A/N: Although this story is a part of the Windy City Musketeers series, I don't think that you need to have read the other stories (Thirty-One Days Hath October and A December to Forget) to understand what's going on because the first draft of this story was written before I started on the other stories. They do, however, fill in some blanks.

I'd like to thank Issai for beta reading this story. Her feedback has done much to improve the story and help me to see areas that weren't working. Any remaining errors are my own.

The Beginning

Aramis is helping Porthos to get his shirt back on when the nurse reminds him of the cut on his arm. He'd quickly bandaged it back at the crime scene but has since forgotten about it, even as blood is soaking the bandage and slowly trickling down his forearms to drip on the floor. Porthos might have said something if he wasn't dealing with his bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder. Athos and d'Artagnan are at the crime scene still, wrapping up the details after their mission gone wrong.

"To be honest, I hadn't completely forgotten about it," he explains with an easy smile.

"I bet," Porthos says, voice tight with pain, but a lilt of humor present nonetheless. "You were just waiting to take care of it yourself at home." He winces as Aramis pulls the shirt down, accidentally jarring his ribs and shoulder.

"Sorry," Aramis mutters, pulling his hands away so he doesn't hurt the man anymore. Porthos puts his free hand on Aramis' shoulder to calm the younger man. Before he can speak, the nurse interjects herself into the conversation.

"Don't like us here," Megan, the nurse, asks with a teasing smile. She waits patiently as Aramis removes his jacket, carefully threading his wounded arm through the now ruined sleeve.

"He's a little adverse to hospitals, you could say," Porthos says. They're established here, being not too far from the Musketeer station. It's the primary hospital for the task force, but Megan hasn't often treated them.

"I have no problem with hospitals. I merely didn't realize it was bleeding this badly." It's not a problem he has with hospitals or even doctors. He just doesn't have the best of luck given his numerous illnesses that tear their ugly heads at random and inconvenient moments. Not every doctor and nurse understood that.

"And Porthos," Aramis says, taking a seat next to him on the bed as Megan directed, "you know that I am more than capable of dealing with a wound like this."

"On your arm? Your dominant one at that?"

"I'm ambidextrous, don't you know?"

"First I've heard of it." Porthos chuckles.

"I'm sure I put it on my resume to Treville and I know you snuck into his files to have a look."

"You're not ambidextrous if you can only shoot with both hands. You've got to be able to do more than that."

"I can do way more with both hands than shoot a gun. Just ask the ladies." Aramis unconsciously gives Megan a wink. While the two have been bickering, she's cut off the impromptu bandage and cleaned the wound. It's not a bad cut, but it is a few inches long and a little deeper than she expected. Her cleaning the wound cause the bleeding to pick up. She grabs a small stack of gauze pads, putting them on the cut, and grabbing Aramis' free hand to put pressure on the wound while she gathers the needed supplies. She blushes at the wink and smiles at their conversation. They're the liveliest of her patients so far today.

"That's going to need stitches. I'll have to go get the doctor and start a chart for you," she explains, setting the supplies on the table nearby.

"Stitches, Aramis. Would you've been able to handle that at home," she hears Porthos ask Aramis on her way out. She misses the response, but she's sure the man had a retort ready.

Hours later, after their wounds were tended to and they'd returned to the station to deal with the paperwork, they are all finally back home. The four share a single large house purchased by Athos using graduation money from his parents that he'd invested thanks to the skills he learned earning his MBA. He'd bought the four-bedroom house mostly because he liked the area, a quiet neighborhood in Lake Bluff, as well as the den. That he might have housemates hadn't occurred to him. Porthos and Aramis had rather abruptly become housemates when the two were evicted after the landlord at their complex grew tired of complaints about Aramis' PTSD. There was no way he could turn them out to a hotel and more apartment hunting, not with Aramis' PTSD a serious issue at the time. d'Artagnan was the last to join them nearly two years ago but fit perfectly into the team as well as the fourth bedroom.

