Dear all, well here it is – the final chapter of this little escapade. Thank you for staying with me on this one and I am sure there will be relief from at least one guest who was worried that I had ended the story in chapter 9! It's been a fun one – total hurt/comfort.

Many thanks to all who have read, commented, speculated, 'favourited' and 'followed'; there is much pleasure to be had in hearing from you and I really do appreciate the time you take to do that and for your feedback.

Am planning a little 'Christmas Special' (Remember new born baby Marius last year? He'll be one next month …. and some of you did wonder what had become of him!)

Before that, I have a musketeer to rescue from the mud in 'Retribution' so that is coming VERY soon.

And before that, we have to make sure that Athos is merely sleeping ….

THE THIRTEENTH HOUR

"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan asked with bated breath, hardly daring to believe that it was possible.

"Of course I am sure," Aramis said, his features dissolving into the broadest grin he had managed since the morning his brothers had departed for Picardy. At least, the others could tell that he was grinning from the gleam in his eyes above the mask that still covered his mouth. There had been little to smile about since but, just to make sure, he stroked the dishevelled hair aside to lay his hand on Athos' brow and then moved to test the temperature of the man's cheek and neck. Then he felt once more the steady heartbeat and let his hand remain there.

"His temperature is not yet normal but he is much cooler to the touch; the intense fever has gone that has had him in its grip for the past few hours. His heartbeat is, thankfully, slower and steadier, and his breathing is deeper, more regular. I may even go so far as to say the rash he has is not as angry as it was before. Our Athos is definitely asleep," he announced, conscious that he was still grinning wildly.

Porhthos jumped up, hauled d'Artagnan to his feet and engulfed him in a crushing bear hug, his delight and relief tangible.

"He will live then?" d'Artagnan gasped, trying to peer over Porthos' shoulder at the physician.

Gabon shook his head. "I do not want to appear pessimistic but, I repeat, I have no experience of this sickness, the only learning that I have comes from those books but I would urge caution. Whilst the information says that with every hour after the first twelve, a person's chances of survival improves, it is not until twenty-four have passed that the outlook appears certain. I agree that everything suggests that he is past the worst but we have no idea whether there has been any longer lasting damage, especially in the wake of the last stage of symptoms. What has been happening to his heart? The books tell me nothing about that."

The physician watched as the faces of the four men fell in disappointment. The chilling reality was that little was known and documented regarding the later hours of the sickness. All that was clear from the books Gabon had read was that there was no certainty of recovery after twelve hours, merely that there was room for hope as the time passed. It would not be until twenty-four hours had transpired and Athos still lived that they could breathe more easily themselves – and then there would be the nervous wait to see if any of them began to show similar symptoms. How long would they be shut within the infirmary walls before they believed that is was safe to venture out amongst the men of the garrison?

"But he's breathin' now and looks like he's restin' for the first time in hours. That's good enough for me. As far as I'm concerned, he's turned a corner," announced Porthos, ever the optimist, but it was the positive pronouncement that the musketeers needed to lift them from their melancholy: they had seen their brother and friend suffering in a way that defied description and none dared speak of the continuing anxiety they felt as each feared developing the sweating sickness themselves.

"You're right," d'Artagnan beamed, slapping Porthos on the back. "Athos has beaten this; he will get well."

THE SIXTEENTH HOUR

Athos began to be aware of things once more. The taste in his mouth was foul and held no moisture and when he tried to move, his leaden limbs failed to respond. He was sitting upright, supported by a mass of pillows and he thought it an odd position in which he had been sleeping, not one that he usually favoured. Prising open an eye, he focused on his surroundings, recognising it immediately as the infirmary but he could not for the life of him recall why he should be there. He had no memory of being injured and he tentatively endeavoured to move, bracing himself for the explosion of pain that he anticipated would be the result – but there was nothing. Perhaps he had received a blow to the head but, when he attempted to turn it to the right, there was none of the expected stiffness or ache, dull or otherwise. Instead, his gaze alighted upon a familiar figure who, sitting beside him, edged closer as soon as he saw that he was awake.

