Welcome to my newest story, which is a sequel of sorts to Mistaken Identity. Although I've been working on this one since Mistaken Identity wrapped up, real life and several other fics conspired against me and made finishing this one a slower process than expected. I'm happy to finally be able to start posting it, and even though this story refers to events that happened in Mistaken Identity, I don't believe it's necessary to read that one - of course, I won't stop you if you'd like to give it a try as well. Hope you enjoy!

It had been subtle at first, small shifts in their behaviours and attitudes, but over time wide cracks had formed between them.

It began the week after they'd returned to the garrison following their disheartening mission to Savoy, which had seen Aramis injured not once but twice, the second time as a result of being mistaken for one of the supposedly Spanish bandits terrorizing the village and surrounding areas. d'Artagnan had been racked with guilt when he'd found out what had happened, blaming himself for having left the man alone to pursue Athos and Porthos and share vital information with them. Although they'd all absolved him of all culpability, the feelings persisted and worsened as the slight infection Aramis had incurred to his burned leg grew progressively worse, fueling the fever that gripped him and sapped him of his strength.

With each hour that passed, the trio surrounding Aramis' bed grew increasingly more sombre, and by the third day, Athos and Porthos no longer tried to alleviate the young man's guilt, the looks passing between the two stating more loudly than any words could that they blamed the boy for having left the marksman alone to fend for himself. For a week, Aramis lay in fevered delirium, battling the infection that gripped him and threatened his life, unaware of his brothers' deteriorating relationships as they cared for him.

By the time that the marksman's situation began to improve, the two older Musketeers were managing only the briefest of conversations with the Gascon, despite reason telling them that the young man was not at fault, but their fear for Aramis driving them to irrationally place the blame at his feet. For his part, d'Artagnan did nothing to dissuade them from their beliefs, feeling that their accusations were accurately placed and that he was deserving of the treatment he now received. When it became clear that Aramis would recover, the Gascon began to distance himself from the trio, completing extra duties at the garrison, or taking his horse out for long rides in the countryside, ostensibly to allow the two men more time alone with the marksman as he improved.

A part of him had hoped that Athos or Porthos would come looking for him, especially at first, but as the days passed and no one came, he accepted that this would be his new reality. Where their off-duty hours had previously been filled with humour and camaraderie, d'Artagnan's days were now filled with loneliness and increasing despair. Still, he clung onto the thinnest strand of hope that things would change, and it seemed that his faith was to be rewarded when one of the men from the garrison tracked him down just after morning muster to deliver a message from Aramis – the marksman wanted to see him.

The medic had been healing well since his fever had finally broken, but it had left him weak and confined to bed, the physician not yet confident that the injured Musketeer was well enough to be up and about. He had, however, made one concession and allowed the man to move from the infirmary and return to his own room, something that d'Artagnan had managed to find out from the doctor two nights ago when he'd visited the infirmary to surreptitiously check on his friend. As he stood outside the door to the marksman's room, his stomach rolled uncomfortably with anxiety, and his feet nearly carried him away before he found the courage to knock.

"Come," a voice called from within, and the Gascon's hand trembled as he pushed the door open and walked through. He managed only two steps before his fortitude fled and he faltered, coming to a standstill as he got his first view of Aramis in several days. The marksman was much paler than his normally healthy complexion, and the weight he'd lost during his illness was obvious in the sharp planes of his face though his dark eyes were clear. He smiled as d'Artagnan drank in the sight of him, and the young man couldn't help but smile back.

"d'Artagnan, it's good to see you," Aramis said, reaching a hand out and inviting his friend to come closer.

The Gascon closed the distance, and when the marksman motioned to a chair at his bedside, he gingerly lowered himself into it, his back ramrod straight and his weight balanced just at the edge of the seat. The two were silent for several seconds until d'Artagnan regained his ability to speak, uncertain what he could possibly say to make up for everything Aramis had suffered because of his negligence. "It's good to see you feeling better," he offered, the words genuine in his relief that his friend was improving.

Aramis offered one of his charming smiles, the effect not diminished at all by the fact that he was clearly still regaining his strength. "Come now, you act as though I was at death's door," he teased.

d'Artagnan's breath hitched and he blanched at his friend's words, the marksman having been so close to passing that he'd likely had a foot over the threshold of the reaper's domain. Trying to cover up his reaction, he let out a small cough as he struggled to find the right words, finally settling on the truth. "I believe there are those who would contradict you."

The look on the marksman's face demonstrated that he was fully aware of how dire his condition had been, but was refusing to dwell on it. "No matter, I'm fine now."

With a shy grin, the Gascon countered his friend's words. "Perhaps on the mend would be a more accurate description."

Aramis sighed and shrugged. "If it makes you feel better, then we'll go with that. Now, tell me, what's kept you so busy this past week that you've been unable to come by and visit?"

