Thank you for all the feedback so far. Last part, hope you continue to enjoy this.

There's a scene in this that I particularly enjoyed imagining. I'll let you guess which one…

xx

'Why did you come back?' The question, posed over the newly fixed radio, was clearly aimed at d'Artagnan, though he tried his best to ignore it.

Athos, sat once again in the front, looking as uncomfortable as normal high up in the air, was distracted enough to turn and look at him as well. D'Artagnan could see the curiosity on his face out of the corner of his eye.

The helicopter had not only been fixed, but polished to a shiny finish, reflecting the bright early morning sun as they had walked across the airstrip to it. D'Artagnan had taken longer than usual on his pre-flight checks, the others patiently waiting as he checked the window, the radio, the internal electronics, even the external electronics. Once up in the air, d'Artagnan had let the familiar excitement of the flight calm the uneasiness that had punctuated his night.

He'd almost been relaxed until Aramis had asked his question over the radio. D'Artagnan tried for glib. 'you want I should have left you there?'

'The logical thing would have been to land.' Athos was still watching him rather than the land, and d'Artagnan thought for a moment about throwing in a sharp turn to get the gaze away from him. He couldn't quite bring himself to be that cruel, though.

'He said others were going after you.' D'Artagnan finally answered, studying the land around him, though he wasn't really seeing it. He remembered envisioning a burnt-out yacht, the fear that he would be too late.

'Still, you could have got help from the ground.' D'Artagnan glanced in the rear-view at Aramis, found he was under scrutiny from both him and Porthos and quickly looked away.

'I thought it would be too late.' His quiet voice sounded loud over the radio. He remembered the relief at finding the yacht intact, seeing the three alive and decided to change the subject, unwilling to examine the feelings further. Not with an audience, anyway. 'Who do you think is the mole?' Athos looked over at the question, eyebrow raised. 'You said you had an inkling.'

'When we get back to HQ, I'll show you.'

'Come on, Athos!' Aramis sounded annoyed, and d'Artagnan realised he wasn't the only one who didn't know. 'We've got a long flight ahead.'

'Yes.' D'Artagnan wondered if Athos was aware of how annoying it was when he reverted to the clipped, upper class voice.

'Tell us a story.' Porthos said over the radio.

They all heard the sigh. 'Fine.' D'Artagnan saw him settle into his seat more, eyes scanning the horizon though he doubted Athos was seeing much. 'We're ordered to collect a USB from an estate belonging to Braggs.' Athos paused, looking over at d'Artagnan for a second. 'I take it you know who that is.'

'I took a stab.' D'Artagnan confirmed.

'Braggs has many enemies. By sending us to his estate, even one he currently doesn't reside in, it brings him under scrutiny. The press get wind of it, everything is focused on him. So why would someone destroy his house?'

'If there was something on the USB that could implicate Braggs, a rival would want it found rather than destroyed.' Porthos finished the thought.

Athos agreed. 'The estate, we were told, would be empty.'

'It wasn't just empty.' Aramis commented. 'It was unlived in.'

Athos nodded again.

'You think they were hoping to destroy the estate with you in it.' D'Artagnan completed the thought.

'If we hadn't had such a competent pilot, they might have been successful.' Athos said.

D'Artagnan was embarrassed to find the matter of fact complement meant more to him from Athos than a "good job" would have done from someone else. 'So, they missed the chance at the estate, and tried again at the beach?'

'It was an obvious next step. Braggs is well known for spending time on his yacht, and though it was unlikely the USB would be there, anyone would have checked it out.'

'And we were expected to?' D'Artagnan asked.

'I think we just confirmed what they expected when we told HQ where we were going. The call would have been logged, as normal'

'And, so, accessible by anyone at HQ who wanted to know our plan.' Porthos worried at the graze on his cheek as he spoke, Aramis knocking his hand away before he could disturb the scab.

Completely immersed in the story, d'Artagnan thought he was missing a vital piece of information. 'Who actually owns the USB? Who wants it?'

He watched as the three exchanged looks before Athos answered. 'I think whoever owns it and who wants it is two very different parties. But we were just sent to retrieve it, no details on the party claiming it.'

'By Treville?'

'No, actually. It was a general email assigned to us as the only free investigative team.'