"Hello, there," Aramis said softly. "You don't know how pleased I am to see you open your eyes."

He glanced around him and Athos did likewise. He was not surprised to see Porthos and d'Artagnan stretched out on spare cots in the room but he did attempt to raise an eyebrow at the sight of Tréville lying on another one, sleeping soundly and he certainly did not know the elderly man seated at the table, head nodding as he dozed lightly.

He made to speak but no sound came out so he ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and coughed lightly.

"Do you want some water?" Aramis asked, reaching for a cup and pitcher from the table beside the cot.

Athos nodded, grateful that he did not have to be raised up. There was some benefit after all to being propped up by pillows for he did not even have to move his head. Aramis put the cup to his lips.

"Just sip it," the marksman advised.

Running the small amount of cool liquid around his mouth, Athos felt immediate relief and thought it nothing short of nectar. Several sips later, he had had enough and signalled the same to his friend by turning his head away momentarily, affording him the time to moisten his lips successfully at last.

"What …?" he began, but his voice lacked strength.

"Happened?" Aramis finished for him before continuing as lightly as possible, "You have been very ill, my friend. We were worried that we were going to lose you."

It had to have been serious if the Inseparables had not moved away from him but it was a little strange that the Captain was there as well and that still did not explain the identity of the old man. Evidence of the severity of his illness was also apparent in the cloth bound over each man's nose and mouth whether they were resting at a distance or close by him; he was believed to be infectious then. That did not bode well.

"How long?" Athos asked, his voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. He had no memory of feeling or being ill and he wondered how much time had elapsed.

"About fourteen, fifteen hours."

Athos frowned. What could have been so life-threatening, rendering him as helpless as a new-born babe and then supposedly sparing him in such quick succession?

"What?" he asked again.

"Nothing for you to worry about right now. I will explain everything as soon as you are stronger and more able to understand. You must rest," Aramis insisted for he had seen his friend struggling to stay awake.

With a sigh, Athos allowed his heavy eyes to close and rapidly drifted away.

THE EIGHTEENTH HOUR

Dawn was spreading across the Paris sky and the garrison showed signs of muted activity as men awoke, changed duties and gathered in the mess room for an update. Since Serge had spoken with Tréville the previous evening, word had spread that Athos was dangerously ill. Added to the fact that their commanding officer had long been shut away in the infirmary and issued strange instructions about guarding the place and leaving food outside, it had not taken them long to correctly surmise that the affliction was potentially contagious, not that that was their prime concern for Athos was a well-liked and much respected member of the musketeer brotherhood. Congregating to break their fast, they were disappointed to discover that there was no further news and they urged Serge to take food to the infirmary in order find out what had happened during the night.

As the old cook ventured across the yard carrying a tray, the infirmary door opened and Tréville stepped out to meet him, pulling the mask from his face before placing hands on his waist and leaning backwards to stretch away the stiffness of the night.

"I've brought you some food," the seasoned veteran said hesitantly. "I'll put it over here, shall I?" and he moved to put the tray down on the bench where he had sat with the captain only hours beforehand. He stepped back several paces and wiped the palms of his hands nervously down the backs of his breeches.

"We was wonderin'," and he paused to look back over his shoulder at the men who had silently filed out of the mess hall in his wake, "how the boy was this mornin'." He was watching Tréville's expression, trying to gauge what the news might be but the officer's face revealed nothing.

Suddenly, Tréville smiled. "He has survived the night; the fever has gone and he has woken once."

An audible sigh of relief swept through the men but they controlled their exuberance, not wanting their noise to disturb the sick musketeer.

"That's good to hear," Serge replied as his voice cracked, betraying his emotional involvement. He cleared his throat as he fought to assume a more matter-of-fact demeanour. "I'll set about making some broth. He'll need to eat to get his strength back quickly." He turned to walk back towards his kitchen, signalling to encourage the men to move ahead of him.

