As the last of his brothers succumbed to sleep, d'Artagnan released a shaky exhale, clenching and unclenching his hands repeatedly as he fought the trembling of his limbs. Adrenaline was a wonder, the natural drug giving one the power to continue until a threat was overcome, but the aftereffects were nasty and he knew that he'd feel unsteady and weak until he had time to properly rest. The time for that was still far away though as he turned his attention to the state of their surroundings.

The ground around them was littered with the bodies of the animals they'd slayed and, if they didn't want a repeat attack, the beasts would need to be dealt with. There was also the matter of their dying fire, the flames of which had been steadily decreasing as the wood that fed them was consumed. Most pressing, at least in the longer-term, were the horribly insufficient medical supplies that remained and which would need to sustain his patients for at least two more days given that their journey back would be completed at a much slower pace than they'd initially expected. Gathering up what was left of his clean bandages, d'Artagnan stuffed them back into his bag, unconsciously metering the linen out in his head and confirming that he'd have just enough to re-bandage each man's wounds twice. As he shifted, his leg struck the empty bottle of spirits, reminding him that he had only a small portion of brandy remaining from what he'd packed, and Aramis' supply had been used up that night.

Rummaging deeper into his bag, he pulled out several pouches that contained various medicinal herbs. He'd already amalgamated his supplies with Aramis' and would likely have enough for one or two more poultices and a handful of teas, all of which would need to be saved for his ailing friends. Sighing deeply brought a flash of pain to his chest, and his right hand moved to the spot automatically to cover it, as if he could soothe the ache away with only a touch. Closing his eyes for a moment, he clenched his other fist in frustration because he could not – would not – use any of their dwindling supplies to tend his own wound.

When he'd recovered himself sufficiently, he pushed himself up off the ground, grabbing one of the larger pieces of wood from the fire to use as a torch as he went in search of more timbre. He stayed within ten feet of their camp, continually scanning the area around him and glancing back to ensure his friends were still safe. Bending over to pick up the wood made him lightheaded and he bit his lip against the sensation, forcing his vision to clear; carrying the load of branches and deadfall back pressed against his chest in a most uncomfortable fashion and he grunted softly as he fell to his knees next to the fire to deposit his load.

His hand landed once more against the sore spot on his chest and he felt the dampness of the cloth that rested there, looking down for a moment to realize that he was well and truly covered with blood. The realization shocked him for a moment until he remembered the last wolf he'd battled, the animal bleeding out as it straddled his chest. He pulled the tacky material away from his body disgustedly, promising himself that he would find a change of clothes as soon as he was able.

With the fire well stoked, he took a brief moment to check on their horses and then turned his attention to the bodies around him, gritting his teeth as he headed for the first one, the torch again held in one hand. He lost track of time as he laboriously dragged each of the carcasses away, leaving them next to the mound that marked the spot where they'd buried Aramis' horse. The location wasn't ideal but it was the most he could do on his own, having learned from earlier experience that carrying them wasn't currently an option and he couldn't bring himself to move any further away from his injured brothers.

By the time he'd finished, he was practically swaying on his feet with exhaustion, the second night of almost no sleep, coupled with the night's events, taking its toll. As he stood at the edge of their camp, he could see the sky lightening, heralding the approaching dawn, and he could honestly say he'd never been happier at the thought of daylight. Knowing that the sun would likely rouse his friends, he collected his saddlebag and picked a spot close enough to the fire to provide him with sufficient light before sinking gratefully to the ground. For several moments he just sat there, savouring the feeling of being completely still. When he began to list to one side as sleep tried to overcome him, he forced his dry, gritty eyes open and pulled his clean shirt from his bag.

Pulling his dirty shirt off tugged at the raw spot on his chest and he bit his lip against the pain. He bundled the cloth into a ball and saturated it with water, using it to rub at the blood that had soaked through and covered his skin. He was gratified to find once he'd finished that the majority of the crimson hadn't been his, but the deep scratch marks that adorned his upper, right chest were concerning and still seeped sluggishly. Steeling himself, he poured more water from his water skin onto the gouges, rubbing vigorously at them with the discarded shirt, doing his best to clean them. His ministrations caused the thin scabs that had formed to open again and he now had a decision to make – bind the open wounds with clean bandages or stitch them closed and risk further blood loss and infection.

Unwilling to take supplies away from his friends, d'Artagnan settled on a third option, leaving the wounds open but wrapping them with linen ripped from the cleanest sections of his ruined shirt. He pulled his clean shirt on, followed by his leather doublet, just as the sun was rising and he scrubbed a hand across his face as he prepared to begin what would no doubt be another long day, his friends reliant on him to get them home.

d'Artagnan had been methodical in his preparations, boiling water and creating three pain draughts for his friends. He had little doubt that they would be travelling today regardless of their conditions and the medicine would be necessary for them to make any progress at all towards home. Next, he reloaded all of their pistols and cleaned everyone's blades, replacing his into his belt, while Athos' and Porthos' weapons were added to their respective mounts once they'd been saddled. The fatigue he'd felt earlier had grown in its intensity and d'Artagnan knew he'd need to stay busy in order to remain awake, so when he'd done everything necessary for their departure, he turned with regret toward his friends.