'You think whoever went after it would have faced the same problems?'

'Or whoever sent the email knew exactly which team was free.' Aramis shrugged, 'we may never know.' His tone, though, told d'Artagnan he didn't think it had been a coincidence.

'You think the USB exists?'

'Yes.' Athos answered. 'I think someone is willing to do an awful lot to protect, but whoever it belongs to is willing to pay as much to see it destroyed.'

A silent beat passed over the helicopter. 'You think someone hired the Musketeers to find it whilst a second party are looking to destroy it?'

'And I don't think they care who gets destroyed with it.' He looked over at d'Artagnan for a moment, waiting till d'Artagnan looked at him. 'I think you were right, we should have asked what was on it. Whatever it is, someone is more than willing to kill to keep it a secret.'

'Ok,' d'Artagnan was more than willing to ignore that Athos had just said he was right, though he filed it away for later thought, 'I still don't get how this links back to someone in the Musketeers trying to kill you all, or highjack me to get back to HQ.'

'The owner of the USB wants it back. That much is obvious. But someone else doesn't want it found.'

'Someone who wants the content exposed. Whoever is featured on the USB?' Porthos suggested.

'Or knows what damage the USB will do on exposure.'

'Ok, one party wants it, another wants it destroyed. Must be a pretty explosive dossier. What about the mole at the musketeers, what do they want?' Aramis wondered.

'They seem to be trying to stop us from getting it.'

'And you have an inkling who.'

'I think sending us to Braggs was a nonsense.' Athos said. 'a false lead, but one with a purpose, to try and bring Braggs under scrutiny.'

'Richelieu.' Aramis all but breathed the answer, face lighting up as he quickly made the leap.

'The assistant director?' D'Artagnan asked in surprise.

'He hates us. Always has done. Treville employed us directly, sought us all out.' Aramis answered.

'But he hates Braggs more.' Athos said, turning as much as he could in his harness to look at Aramis. 'You remember where he was before the Musketeers?'

Aramis's grin was bright, and tinged with evil. Even d'Artagnan could answer this, though. 'Government. Wasn't he a minister before some scandal or other.'

'Sleeping with a prostitute or two.' Porthos said.

'or three, or four, but who's counting?' Aramis added.

'And who exposed him?'

'Braggs.' D'Artagnan understood the look on Aramis's face as Porthos answered.

'That's some revenge.' D'Artagnan checked the instruments before him, automatically clocking the information even as the information settled into some sort of order in his mind. 'He would try and kill you purely because Treville hired you?'

'In a heartbeat.' Aramis said cheerfully.

'Anything to get one over Treville.' Porthos added.

'Ok, I get Richelieu wanting revenge against Braggs. And even maybe killing you.'

'But why highjack the helicopter pilot to fly back to Musketeers HQ.' Athos finished for him.

D'Artagnan shrugged helplessly.

'I think that was whoever wants the disc back.'

It took several seconds for this to sink in, and the implications to become apparent. 'the disc is at the musketeers?' Aramis asked, looking uncertain that this what Athos meant.

Athos simply nodded, settling back to watch the horizon again.

'The disc is at base?' Porthos echoed, frowning heavily.

'We'll find out when we get there.' Athos said. 'Treville has left information about our return off the official communications portal.'

'Do you ever have a nice, quiet investigation?' D'Artagnan wondered as the outskirts of the city became apparent in the distance. The laugh he got in return was answer enough.

xx

The story came out around a much-needed beer at a nearby bar. Well, d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis had beer, Athos had looked at the choice with distain before picking a Soave from the "abysmal" wine list.

Richelieu had been arrested for blackmail, the disc found in his office containing details of a well-known environmental lobby group, who appeared to be mostly funded by an oil corporation. The papers were going to have a field day as the details slowly trickled out, especially when the head of the environmental group, a government minister, was arrested for funding a high jacking attempt on a private security firm.

D'Artagnan felt exhausted just trying to keep up with the details. They had all been ordered to stay silent, by Louis, the company director no less, and the police who didn't want their many targets for arrest to be forewarned of what they knew.

'So, you missed your meeting with Treville.' Aramis was watching him from over his pint glass.

D'Artagnan acknowledged the statement with a slight tip of his own glass.