Tréville stood and watched as the soldiers dispersed, their mood clearly different from when they had emerged from the building opposite. There was the mutter of voices and some broke off from the larger group to share the encouraging news with other colleagues; still more of them raised a hand in a gesture of good will as they went.

Smiling again to himself as he bent to pick up the tray, Tréville felt blessed that he was the leader of a regiment of such concerned, generous-spirited and united men.

THE TWENTY-FIRST HOUR

When Athos sluggishly awoke a second time, it was gone eight in the morning and the chair beside him was empty – but not for long.

"I saw you stirring and thought I'd better get some of this from where we've been keeping it warm," the Captain said, sliding into the seat and indicating the bowl he carried in his hand. "Beef broth. Serge has made this especially for you and given me strict instructions that you are to eat some of it every time you open your eyes. We wouldn't want to upset him now, would we?"

He held out the bowl of broth and Athos frowned in concentration as he strove to reach for it but his body was still too weak and failed to respond. He sank further into the pillows with a sigh of frustration.

"Never mind. Just hope this isn't too hot. You don't want a burned mouth on top of everything else," and, without thinking, he spooned up some broth and leaned closer, holding out the full spoon and the bowl beneath it to catch any drips. He paused when Athos did not open his mouth and smothered a grin as he saw the man's eyes widen instead in embarrassment at the prospect of being fed by his commanding officer.

Still unperturbed, Tréville gestured again with the spoon.

"Where are the others?" Athos managed, wishing fervently that one of his brothers would suddenly appear.

"Oh they ate something and settled down to sleep again. You've caused us some considerable worry since you got back yesterday and there was little rest for anyone well into the night." He tried again with the spoon and stopped as Athos' face fell.

"I am sorry," the younger musketeer apologised.

Tréville dropped the spoon back into the bowl and studied him closely. "Did you deliberately fall ill?"

"Well, no but …." Athos began, thinking it a strange question.

"Then you have nothing for which to apologise, do you?" and he held out the spoon once more.

"I don't even know what has been happening," Athos persisted. "How have I been ill?"

"Why don't we come to an agreement?" Tréville suggested. "You eat and I'll talk."

The compromise was so unexpected that Athos opened his mouth automatically as the spoon bore down on him again and he listened to the Captain's explanation.

THE TWENTY-SECOND HOUR

D'Artagnan and Porthos were disappointed that they had once again missed Athos' brief period of wakefulness but Aramis was pleased to hear that he had eaten half a bowl of broth before his eyes slid closed and Tréville gave up on recounting events of the preceding hours.

"He is sleeping and eating," Aramis said, "and we move ever closer to noon with its twenty-four-hour deadline. The fever has gone so he must be out of danger now, surely?" and he looked to Gabon, seeking the long-desired reassurance.

The physician shrugged. "It is certainly more positive than a few hours ago. I just regret that I have not yet been awake myself at the same time as him for I would like to see and speak with him."

"When I spoke with him, he remembered nothing," Tréville reminded them all.

"That is unfortunate," Gabon said regretfully, "but I shall write an account of the circumstances. Who knows when this might occur again."

"Not soon, I hope," Tréville added. "We don't want to provide you with any more eye-witness opportunities. Have you any idea how long we will have to remain in here?"

"We do not know where your man picked up the sickness. It's likely that it was in the village where he stopped but we do not know that for certain for d'Artagnan here appears unscathed and we would have expected it to come upon him by now. If correct, then it came upon him with such a frightening speed that we should fall sick within the next day."