Currently, they are resting in the living room after a dinner of take-out. Porthos was in no condition to cook and none of them felt like eating leftovers after their difficult day. Athos sits in his favorite armchair, well-worn from hours of late night ponderings and worried frenzies over his friends. d'Artagnan is stretched out on the love seat texting with his younger siblings still stuck at home, his long legs bent and hanging over the edge of the armrest. Athos has told the young man to not to that several times because it breaks down the furniture. Now he does so rarely, realizing how much he'd started sounding like his mother.

Porthos is lying on the couch, his shoulder icing, and head resting in Aramis' lap. Aramis, never one to simply lie still, is fiddling with a logic puzzle toy, his own injury carefully wrapped in white gauze. He would need to be careful showering for a week but overall had gotten off easy.

"How're the ribs doing," Athos asks Porthos. He sets his phone aside to look at the man.

"They're fine, so long as I don't move around much," Porthos answers, stopping his game on his phone. Their reconnaissance mission hadn't quite gone belly-up, but it had certainly taken an unexpected turn when three men came charging at them wielding a knife in each hand. The closest to the action, Porthos and Aramis, had sprung into action, both taking the brunt of the attack. It might've been worse, if not for an expertly executed tackle from Porthos that took down the last man who was aiming for Athos' back.

"Make sure then that you take it easy," Athos says. "By the way, you're off duty for at least a week and then on desk duty until you're cleared by the doctor."

"My favorite," Porthos says sarcastically.

"Does Louis know about our setback today," Aramis asks idly. Louis Bourbon is mayor of Chicago after winning a third term on the basis of the success of his special task force created to ease the pressure off the police by taking on long-term, dangerous investigations into major crime. Most of their investigations deal with serial killers, mob bosses, illegal weapons, and drug rings. Anything that might take longer than a month and stretch the police force too thin is sent to Treville's special task force, jokingly named the Musketeers by Louis during a press conference where he was touting their success.

Athos' team is one of nine. Living together as they do is not customary but it works for them. They've come to be a close team and balance each other out in ways that have helped them to become the top team.

"Treville called him soon after so he wouldn't hear about it on the news again," Athos says. "He wasn't thrilled when he heard about our takedown of that drug ring on the TV before hearing from us. I don't think he was happy about the situation today, but Treville assured him we'll get it taken care of."

They pass the remainder of the evening with idle conversation, none really having much desire to do anything after a difficult long day. When Porthos begins to snore, Aramis wakes him and they help him up to his room, standing close as he's grown stiff from lying still for hours.

The rest of the week passes slowly for Porthos, who is stuck at home. Their doctor knows them well and tells him that until he doesn't hiss with simple movements, he can't return to work. The other three are busy, not only filling in the gap from their wounding teammate but also fixing the mess from their botched surveillance mission on Tuesday, not to mention keeping Porthos from doing anything that might extend his time off duty.

It is when Aramis is walking to catch the train after a late night at the office that he first has the sense that he is being observed. Common sense and his training tell him not to openly look around for his watcher. Instead, he keeps his usual pace and glances about, trying to catch a shadow or a reflection in a shop window. Though it is nearly midnight and the street is well lit, he is still unable to catch a glimpse.

Perhaps, he thinks, it is a fluke. He is tired and irritated from having to stay late. Treville has assigned him to be the liaison with the police this quarter and it is causing him a lot of extra work. The police aren't incompetent by any means, but they are much less skilled than the Musketeers. Being a Musketeer means, in part, earning a masters in an approved field such as criminal psychology, psychology, sociology, etc. Their training is more intense and mentally challenging. Not just the average person can be a Musketeer and that's what sets them apart. Largely, they are an experiment in law enforcement but Aramis has heard few complaints and most stem from the taskforce recently opening itself to women. The police are also often stretched beyond their capacity. Not to mention, their forensics team is terrible with evidence. It is a wonder that any criminal is convicted of even the most mundane of crimes.

Between the tiredness and the irritation, it is easy to feel twitchy, he reasons. With a glance at his watch, he picks up his pace, realizing that if he doesn't, he will miss the train and have to wait an hour for the next. That would do nothing to help his day along. More than anything, he wants to be home. The others are likely in bed already, which is fine with him because that is his plan as well. Sleep will make everything better. And the fact that tomorrow is Friday and he has the weekend off.