Author's Note: Hello, all! I hope everyone has been enjoying the holidays and is looking forward to a wonderful 2016. Hopefully, your New Year's Eve will not be as angst-ridden as d'Artagnan's night portrayed in this story. Hahaha. During my historical research for this story, I learned that the idea of New Year Resolutions can be tracked back to the Babylonians and that France officially recognized January 1st as New Year's Day in 1564. Pretty cool facts, huh? Thank you in advance for reading this story. As always, any and all feedback is cherished, encouraged, and appreciated. Please enjoy this story!

Time Setting: After Season 1, Episode 1 (Friends and Enemies) but before Season 1, Episode 2 (Sleight of Hand.) With the weather so different in the two episodes, I decided that there must be a significant time gap between them. For the purposes of this story, five weeks have passed since d'Artagnan's father's murder.

Disclaimer: I own nothing even remotely related to BBC, Dumas, etc.

"New Year's Resolution"

D'Artagnan sat in the empty kitchen and refilled a glass of wine for either the fourth or fifth time within the hour. He slumped over the table, letting his forehead rest on his curled arm. He began breathing heavily to combat the incessant urge to sob openly.

The young man was not sure why he insisted on keeping up some delusional façade of calmness. After all, it had only been five weeks since his father was murdered and died in his arms. What with d'Artagnan's whirlwind introduction to Parisian politics, which included a duel with some of the finest soldiers in the King's Musketeer Regiment, avenging his father's murder, and kissing a woman braver and more breathtaking than he could have possibly imagined, the Gascon had been left with little time for grieving. His sudden, alcohol-induced mourning was understandable and even predictable.

And yet, d'Artagnan could not stop the gnawing feelings of sadness, misery, and absolute loneliness that had consumed him on this New Year's Eve. The pain washed over him in choppy waves, much like the sheets of rain that had poured from the skies as his father drew his last breath.

The image burned itself into d'Artagnan's memory. It unceasingly repeated in poor d'Artagnan's consciousness until the boy could think of nothing but his father's final moments.

"Athos…" Alexandre d'Artagnan whispered as he died.

In truth, attempting to drown one's sorrows in wine was a habit d'Artagnan had picked up from Athos. The older musketeer, however, seemed to be much better at this than the Gascon farm boy. D'Artagnan had only known Athos a few weeks, but even when Athos drank himself into a state of oblivion, there were no tears or loss of self-control. No, it seemed that the legendary Gascon passion d'Artagnan always considered to be an asset in battle transformed into a terrible weakness when he experienced grief.

D'Artagnan scowled, utterly jealous of Athos's composure. He gulped down half of his glass and managed to tried to find some small comfort in the drink. The wine made him feel light-headed and he was glad to be sitting down. Gripping the end of the table until his dizziness passed, d'Artagnan shut his eyes to keep the room from spinning.

At the very least, d'Artagnan thought to himself, Constance was not here to witness his breakdown. Thankfully, his beautiful landlady had travelled to a nearby village to be with her husband's extended family for the holiday. Although Constance expressed no excitement at the thought of taking the short trip to visit M. Bonacieux's family, d'Artagnan could not help but be glad he had been left to himself to begin the new year.

A year that would be completely void of his father. The days, weeks, months would all pass without d'Artagnan hearing his father laugh, making him curse under his breath, or sharing a meal where they would reminisce and each tell stories the other had repeated so many times in the past. Holidays would come and go, but Alexandre d'Artagnan would not be there to enjoy any of them.

The thought of it all made d'Artagnan unsteadily pour and quickly drink another glass of wine.

"Father, I miss you so much," the grief-stricken son whispered to the empty room. His new home, at least temporarily. In truth, d'Artagnan had not really decided yet what he was going to do now that his world had been turned upside.

He needed to relearn how to live his life now that his father was gone; of that much, the Gascon was sure. Returning to the farm he had spent his life on was a possibility, of course, but so far, d'Artagnan was unable even to stomach the thought of spending time in the house his father had built with his own two hands as a newlywed. That land had been his father's pride and joy but without Alexandre's presence, d'Artagnan could not help but be overwhelmed but the absolute emptiness the house would surely cause him to feel.

D'Artagnan uncorked another bottle of wine and quickly replenished his glass so he could keep his grief at bay. He was not doing a very good job it and felt tears prick at his eyes. Too stubborn to give up just yet, d'Artagnan abandoned the glass entirely and began drinking straight from the wine bottle. It helped him forget about his farm, at least for the time being.