He started by kneeling at Athos' side, placing a hand on the man's brow to gauge his temperature, pleased to find it normal. With a gentle shake, he called the older man's name, pleasantly surprised for a second time when he awoke almost at once. Despite the previous night, Athos recollection of events was almost instantaneous and he began to push himself upwards, the Gascon having no choice but to help in order to keep him from hurting himself further. When Athos was seated with his back against the tree, d'Artagnan spoke, "How do you feel?"

Athos' eyes were narrowed with pain and he cradled his injured arm, but the fingers of his right had moved indicating that sensation had returned. "I'm fine," he replied, eyes already gazing at Aramis and Porthos. "How are they?" he questioned.

"I stitched the bites on Porthos' arm and set the bone last night. Both he and Aramis slept through but I haven't yet had a chance to check on them," the Gascon advised. Standing up, he moved away for a moment, returning seconds later with the tea he'd prepared. "I've got everything ready to go but you'd better drink this first." Athos scowled as he recognized the foul brew, but took it none-the-less and began to sip as d'Artagnan moved to check on his other charges.

He repeated his actions with both men, confirming that Porthos remained free of any troubling fevers and that Aramis had cooled during the night. After he'd given both of them pain draughts to drink, he examined everyone's wounds and decided to leave them undisturbed until they found a place to rest later in the day. When everyone had finished and dealt with their most basic needs, he organized them onto their horses, having Porthos and Athos both ride on their own, while Aramis would join him. As he finished settling the marksman onto his mount, Porthos looked around them appreciatively as he commented, "Gets right bossy when he's in charge of our care."

With a slight crinkling of his eyes, Athos returned, "No more than Aramis himself when one of us has been injured."

Aramis released a huff of indignation but his eyes were filled with mirth. The truth was that d'Artagnan had done an admirable job of tending their wounds and gone above and beyond shouldering all of the responsibilities around the camp. Leaning forward against the Gascon's back, he whispered, "Don't listen to them; they're just jealous that I've taught you so well."

"Good student, remember," d'Artagnan teased back as he nudged his horse into a slow walk.

Their pace was slow and interspersed with frequent breaks, a fact that the Gascon was incredibly thankful for given how hard it was to stay awake and attentive to their surroundings while being lulled to sleep on the back of the horse. During their afternoon rest, Athos looked at him with impatience and ordered him to sleep, accurately guessing that the young man had stayed awake following the attack. d'Artagnan considered arguing but he could barely see straight and a vice had clamped itself around his skull at some point during the day, making his head pound in tempo with the scratches on his chest.

"Was he hurt?" Aramis asked once it was clear that the Gascon was asleep.

Athos' head snapped toward the medic in surprise as he responded, "I didn't think so. Why?"

The medic offered a one-sided shrug, "Perhaps he's merely tired."

Porthos had been listening to the two men and now interjected, "Aramis, don't deflect. What did you see?"

Aramis' lips quirked into a smile at how well his friend knew him. "It's only little things so far. The occasional hitch in his breathing, the sheen of sweat on his face. All things that are easily explained."

"But you don't think so," Athos concluded.

Another smile graced the marksman's face as he replied, "This is d'Artagnan we're talking about."

Their group turned silent after that, each wondering if the Gascon was hiding something from them. When Athos roused the young man from his sleep an hour later, d'Artagnan fell swiftly into his role as medic, dosing them with more tea and tending their wounds before they resumed their journey. If the Gascon realized the men were carefully observing him for any signs of injury, he kept it to himself. That night they were fortunate to find rooms at an inn along the way, and all four were asleep shortly after consuming their evening meal, followed of course by another wound check by d'Artagnan before the young man virtually tucked all of them into bed; it was a testament to how poorly they all felt that none of them voiced a single complaint.

The next day was a repeat of the first, and each of them felt the tug of home as they drew nearer. The journey had been hard on all of them and it was a quiet, sore group of men that trailed through the garrison gates late that evening. Treville was out of his office and bounding down the stairs with the first cry that sounded from the men guarding the entrance, announcing the return of his four best. The Captain took one look at the weary bunch and summoned more men, Athos and Porthos slipping from their horses slowly while two others helped Aramis and began to move him toward the infirmary.

Treville squinted at the Gascon through the low light of dusk, the young man having made no move to dismount. "d'Artagnan, are you quite alright?"

d'Artagnan gave a small nod, his head remaining low to his chest before he tipped sideways out of the saddle, Treville just managing to break his fall and ending up with his arms full of insensate Gascon.