The physician's grim deliberation did nothing to dampen their renewed spirits but hours of constant worry and incarceration were giving way to monotony and boredom as Athos slept on easily. Tempers were beginning to show signs of fraying until Tréville sent out for more paperwork and other tasks to keep Porthos and d'Artagnan occupied. Whilst Gabon set about writing his account of the sweating sickness and how it had affected Athos, Tréville concentrated anew on the drudgery of paperwork whilst Porthos and d'Artagnan cleaned weapons left for them outside the infirmary in baskets with the necessary paraphernalia. Aramis contented himself folding soiled bed linen, checking medical supplies within the infirmary and generally sitting beside his sleeping brother.

And so the hours passed.

TWENTY-FIFTH HOUR

When Athos next awoke, it was somewhat disconcerting to find himself surrounded by five men all peering at him intently over their masks and, as soon as his eyes were half opened, their voices began asking questions simultaneously. He winced at the cacophony.

"Ssshhh," insisted d'Artagnan. "Give him leave to answer."

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked when the noise had subsided.

"I'm not sure I'm awake enough to know fully but I think I feel fine," Athos answered warily, snippets of what Tréville had been telling him still in his mind from the last time he awoke.

"Do you have any pain in your chest?" This came from the old man and Athos frowned as he wondered if he ought to recognise the man.

"This is Doctor Gabon whom we brought in from the palace when you were first taken ill. It is thanks to him and his books that we had some understanding of what was wrong," Tréville explained, seeing Athos' confusion.

"I am pleased to meet you properly at last, young man," Gabon said breezily, extending a hand somewhat formally and shaking Athos by the hand. "You look and sound much better than when I first arrived. So tell me, any pain?"

Athos thought for a minute. "I am not aware of any."

There was a collective sigh of relief from the men around the bed.

"Anywhere at all?" Gabon went on. Athos shook his head.

"Do you know everyone here?"

Athos looked at the physician suspiciously, his eyes narrowing in that familiar expression of scepticism. "Of course, especially now that you have been introduced."

"Name them," Gabon insisted.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Athos did as he was bidden.

"Good, good!" Gabon was delighted. "Tell me, are we still under threat of attack?"

Thoroughly confused now and convinced that the physician was not as clear thinking as he ought to be, Athos looked around at his fellow musketeers for direction.

D'Artagnan sat heavily on the side of the cot next to him. "You were sure that Beauvais and his men were going to invade Paris and the garrison and that we," he indicated those present, "were all in a plot with him to overthrow the King."

"I thought that?" Athos looked perplexed, remembering none of it.

"One of the symptoms of the illness is anxiety and you certainly came up with an interesting concoction of worries to keep us on our toes. You would have us double the guard," Aramis explained.

"But that was before you flew at d'Artagnan and threatened the Captain," Porthos added, delighting in his brother's growing discomfort.

"I did all that?" Athos whispered, thunderstruck by events.

"Yes, but you were ill and no-one got hurt. Porthos was prepared to sit on you if need be," d'Artagnan said.

"What?" Athos could not believe what he was hearing and the expression on his face caused his brothers to burst into laughter from behind their masks; the sound was sheer music when compared with the nervous whispering of earlier hours.

"Leave Athos alone," Tréville admonished, secretly pleased to hear the return of the banter which was an integral element of the relationship between the Inseparables.

"Any headaches? Nausea? Are you too cold? Too hot?" Gabon tried again. Once more, Athos shook his head.

"Then you'll be ready to eat some more of this," Porthos announced, passing another bowl of beef broth to Aramis.

A further attempt at taking the food proved that Athos remained far too weak to fend for himself, the sweating sickness being utterly debilitating but the humiliation at being fed by his friend was not so marked this time. Even so, he wanted to give up after a few mouthfuls but Aramis pressed him to more and was not satisfied until he had consumed another half bowlful.

Tréville and Gabon drifted away to resume their work, leaving the four friends together.

"We must not tire you out," Aramis insisted. "You need your rest to regain your strength."

"All I am doing is resting," complained Athos as he endeavoured to stifle a yawn.