Instead, his thoughts strayed to his new Parisian companions: Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Some had dubbed the trio as the Inseparables and so far, d'Artagnan had no evidence to dispute such a title. The three men's bond was simply unbreakable. Devoted friends, or rather brothers, to each other, they were always ready to defend any threat to their country, their King, and themselves.

D'Artagnan was grateful for his new friends. The farm boy loathed to admit it, but without their help, he would have had much more trouble adjusting to his new surroundings. D'Artagnan found himself spending more and more time at the musketeers' garrison. To any outsider, it appeared d'Artagnan did so because the three musketeers had been nice enough to train his raw talent into that of a honed solider. Porthos had been schooling d'Artagnan in unarmed combat, teaching him to take advantage his opponent's weight and use his speed to anticipate the next blow. Aramis had been running d'Artagnan thought endless drills to teach him to load, aim, and fire a musket with swiftness and accuracy. Athos had already spent many hours helping the boy perfect the technique of his sword work. He held d'Artagnan to an impossibly high standard and although others would have grown frustrated with Athos's constant lecturing, d'Artagnan was quite fond of it. He felt honored that a man he had wrongly accused of murder barely over a month ago would be so attentive, patient, and willing to help him.

Yes, with the Inseparables, some of the other musketeers had implied that a commission into the elite regiment was within d'Artagnan's grasp. Still in shock and unsure about what life he was supposed to live, though, d'Artagnan never paid them much mind. Instead, he concentrated on whatever Porthos, Aramis, or Athos instructed him to do so he could improve his battle skills.

His lessons were going well. D'Artagnan could feel himself improving with every sore muscle or sprained joint after practicing with his friends. But to the Gascon, the training sessions were so much more than that. It was a chance for him to distract himself from the crushing sadness he felt when he was alone.

Tonight, though, d'Artagnan was thankful to have been left alone. He did not want his friends to seem him in such a drunken stupor, rendered depressed and immobile by an ache in his heart that gripped him mercilessly. They would have been so disappointed to see he was acting so foolishly, d'Artagnan presumed. Surely the three men would never let their emotions twist them into the heartbroken child d'Artagnan felt like at that moment.

D'Artagnan had been relieved to hear all training sessions were cancelled today for the musketeers. The King had hosted a party for the court to ring in the new year and once the party was finished and the musketeers were released of their guard duties, the regiment gathered together for a modest feast to celebrate as a family. With Constance gone and Aramis, Porthos, and Athos celebrating with the rest of their brothers, d'Artagnan was left alone with his grief.

And his wine.

"Alone." The word echoed in d'Artagnan's head, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. "I'm all a-alone now," he whispered, too drunk to be embarrassed by the catch in his voice.

He sighed and took a long swig of wine. "How rude of me," he berated to himself. D'Artagnan raised the glass, slight tremors in his hand causing the bottle to shake. "A toast to you, Father."

"Perhaps you would like to offer us a glass and join you in this toast?" a voice from behind d'Artagnan gently said. "I know I speak for all of us when I say it would be our honor to toast the late Alexandre d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony."

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan tried to rise from his seat, but his knees refused to bear his weight and he swayed back into his seat. Squinting, the young man saw Aramis inside his room with Porthos and Athos standing in the doorway. They held their hats in their hands, idly fiddling with the brims. "Athos, Porthos, I…" He shook his head, trying to rid himself of what must have been a dream from too much wine. "What are you doing here?"

"We came to ask you the same question," Porthos said as he approached his newest friend.

D'Artagnan thought about that for a second, but could not make sense of it. "No, no you can't be here, any of you. Not tonight." He brought the wine bottle to his lips and drained the little liquid that had remained in it. "Y-you must go. Please."

"We were worried," Athos said stoically. "We thought you would have joined the party at the garrison by now. Many people asked where you were."

D'Artagnan hiccupped and let his chin drop to his chest. "But I'm not a musketeer. I don't belong there. I belong here, so here is where I am. Now you know." He turned his back on the three older men. "Please return to your festivities. I am sorry you had to see me like this."

Aramis's mouth twitched as he counted the empty bottles that were scattered at d'Artagnan's feet. "You deserve to be there, too, d'Artagnan."

"That's right," Porthos interjected, taking a seat across from the Gascon. "You don't require a commission for us to enjoy your company. We thought you would want to celebrate with us."

"Celebrate? Celebrate!" d'Artagnan laughed. It was a harsh, grating laugh void of all mirth. It was nothing like the three musketeers were used to and d'Artagnan's behavior unnerved them more than they wanted to admit. "And what, pray tell, is there to celebrate, hmm?"

