his wife.

"So what do we do now?! The other Musketeers will have realised they're missing and be searching for them!"

D'Artagnan groaned softly and Porthos glanced away from the door long enough to put his hand on the young man's shin; his touch seemingly calming the boy as he stilled with a shaky exhalation.

The husband's voice was quiet and Porthos had to strain to hear him "We do what we must to survive. Whatever it takes to keep our family safe."

"George…are you seriously suggesting we kill two Musketeers?! We're not murderers!"

"If we don't we'll be sentenced to the gallows!" George screamed in anguish, sounding desperate and almost on the verge of tears "You, me, the boys! The King will spare no lowly innkeepers mercy! He will not listen to our pleas that we turned to robbery to keep bread on our table!"

Marie sounded conflicted and Porthos found himself praying to the almighty powers above that she could convince her husband to spare himself and d'Artagnan "And how do you plan of getting rid of them? The other Musketeers are practically on our doorstep!"

"Nicolas dosed the boy with enough horse tranquiliser to take out men three times his size. He'll probably never wake up anyway. It's too late to save him anyway. The bigger one…we'll make it quick…honourable."

"Executing them is not a worthy death!"

"Would you rather we did this or you watched our sons swing from rope!"

Silence. Abrupt and tense. It was as if the axe had just dropped and Porthos' grip tightened protectively on d'Artagnan as he watched the door, heart thudding in his chest. The silence held the answer. It seemed Marie had given into her husband, and Porthos could not find it in his heart to blame her, there was nothing he wouldn't do for his family, he had already killed for his brothers and would surely do so again without hesitation. They didn't have much time, if Porthos could somehow get free he might be able to carry d'Art to the top of the staircase or maybe Aramis and Athos were close enough that he could leave some kind of message or-

"P'thos….?"

Porthos' eyes snapped to meet glazed, fever-blown brown orbs, dark and shiny even in the near blackness.

"It's me, lad. How ya feeling?" Porthos whispered warmly, keeping his voice calm and soft as d'Artagnan's weak, wet hands gripped at his for reassurance, revelling in the slight relief of seeing the boy concious.

"'M okay." d'Artagnan's voice was croaky and slow, exhaustion in the lowness of his tone "You?"

Porthos smiled, brushing back a lock of hair "I'm fine, lad, don't you worry. We're gonna be okay."

"Wh'r's Ath's 'nd 'Mis?"

"They're comin', d'Art." Porthos patted him affectionately on the shoulder, ears straining to hear anymore sound from behind the locked wooden door "They'll be here soon, okay? You just gotta hold on. Can you stay awake for me?"

"Mmhm." the boy hummed in response, eyelids half-closed as he tried to stay awake "Wha' h'ppened?"

Porthos rubbed his burning shoulder, gritting his teeth with worry "We ran into a little trouble, whelp. But don't worry, you know Athos, he'll sort everything out. Just take the time to enjoy the peace and quiet before Aramis gets here and destroys it."

The younger man let out a fragile huff of laughter "I th'nk 'Shut up, Ar'mis' is Athos' favour'te s'ntence."

"You would think so given how much he says it." Porthos agreed softly, eyes now focussed on the door where he could hear feet passing at a shadow flitted under the gap in the door.

"I's cold."

Porthos shifted his weight and managed to push d'Artagnan tighter against him, head resting in his lap "It is, isn't it."

Hushed voices, one of them was tearful , disjointed with high sobs, the other was interrupted by the click of a weapon being reloaded, familiar and frightening.

"P'thos?"

"Yeah. d'Art?"

"I'm scared."

Porthos sighed, thumb absently rubbing at the back of d'Artagnan's sweaty hand "Me too, lad…but you know me and the others, we're always gonna look out for you, yeah?"

"Yeah." the word was a soft, sleepy breath from d'Artagnana and suddenly d'Artagnan's eyes had slid shut and his laboured breathing had calmed slightly in his unconsciousness.

Porthos felt both comforted and alone when the lock on the door rattled, and the chink of light grew across the wall as a shadow, complete with ebony weapon, spread across the wall. A man stepped through, timid but determined as he straightened his figure and came down the stairs, d'Artagnan's stolen musket in his hands.

To Porthos, the man seemed entirely ordinary, no different from the many men he had come across in his time as a Musketeer. There was nothing remarkable about his face, just a man just passed his prime with grey speckled hair and worn and weather-beaten skin, wrinkles telling of a hard but pleasant life that many ordinary men lived. Porthos stood slowly to face him, carefully stepping in front of d'Artagnan and fighting the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him,

"I'm sorry," Porthos recognised the deep baritone of George's voice, now thicker with emotion as he lifted his weapon and pointed it between the Musketeer's eyes "But I have to do this…for my family."

"You kill us and you'll have doomed them. My brothers won't stop until they bring you to justice." Porthos tried to reason, voice cool and calm despite the pounding against his ribs.