Treville turned out to be the most surprised of the group, while Athos and Porthos sighed in frustration, and Aramis merely shook his head after learning of the Gascon's less than graceful swoon from his horse. Similarly, the three had anticipated the wounds that were found on the young man's chest, having no idea of the injury he possessed, but knowing that he'd hidden something from them which had caused his state of unconsciousness. The fact that angered them was that the claw marks were infected and hadn't been properly cared for, d'Artagnan having ignored his own wellbeing for some reason that Porthos and Athos could not fathom; Aramis, however, smiled knowingly and promised himself that he would have a talk with the boy as soon as his fever broke.

That night found all of them staying in the infirmary, Aramis confined to a bed next to d'Artagnan's, while Athos and Porthos traded off, taking turns sitting at the Gascon's side and bathing his overly warm skin with cool cloths. The garrison physician had cleaned and bandaged the young man's chest and then examined each of the others, pronouncing that they'd all been well cared for and were on their way to recovering, a statement that only infuriated the men further. Fortunately, d'Artagnan's fever was short-lived and he was much improved by the middle of the next day, although he remained stubbornly asleep, a fact that Aramis didn't find concerning whatsoever given the number of hours the young man had gone without sleep.

When d'Artagnan finally woke, he found himself in the dimly lit infirmary, the sun having set hours ago and the space around his bed illuminated by candles. Rolling his head to one side, he noted the small table next to his cot and stretched his hand out to grasp the cup that sat there, draining the contents quickly to chase away the dryness in his throat. When he'd replaced the cup, he moved his hand to probe at his chest, confirming the presence of bandages. He groaned as he realized the implication of his discovery.

"Awake, are you?" a voice from his other side asked, and the Gascon startled, turning over to see who had spoken.

"Aramis, what happened?" d'Artagnan asked. The marksman gave him a look of mock disbelief that had the young man rephrasing his question. "Alright, I know what happened," he said, his hand again reaching for his wound, "but how did I end up here."

With a grin that suggested the Gascon would be the brunt of much teasing in the foreseeable future, the medic replied, "I understand the Captain had you carried here after you fell from your horse and into his arms." Aramis watched as d'Artagnan pushed himself up and swung his feet over the edge of the cot, turning so that he faced the marksman. "You know, we had thought it quite remarkable that you had managed to come out of that confrontation with the wolves unscathed."

The Gascon gave a small snort as he replied, "Bloody lucky for all of us that I wasn't more seriously hurt; otherwise who would have taken care of all of you."

"Hmm," the marksman hummed. "It would have made things more difficult, but not impossible. It's not like I haven't been wounded along with the others in the past."

"You have?" d'Artagnan asked, his tone conveying his interest.

"Oh, yes. There was this one time with a group of highwaymen outside of Orleans. There were six of them, or maybe it was eight – no matter, there were a fair number and, although we were victorious, all of us paid a price for it."

"What happened?" the Gascon pressed, curious to hear how the medic had dealt with things.

"I handled it as best I could," Aramis explained. "Porthos had taken a shot to the thigh and was bleeding like a stuck pig so I dug the ball out and stitched it closed. Athos had taken a blade to one side and was bleeding only slightly less than Porthos, so he was my next priority. I used up nearly all my supplies cleaning and bandaging their wounds."

"What about you," d'Artagnan asked, recalling that the marksman had said that all three of them had been hurt.

"Ah, nasty cut across my back," Aramis grimaced as he remembered how the sharp blade had cut through his leathers and skin with equal ease. "Left a six inch gash that required more stitches than I wish to recall.

"So what did you do?" the Gascon questioned.

"The only reasonable thing I could do," the medic replied. "I sat stoically while Porthos and Athos tortured me as they cleaned my back and then stitched it closed." With a look that was only half-joking, he shuddered as he said, "Don't ever let Athos sew you up. His needlework is only marginally better than Porthos'."

"Didn't that use up the last of your supplies?" the young man asked.

"Yes," Aramis responded with a sigh. "But there was nothing else we could have done."

"Wouldn't it have been better to save what you had to tend Athos' and Porthos' wounds?" d'Artagnan countered, still not understanding the lesson the medic was attempting to convey.

Piercing him with a serious look, Aramis explained, "d'Artagnan, when we fall, we must trust that our brothers will be there to catch us; but we have an obligation to them to be ready to do the same. That becomes impossible if our poor health prevents it."

Realization dawned on the young man's face, as he smiled shyly and replied, "So, you're saying that I shouldn't have hidden the fact that I was injured even though I would have used up the last of our supplies."

"Exactly," Aramis proclaimed with a wide grin. "Unless you fancy making it a habit to swoon at others' feet." The flushed look of embarrassment on the young man's face was immensely satisfying and the medic closed his eyes, content to be back home and healing, and secure in the knowledge that he now had another brother who would be there pick him up the next time he fell.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who's been following along with this story, and thanks to all those who favorited or left guest reviews and to whom I couldn't respond to personally. This is the end of this "short" story and I'm excited to let you know that I'll be back with the first chapter of my long story, "Family", this Sunday. If you decide to give it a try, please also check out the companion fic by AZGirl, titled "Almost Family", which will be up shortly after mine.