"My point entirely," Aramis quipped. He grew serious. "We would have you well again, my friend, as quickly as possible. The past twenty-four hours have been a waking hell for us and we would not see you suffer so again, not for anything."

"It was that bad then?" Athos asked quietly.

Three pairs of troubled eyes gazing at him from over their masks gave him his answer.

"I am sorry that I caused you so much worry but, as the Captain was so keen to point out, I did not do it with intent. It bothers me that I was so grievously ill but believe me when I say I recall nothing of it. There is obviously still some concern that I could infect you all, given that you wear those bindings across your face and that all of you, the Captain included, are within these walls."

Aramis sighed. "Gabon thought it a preventative measure and I understand his decision. It has killed thousands but little is known about how it spreads or what causes it in the first place. I am sure you would relish the history of it but it is not a subject for your hearing at present; there will be time enough when we can regale you with the tales Gabon has read to us."

"How long will we all be confined here?" Athos queried, a sense of irrational responsibility beginning to blossom. He knew that Tréville would be eager for a new-found freedom given his leadership role. Had there been any demands upon him from the palace that he had not been able to meet?

"We don't know as yet. We have been with you for over twenty-four hours now and so far, none of us is feeling ill in any way," d'Artagnan told him.

They fell silent for a few minutes until Aramis saw the flicker of discomfort cross Athos' face.

"What is it?" he asked, trying to suppress the rising anxiety.

"I am naked under this sheet and I need the pot," Athos whispered, looking at him directly in supplication and tilting his head slightly in the youngest musketeer's direction and towards where the two other men sat working.

"That's easily remedied," Aramis chuckled, galvanised into action. "d'Artagnan, make yourself useful by cleaning out this bowl and checking on how much of that broth is left." He waited until the Gascon had scurried away, happy to do anything of use. "Porthos can get you on your feet, turn you round so that your back is to the room and stand behind you. He can hold you steady, I'll hold the pot and you …" He was interrupted by Athos' cough and glare. He laughed again, "had better concentrate and aim straight!"

THIRTY-FIFTH HOUR

When the occupants of the room had settled down for their second night in the infirmary, it had a completely different atmosphere from the previous one. Tréville and Gabon were making use of the other room whilst the Inseparables commandeered the cots surrounding their recovering brother.

Athos had slept on and off during the afternoon and at one point, on waking, had wrinkled his nose in disgust and complained that he stank. This had led to a barrage of ribald, uncomplimentary comments that were largely in agreement and Tréville had given instructions for a tub and hot water to be delivered to outside the infirmary. They had then brought the tub in and set it before the fire which they had stoked up and filled the tub with hot water. The Captain and physician had retired to the second room, allowing Athos some privacy. It had taken the support of both Porthos and Aramis to get him from his bed to the tub and lowered into it as he was still devoid of any energy and the means to stand unaided. As he scrubbed himself clean of the stale odour of illness and Aramis hovered nearby in case he needed help, Porthos and d'Artagnan changed the bedding for what was hopefully the last time. The steam and soak in the hot water had a desired soporific effect upon Athos and he had no sooner settled back into the clean bed – minus some of the pillows so that he lay down properly – than he was sound asleep.

The other five ate a hearty meal, their appetites fully restored after the anxieties they had lived through, but there was enough of the venison stew remaining to vary Athos' diet when he awoke late evening.

The night was uneventful and the new day dawned with an increased feeling of optimism for all. Athos was still weak but had garnered enough strength with which to feed himself and subsequently devoured several slices of Serge's fresh warm bread with a soft cheese. He was awake for longer periods of time and more of the teasing was to be heard. Porthos joked that he actually had more colour in his face; he was a 'healthy' white instead of the 'sickly' white or 'feverish pink' he had exhibited before.

At noon, they celebrated the passing of forty-eight hours but still Gabon insisted that they pass one more day in isolation. His patience wearing dangerously thin at being shut up in the infirmary for so long, Tréville had growled that he was ready to spend one more night there but that he would be out and about his garrison at sun-up the next day and Gabon would have to accept that decision.