'You'll have to reschedule soon. You're too good a pilot to be just transporting the rich and richer around the city.' Porthos joined in.

D'Artagnan noticed Athos sit back in his chair, settling in for the show. 'You seriously think I still want to be your pilot?' He asked in disbelief. 'I've been shot at, nearly blown up, highjacked, all in the last week.'

'Yeah, great, wasn't it?' Porthos asked, clapping him on the back.

D'Artagnan couldn't help but stare at the big man like he was slightly crazy. He extended the look to the other two when they nodded in agreement.

'You can't tell me that you haven't felt more satisfied, more alive doing these jobs than you have in the month you've been transporting rich folk around.' Aramis placed his glass on the table, giving d'Artagnan his full attention.

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to fidget in his seat, frowning as he remembered feeling like he belonged, and how unsettled it had made him feel. 'Why do you even care?' he finally asked in frustration, desperate to redirect the feelings.

Aramis and Porthos both went to answer, but it was Athos that answered first, sitting forward with his elbows on the table as he settled his piercing gaze on d'Artagnan. 'You're one of us. We all recognised it. And you may not realise it, but you need us. We have each other, but you have no one. And that's a lonely life. It doesn't have to be.'

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to speak, but Athos hadn't finished.

'Something happened. We all understand that. More than you could imagine, if you'd let us. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve this, that you don't deserve to be a part of something again.' Athos looked away but not before d'Artagnan caught a glimmer of pain he understood so well reflected in Athos's eyes. 'It's your choice, of course.' He added.

'But you're never going to give up.' D'Artagnan finished quietly.

'Not one little bit.' Porthos said with a grin.

xx

D'Artagnan was good at compartmentalising. It was a useful skill, had got him through elite training, 12 mile runs at three in the morning after a full day of training, with a loaded pack on his back and exhaustion shaking through every muscle. It had got him through the horror of Afghanistan and Iraq, seeing body parts of former comrades flying through the air, raining down in the hot and arid desert as the enemy sought to extinguish them.

Now it got him through two days of increasingly dull flying before he really started to wonder why it was bothering him so much.

It wasn't quite six am, and d'Artagnan had long lost count of how many sets of 100m frontcrawl he'd completed. His mind automatically clocked the time, sticking to the 90 second rule though he was getting less and less rest between sets. His shoulders ached. His lungs burned. He kept going and going, pushing through the barrier of physical exhaustion as he battled with his increasing frustration at not being able to settle for what he had.

Flying used to be everything. The feel of lifting off into the sky, the nothingness around him, the powerful beat of the blades. When he had completed rehab, and stepped out into the civilian world, it had been everything, all he had needed.

Now it didn't feel enough. He still got the familiar buzz from flying, but now it was dulled, overshadowed by the excitement of being part of a team, being part of something again. The aristocratic rich bored him more, their petty demands irritating rather than amusing. Their dull lives flying backwards and forwards to board meetings or lunch in the city grated on him.

And he knew who to blame of course.

He came to the end of the set, realised he'd only got 15 seconds' rest according to the timing clock, and for a moment simply let his head rest on the side, the smell of chlorine filling his nose, and the frustration that had itched through him all night finally quelled by the physical activity. He counted down in his head before pushing off, switching to his back and watching the ceiling as his ankle predictably protested the change.

Swimming had been introduced to him by one of the physios early on. Understanding the frustration of not being able to be as physically active as he used to be, Jack had taken d'Artagnan to a pool and told him to do a length. D'Artagnan could swim, but had only really done it for leisure: fooling around, dive bombing, play fighting with friends on hot summer days of childhood. Swimming, he had thought, could never replace the feel of a hard run.

The physio, an ex-county swimmer had laughed at his form, and introduced him to actual swimming. Hard physical strokes, reliant more on upper body strength so it didn't matter than his useless leg mostly just floated behind him. The first 45-minute session had exhausted him. The second had made his shoulders burn and he'd almost cried with relief of finding something he could do. Now he could swim with little thought, strokes strong and powerful, his leg much better supported in the water than it was on land. He could even forget about his physical impairment in the water, he could feel normal, much like when he was flying.

He wasn't so good on his back as doing front crawl, his ankle didn't like the pressure, but it was a nice change watching the ceiling of the pool, catching his breath with easier strokes. His mind, unencumbered by wondering when the next breath of oxygen was coming, went back to mulling over the changes that had occurred over the last week.