The question was asked innocently enough, but d'Artagnan couldn't help wonder what the marksman was implying. His mind raced with the many possible ways he could answer, discarding each response as quickly as it struck. I couldn't bear to watch you suffer knowing that I'd caused this. Athos and Porthos didn't want me around, and with good reason, so I honored their wishes. I found myself alone even when at your bedside with the others, and it finally became more than I could stand. The thoughts that swirled through his mind were a painful reminder of how difficult his self-imposed exile had been.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis' voice broke through his reverie and he pulled himself back to the conversation. With effort, he focused his attention on the medic, who repeated his question. "Have you been away on a mission?" The marksman's face was now genuinely curious, with just a touch of concern, and the Gascon realized that the others hadn't been forthcoming about his absence.

"What did Athos and Porthos tell you?" he queried, proud that he'd managed to keep his voice steady.

Aramis' brows furrowed in confusion at the question. "Nothing much really, just that you weren't around." Watching the young man carefully, the marksman pressed, "d'Artagnan, is there something going on that I should be aware of?"

The Gascon was quick to shake his head. "No, they're right, I just haven't been around."

The medic didn't seem wholly satisfied with the answer, but was willing to accept it for now. "So, you'll be around more now?" he asked hopefully. "I'm not allowed out for another day or two, and I'm certain I'll die of boredom if I don't at least have someone to come and visit me."

d'Artagnan hastened to assure his friend as he said, "I'm sure Athos and Porthos won't let that happen."

Aramis gave a low snort as he countered the Gascon's words. "They've been fussing like a pair of old women. In truth, their attentions have been suffocating me."

With what he hoped was an encouraging smile, he said, "I'm sure they'll be better now that you're improving."

Before Aramis could disagree, his door opened and Athos stepped through, stopping abruptly just as d'Artagnan had. He was far quicker to recover though. "d'Artagnan, the Captain was looking for you downstairs. I believe you were ordered to inventory the muskets today."

The young man's eyes dipped to the ground for a moment before he lifted them again, mumbling a quiet good-bye to Aramis before darting swiftly through the still-open doorway.

Aramis' gaze was still fixed on the empty threshold, shaking his head in wonder at how quickly the young man had left. "What was all that about?" he asked the older man.

Athos simply closed the door behind him as he replied, "I'm sure I have absolutely no idea."

Athos knew that he was treating d'Artagnan unfairly, and as much as he wanted to stop and simply return to the ease of their earlier relationship, he just couldn't seem to manage it. It was as though something significant had irrevocably shifted in such an extreme fashion that resurrecting the past was an impossibility. He realized that his feelings weren't the only ones that had changed, Porthos' behaviour mirroring his own as the stress of caring for their injured and incredibly sick friend had taken its toll on both of them. Surprisingly, as their treatment of d'Artagnan worsened, the more the young man seemed to berate himself, as though believing himself at fault as well and welcoming the punishment of his friends' withdrawal.

They were barely exchanging words by the time that Aramis' life hung precariously in the balance, none of the men willing to leave his side as they expected each breath to be his last. Even then, the Gascon had done everything in his power to defer to his friends' wishes, being the one to leave for short periods of time to refresh water or provide updates to the Captain, allowing Athos and Porthos to continue their vigil at the marksman's bedside.

When it became clear that Aramis would recover, d'Artagnan removed himself completely, not participating in any part of the injured man's care, nor taking meals with them on the odd occasion they would find themselves outside while the physician conducted his examinations. In fact, the young man was nowhere in sight and, remarkably, the only emotion that Athos had experienced was relief.

When Aramis had become sufficiently coherent to recognize his surroundings and the passage of time, he'd made his first inquiry about the Gascon's absence, which both Athos and Porthos replied to noncommittally, trusting that the marksman's awareness was not yet adequate to realize that neither man was really answering. A couple of days later, Aramis pointedly asked about d'Artagnan's whereabouts, and Porthos had managed something about the young man not being around enough to be able to visit. The reply had caused the marksman to frown, but he was still easily enough distracted that he hadn't pursued it. Neither man had expected that Aramis would take things into his own hands and send another in search of the wayward Gascon.

The sight of d'Artagnan in Aramis' room had initially filled Athos will cheer, having missed the boy's presence as he'd steadfastly kept away from them. The feeling was fleeting, however, and rapidly overshadowed by anger and blame at the young man's actions, and Athos hardened his heart against his initial instincts for reconciliation. Instead, he'd said the first words that had come to mind, making up an excuse about Treville to get d'Artagnan out of the room and out of his sight. Aramis had commented on the Gascon's unaccountably swift departure, no doubt having noticed the young man's flush of red at Athos' words.

Although the marksman wasn't yet permitted out of bed in deference to his weakened state, there was nothing the matter with his eyes, which narrowed at the older Musketeer who was pretending that the boy's dash from the room was nothing out of the ordinary. It was now Athos who felt shame at how he'd handled the conversation that followed.

"You have absolutely no idea?" Aramis repeated the older man's words in disbelief. "Did you fall blind and deaf while I've been in this bed?" Athos at least had the grace to appear uncomfortable at the marksman's question, but it didn't excuse him from Aramis' scrutiny. "Well," he pressed, "have you nothing more to add?"