Athos held d'Artagnan's gaze. He did not respond, but he easily recognized the grief that clouded d'Artagnan's brown and expressive eyes.

"My father's death, perhaps?" ranted d'Artagnan. "My failure to save him? My inability to tend to his farm, honor his memory the way he would want? My lack of any real prospects for the future?" He reached for a new wine bottle, but Aramis intercepted it and, without any reproach, slowly shook his head. "How about the fact that this new year will be one without my father?" D'Artagnan ran a hand though his hair, fighting the urge to cry as a sob tore at his throat.

"Oh, D'Artagnan," Athos murmured, kneeling next to d'Artagnan so he was eye-level with the inebriated boy.

"Please, I didn't want anyone to see me like this." D'Artagnan covered his eyes with his hand. He knew he would not be able to hold off the tears for much longer, but he did not want to weep in front of the men he respected and admired so much. "Go and never speak of this again. Just go, pl-please."

"There is no shame in grief, lad," Porthos said wisely. "We only wished you would've told us the holiday was so hard for you."

"Perhaps we should have thought of it on our own," Aramis commented. "All of us are no strangers to loss, and we know how times of joy can so easily twist into times of despair. But we are here now with you, brother. And we won't leave you to suffer like this."

D'Artagnan noticed that Aramis called him "brother." Normally he would have beamed at being included in their group, but tonight, he was much too drunk to focus on anything but his fresh anguish.

"Indeed," Athos said. He placed his hand atop d'Artagnan head to offer some comfort through physical contact. "Perhaps this new year is one your father will not experience, but we will not allow that to stop you from the fortune that awaits you in the new year."

"Like charming female company," Aramis added with a soothing lilt to his voice.

"Or lucky card games," smiled Porthos.

D'Artagnan swallowed. He was touched the three soldiers would give up their party to comfort him in his time of need. This is what brotherhood was about, he noted to himself. The pain in his heart was still present, but the embarrassment and necessity for solitude melted away.

"Th-thank you," d'Artagnan slurred. "I…" He paused.

Sharing a look, the trio thought d'Artagnan had finally drank himself into oblivion and was about to fall unconscious. The Gascon surprised all of three of them when he continued his statement.

"I need a drink."

Against his better judgment, Athos tugged the new bottle of wine out of Aramis's hands and gave a small shrug. The older man knew quite well from experience that alcohol was not the answer. It did not erase grief or numb one to his pain. Not in the way he craved. Yet Athos found himself unable to deny d'Artagnan this small, insignificant request. After all, the boy was already soaked in alcohol, so another glass would not make any difference. In fact, Athos realized, at that moment, he would have moved heaven and earth to grant d'Artagnan anything that would give him a small reprieve of the grief he had been trying to deal with alone for far too long.

With his hand still on d'Artagnan's head, Athos used his teeth to uncork the wine bottle and handed d'Artagnan the full glass.

D'Artagnan wordlessly accepted the glass and brought it to his lips. He sipped at the red liquid, but this time, it burned his tongue. "No," he said harshly. Without warning, d'Artagnan turned and threw the glass at the wall on the other side of the room. When it shattered, the wine spilled across the floor, eerily reminding d'Artagnan of when his father's blood had run onto his hands and stained his clothes. His shoulder's began to shudder violently. Aramis and Porthos wasted no time in jumping up from their seats to join Athos at their younger brother's side. "No. Who am I kidding? I don't need a drink!" d'Artagnan cried in anguish. "I need my father!"

Athos curled his arm around d'Artagnan and guided him to his chest. Too drunk and too lonely to resist, d'Artagnan fell into the embrace willingly. Athos began running his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair. D'Artagnan also felt Aramis's and Porthos's hands on his back, offering what comfort they could. He sobbed against the older man, releasing all of the pent up emotions he had been trying to drown in wine all night long. Athos held d'Artagnan's limp form, trying to remind him that he was not alone in the new year. D'Artagnan continued to cry on Athos in earnest, unable to stop himself.

That is how the three musketeers entered the new year, holding their youngest brother as he mourned for what was lost. It was a sad way to start the year, but with a silent vow, the three musketeers made a New Year's resolution to ensure that this new year would be better for newest member of their brotherhood.

Thank you for reading! I hope you let me know what you thought of the story in a review. Happy 2016, all! Let's hope The Musketeers makes a glorious return as early as possible in the new year!