He had been avoiding the others, and to his surprise they had let him, no evening visits to his flat, no casual meetings in the canteen or out on the tarmac. It irritated him further that he actually missed them. He was due to meet with Treville first thing and had no idea what to tell him. His head said leave well alone. His heart had other ideas.

So, he compartmentalised, shoved it all away again, and dove under water, swimming the length of the pool along its bottom, turning and pushing back without surfacing, going further and further until his lungs burned in desperation, his muscles grew weak and trembled, till his vision began to blur.

He surfaced in a rush, a huge breath of air almost choking him.

'I told you not to do that!' The panicked, stern voice made him start and look around, smiling already before he saw his companion. He'd chosen his flat for the proximity to the private swimming pool attached to a gym that was almost always empty first thing in the morning. The only other regular occupant was Mrs Reeves. She was pushing seventy, swam in the traditional manner of all ladies with their hair newly set, and made no secret of the fact she came early in the morning because she enjoyed watching him. And it had nothing to do with his form in the swimming pool. She openly appreciated the strong muscles of his chest, and his perfect six pack and had not been afraid to tell him.

It had been a little bit of restored pride when this little old lady had ignored his scared, wasted leg in favour of ogling his chest.

'You'll be the death of me!' She carried on, settling hands on comfortably wide hips and giving him a disapproving look.

D'Artagnan stood up in the shallow water, feeling the water trail down his body, and smiled devilishly at her. 'At least you'll die happy.' He said cheekily.

She laughed, a bright and sunny sound as she mock fanned herself, eyes openly raking the length of his body. 'Very true.'

A few more lengths to warm down, and d'Artagnan was in the changing room, taking his time to wash away the smell of chlorine that clung to him. Only partially successful, he dressed in the crisp dark suit and white shirt of his uniform. Every button gleamed, every pleat stood in starched glory, every seam was ruler straight. He fussed with his long hair, still sometimes taken aback by how long it was, having worn it short for so many years. He kept his face clean shaven, still taking comfort from the rasp of razor on skin, the shadow of beard still uncomfortably looking like he was a young boy trying to grow his first facial hair.

Comfortable clad in the uniform, even though it was now a suit, d'Artagnan went out to face the world, ignoring the limp as best he could, still wondering what he was going to say to Treville.

xx

He sent the text before he could double, or triple guess himself, the first time he had invited anyone to his flat. It was a little embarrassing that they beat him home, the three men looming on his doorstep when he let himself in through the security door. He had long since stopped wondering how they managed to get through it.

'You didn't have to bring dinner.' D'Artagnan said, spying the take out in Porthos' hands, though the smell of Chinese made his stomach remind him that he hadn't eaten yet. And that once again he hadn't managed to go shopping.

'Have you tried to stop Porthos eating?' Aramis asked with a bright grin.

'The amount of take out you lot eat, I'm surprised you're not all much bigger.'

Porthos peered at d'Artagnan as he hunted out his keys. 'Did you just call us fat?'

'No, I wondered how you weren't all fat.'

The friendly punch he received made him grin as he opened the door, walking in ahead of them. If they were unaware of his decision, they were doing a good job of not even looking interested, though Treville had promised that he would leave d'Artagnan to tell them himself. D'Artagnan played along, wondering how long they would last, and betting that it was the impatient Aramis who would break and ask first, before they finished the duck pancakes.

He was wrong. They lasted till well into the egg fried rice, and it was Athos who asked how the meeting had gone.

'Well, thank you.' D'Artagnan answered to the polite enquiry, matching Athos's bland tone almost perfectly.

Aramis sighed, Porthos glowered, and d'Artagnan felt his heart lighten, ever so slightly, as he stole the last spring roll from under Porthos' nose whilst he was glaring.

He managed to nonchalantly chew for a moment before he couldn't manage it any longer, hiding his sudden nervousness behind a gulp of beer. 'I want to be your pilot.' He said in a rush. 'I said yes. But there's stuff you should know first.'

'You don't have to.' Aramis was serious, even as a pleased grin played at the corner of his lips, and he looked like he wanted to dance in his seat in excitement. He held himself steady, but Porthos was less restrained, reaching out and pulling d'Artagnan into a brief hug.