George's face crumpled "Then I'm doomed either way."

Porthos breath froze in his chest as he let out a small breath, time seeming to slow to a crawl as the man's finger squeezed the trigger. Suddenly there was the loud explosion of a musket and Porthos felt blood spray across his face, having to close his eyes and twist away from the hot liquid. The sensation of crimson life-blood across his face was a surprise and Porthos took a sharp intake of breath as a high-pitched scream filled the air.

"George!"

The metallic smell of freshly spilt blood did nothing to dissuade the weepy Marie as she pushed the figure at the top of the stairs, gun still trained on the empty spot, into the wall and rushed past him to collapse beside the corpse of her dead husband, shaking him uselessly as she begged for him to awaken. There was a clatter of shoes as Aramis rushed down the stairs, Athos on his heels and gripped Porthos.

"Are you alright?"

"D'Artagnan…" Porthos gasped, hands trembling slightly in his ties, head turning toward him as Aramis followed his gaze and dropped down to his knees, hands roaming the boy's body.

Athos' face was stoic and stiff, but the cloud of terror and worry was hidden deep in his dark eyes as his fingers began to work at the knots around Porthos' wrists. Marie continued to wail, a lonely and hideous sound that made Porthos' blood cold and heaviness to settle deep in his heart. The elder Musketeer's eyes asked a silent question and Porthos allowed himself to lean slightly into Athos' body to convey his distress and seek the calm guidance that Athos naturally emanated.

"I need to take him upstairs and treat him." Aramis announced harshly, the words thrown over his shoulder as he scooped d'Artagnan's limp body into his arms, the boy's nose buried in his neck and he rushed past and up the staircase.

Porthos watched them go with a slight sigh of relief, glad that d'Artagnan was now in Aramis' capable hands and felt his hands finally drop free.

"I'm sorry we took so long to get here." Athos muttered quietly, hand settling on Porthos' shoulder and the larger man started at the darkness in his tone.

"It doesn't matter. You're here now."

Athos managed a strained smile in reply but they were interrupted by the click of the gun and Porthos lifted his head to see Marie stood behind them, d'Artagnan's musket pointed towards Athos' chest. Her cheeks were tear-stained, eyes red and bloodshot and they lacked the spark of life, the hollowness of her cheeks testament to the pain in her heart.

Athos reacted first, calm and controlled "Put the weapon down, Madame."

"No! You killed him! You killed my husband!"

"I assure you, we had no choice. It was never our intention-"

"Liar!" Marie screeched, gun jerking violently in her untrained hands.

"Don't you think there's been enough bloodshed, Marie?" Porthos pleaded quietly, all too aware how deadly a shot from that distance was as he met Marie's gaze.

"George is dead! Because of you!"

Athos tried again "Please, Madame, it's over. No one else has to die."

Marie faltered, the musket dropping slightly toward the floor. Athos moved forward to take it from her but she raised it again and he stepped back accordingly.

"I-I…" Marie looked stricken as her gaze flickered between them and George "I-I can't! I will not swing from the rope. I can't carry on without him."

She brought the musket up beneath her chin, eyes squeezed tightly shut and tears trickling down her pale cheeks, just as Porthos cried "No!".

When blood sprayed across the ceiling and Marie crumpled in a boneless heap, Porthos and Athos were left staring, eyes haunted and breathing short at the empty space when she had been stood. The pounding of his heartbeat was deafeningly loud in the silence as the horror caught up with Porthos and he found himself frozen in place, blood like ice in his veins and limbs made of stone. Athos moved first, managed to pull himself back from the precipice of darkness and he found the shaky strength to wrap his arm around Porthos' large frame and lead him away, turning him from the violence and death.

Porthos didn't protest, he didn't even blink and the next thing he knew he was stood in a quaint little kitchen with a stove fire roaring in the corner, emitting tendrils of relaxing warmth that managed to melt a little of the icy grip around his heart, a grounding grip on his shoulder and a brother pressed at his side.

Suddenly Aramis was there—having heard the gunshot and come to the conclusion one of his brothers had managed to hurt themselves (again, as if he didn't have enough to worry about with d'Artagnan)-fussing over them like he usually did, with his motherly clucking and sweet, dulcet tones as he kept constant physical contact and wittered on about nothing. Soon enough Porthos felt the walls around his crumbling; he leaned into Athos' hands, sniggered at Aramis' sexual innuendos and lighthearted teasing, kept his eyes trained on the unconscious Musketeer laid on the cot just in his eye-line, who was so miraculously alive and recovering thanks to Aramis' quick-thinking and trained hands.

And despite all the fear and the horror and the heartbreak; the nightmares he knew he would be plagued with for weeks, the gruff words and harsh days to come where his brothers would have to fight tooth and nail for a smile; he knew he was going to be okay. Because he had his brothers and, for better or for worse, he was never alone.