By early evening the boredom and frustration were eating at everyone as all of them, Athos included, were desperate to get out of there. d'Artagnan fidgeted noisily; Porthos paced the floor, his booted steps resounding on the wooden boards; Athos repeatedly tried to escape from his bed but did not yet have the stamina to get far so surrendered easily when Aramis, humming tunelessly, pushed him back into it; Gabon began reading aloud the new document he had written detailing Athos' illness and Tréville …? Well Tréville, to safeguard his sanity, had left the confines of the room to sit on the bench outside in the cool September air and hoped that Serge might be disobedient enough to sit with him again.

He was not present, therefore, when Porthos suddenly stopped his pacing and crouched on his heels, staring intently at the corner of the room. He had been there for some time before d'Artagnan noticed him. Looking to where Porthos' eyes were fixated, he saw nothing.

Tapping Aramis on the shoulder to draw his attention away from the discussion he was having with Athos, d'Artagnan stepped carefully towards the big musketeer.

"What is it, Porthos? What are you looking at?" he asked.

Porthos pointed at empty space. "The duck," he answered simply.

Aramis and d'Artagnan moved forward for a better look, wondering how a duck might have wandered into the infirmary. There was nothing there. They exchanged puzzled glances, the first stirrings of unease registering in both of them.

"The duck," Aramis repeated, making it sound more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Porthos went on, a delighted smile spreading across his features. Several hours had passed since the men had decided to remove permanently the sheeting tied over their mouths and noses. "It's got beautiful colourin', hasn't it?"

"There is no duck," d'Artagnan hissed in alarm to Aramis.

"What duck?" demanded Athos from his bed.

"What duck?" Gabon added, rising to his feet and wondering if he was to get a second chance to witness the oddities of the illness manifesting themselves. He was already calculating in his head how many hours had passed since Porthos' initial exposure to the sweating sickness and was in the process of picking up his abandoned mask to replace it when there was a loud snort from Porthos and his head dipped. He was shaking convulsively.

Then Aramis realised that he was laughing, unable to maintain his pretence.

"Porthos?" he said slowly, dangerously.

Outside the door, Tréville heard the angry roars and he burst back into the room, unsure as to what he might find. Skidding to a halt, he saw Porthos on his knees, arms above his head in defence as Aramis and d'Artagnan hit him repeatedly and forcefully with a pillow each. Gabon and Athos, from their respective seat and bed, were throwing pillows across the room at the downed musketeer.

"What the ….?" Tréville was stunned and it was some time before he could make sense of the tale Aramis and d'Artagnan were trying to tell him. When he fully understood that Porthos had frightened them half to death with some stupid 'symptom' he had created of seeing a non-existent duck so that they thought that he, too, was succumbing to the disease, he growled menacingly, the pent-up frustrations of the day on the brink of finding release.

"I was just trying to lighten the mood a bit," Porthos pleaded to the Captain in defence.

"Lighten the …? I'll give you lighten the mood!" and Tréville snatched the remaining pillow that Athos was clutching and strode across the room, pelting Porthos as hard as he could around the head and shoulder with it. "Try a stunt like that again and you will 'lighten' the muck in the stables for a month!"

A/N

When the English Sweating Sickness 'disappeared' in the 1570s, nothing similar appeared until an outbreak of what was to be known as the Picardy Sweating Sickness was documented in 1718. This sickness was around for 200 years, probably disappearing with the traumatic influenza outbreak in the aftermath of WWI for it is not referred to after 1918.

So I used a little bit of 'historic licence' and had Athos presumably catching something similar when he and d'Artagnan went to Picardy. It did not erupt into a full blown epidemic and therefore (conveniently) went undocumented.

It was very similar to the English Sweating Sickness in all but two areas. The Picardy version did report a rash and the death rate was nowhere near as dire so Athos had more of a fighting chance!