It was not something that he did with his fellow Musketeers, and especially not with his closest friends, but Athos channeled his inner noble as he drew himself up straighter and said, "Perhaps the physician should be summoned to check your temperature; your perception seems impaired."

The delivery of the words was more shocking than the words themselves, and Aramis stiffened at the condescension he'd detected in his friend's tone. Refusing to allow himself to be so easily dissuaded from his objective, he changed tact. "Perhaps the physician can examine you while he's here." The marksman's voice was sweet, but the underlying tone was hard and served as a warning to Athos to stop playing word games.

Finally crossing the distance between them to take the seat recently vacated by the Gascon, Athos lowered himself down and took a moment to compose his thoughts. Deciding to settle on at least a modicum of the truth, he asked, "What do you wish to know?"

With a faint smile of satisfaction, the marksman repeated his earlier question, "Tell me, what's going on with d'Artagnan? It's unlike him to be so absent when one of us has been injured."

It was impossible to refute Aramis' statement, and a dozen occasions jumped to mind when the young man had spent every waking moment tending to one of their group after they'd been hurt. It was in the boy's nature; he was fiercely loyal, almost to a fault, not even being swayed by reason when it was pointed out to him that he needed proper food and rest. Gauging his reply carefully, Athos answered, "I believe he feels guilty at the part he played in recent events."

Aramis sputtered at the older man's reply, looking at him incredulously. "Why on earth would he feel guilty? I told him a dozen times that it wasn't his fault. Surely you and Porthos have done the same?"

Athos' eyes skittered away as the medic identified the real crux of the problem - not only had they not discouraged d'Artagnan's beliefs, but they'd encouraged them. At the older man's silence, the marksman's eyes widened and his face shadowed in sadness. "Oh, Athos." The words were spoken quietly, barely above a whisper, but the disappointment in them was enough to have the older man flinching as they dropped.

Silence fell over the room as Athos steadfastly examined a spot on one wall, unable to meet Aramis' gaze while the medic appeared thoughtful as he considered what he'd discovered. Drawing a deep breath, the marksman spoke, "I'm so sorry, Athos."

The words caught the older Musketeer by surprise and had him snapping his head back towards his ailing friend, reminded again how bad things had been when he gazed at the man's gaunt face. "What could you possibly have to apologize for?" he managed.

"I knew it was bad, but I didn't realize…" Aramis started, trailing off a moment later. "It must have been a very difficult time for you both."

The lump that appeared in Athos' throat threatened to choke him, and speaking was not an option. The expression on Aramis' face was full of understanding and compassion, the medic recognizing how scared they had been for his life and how poorly they'd behaved as a result. Instead of condemnation, all he could feel was the marksman's forgiveness, and he quickly looked away, once more mortified at his and Porthos' actions. He finally managed a nod in reply, Aramis reaching forward to grasp his hand. Athos made a half-hearted attempt to pull away, but the medic simply tightened his hold and pulled the older man's hand closer, clasping it in both of his.

They sat in that manner for quite some time, Aramis giving his friend the opportunity to process what had happened while Athos considered what might happen next. It was the slackening of the medic's grip that broke the older man from his thoughts, alerting him to the fact that the injured man was tiring. A glance at Aramis' slumping posture and half-lidded eyes confirmed that the man needed to rest, and the conversation they'd had would not have helped his overall condition. Squeezing the marksman's hand, Athos wormed his way gently from his friend's grip and then stood slowly, leaning forward to pull a pillow out from behind Aramis' back so he could lay down.

"Athos, you must fix this," the medic stated wearily, his body already beginning to relax into his mattress.

"And you need your rest," Athos deflected as he pulled Aramis' blanket up higher to cover his chest.

The marksman was determined and fought the pull of sleep as he reached out again for Athos' hand. "Please, Athos, promise me; promise you'll make things right between you." The exhaustion in no way dimmed the resolve in the marksman's eyes, and Athos swallowed thickly at the plea his friend was making.

"I'll consider it," the older man finally replied, disengaging his captured hand once more as he straightened. The flash of disappointment on Aramis' face had been expected, but that hadn't lessened its impact at all. Unable to give his friend what he so desperately wanted, Athos said, "Rest, Aramis. One of us will be back to check on you later." With that, the older man turned away and exited the room, Aramis watching sadly as his body gave in to the unrelenting need for sleep.

Athos had wanted more than anything to assuage his friend's concerns, but found himself unready to make amends with the Gascon, the taste of the medic's near-death still too fresh to ignore. The best he could do was consider that they may have been wrong - that d'Artagnan's decision hadn't nearly caused the death of one of their dearest friends – and perhaps that would be enough to set them all onto the path of healing.

A/N: Thanks go to AZGirl for her invaluable beta skills and her encouragement and support throughout the writing of this fic. Updates will be daily, with the exception of Saturdays due to work commitments over the coming weeks.