'Welcome to the team.' Athos said, reaching out to place a brief hand on his shoulder, his smile warm.

But d'Artagnan had been thinking about this all day. He had known he had made the right decision by the feeling of relief on saying the words to Treville. Aramis's words from a few days ago, that he was allowed to want more, came back to him. Above all, he knew he wanted this.

They finished the food and settled in the lounge, d'Artagnan taking a seat and contemplating the men who had so suddenly appeared in his life as they arranged themselves around the small room. It still amazed him that they had managed to become something he hadn't realised he was missing. Wanting to return the trust they had offered him, and knowing that he could trust them with the truth that had ended up dictating everything in d'Artagnan's life, he unearthed the picture that Aramis had found.

He looked at it, the faces of men he had trusted as brothers, for a moment unable to speak as he considered the faces of men he had lost, and the faces of the men that had betrayed them all. The others stayed quiet, patient.

'This is my old unit. My last unit.' He took a harsh breath and blew it out, thrusting the picture back in its place when he could no longer stand to see the easy-going smiles on their faces. 'Elite forces.' He smiled slightly as he added, 'We thought we could do anything. That we were invincible' He tapped his fingers restlessly on the rim of the glass he held. 'Of course, we weren't.'

They were all silent, listening carefully. He occasionally felt eyes on him, studying him, but d'Artagnan's look was far away from them now, gazing into a past he had long since tried to forget.

'They said they were owed it. That they had been forced to fight in a phony war and that this was their due. That it was a war that wasn't even ours to fight. They had watched good friends die, and they deserved it.' D'Artagnan recognised the bitterness in his voice, tried to clear it.

'D'Artagnan.'

He started, brought back to the present by Aramis's quiet call, and wondered how long he had been silent. He cleared his throat, considered the glass in his hand for a moment. 'We were sent to rescue a classroom of Afghan children; intel suggested it was going to be hit. It should have been a walkover, no one knew our orders except our captain, and we should have gone undetected. But we were discovered, the Taliban came in with guns blazing, shooting at us like ducks in a pond.' His breath hitched for a moment, uncomfortably hot as the heat pressed down on him, and the sounds of machine gun rattled around, and gravel stung his face and his leg screamed in pain.

He jumped when a warm hand landed on his shoulder, bringing him back to his flat. He looked up at Aramis who had sat beside him on the arm of the sofa. He had an irrational urge to tell him off for sitting there, an echo of his father's voice from all those years ago.

'There was an antiquities museum behind the school.' His voice sounded breathless. Aramis's hand was a steady presence on his shoulder but he could feel the others too, Athos a steady presence beside him, Porthos sitting close by on the floor. 'The school had a convenient tunnel to the museum, and a few members of my unit raided the museum under the cover of the rescue. The Taliban found out, and started shooting. Fifteen children died. Six of my unit came home in boxes. All because they felt owed.'

'D'Artagnan.' Aramis's voice was sympathy and empathy, and d'Artagnan realised how little he had said this out loud before.

'When I was in the hospital, some of the men came to see me. Told me what was going on. They tried to justify it. To say that it was ok, and we were all owed for what we were being made to do. Twenty-one people died, but it was ok because they were deserved it, and didn't I want my share?'

His breath was coming in harsh pants again, but it was easier than he imagined, and the others were a steadying presence as he laid the truth before him. 'I threatened to whistle blow, only to be told that the captain had been the source of the plan in the first place. I left on a medical discharge, an honourable discharge, disappeared from all of them because I didn't want any part of a unit that could do that. I couldn't serve anymore, in any capacity, knowing what had happened, and that no one cared.'

It had been a long time since he had cried. A long time since his last proper panic attack. He'd built walls around the whole mess to protect himself, but in doing so he now realised how much he'd denied himself. The first crack in that wall, he now realised, was the brief flashback at the sound of gunfire, something that he would have thought paralysing in the past, but in fact it hadn't stopped him doing his job and shooting one of the fleeing criminals. Even though it had led to more nightmares he realised now how powerful that act had been. The last week with the three men who sat listening with such empathy had shown him a small glimpse of all that he had been missing.

'I still get the nightmares.' He finally said, trying for matter of fact, sounding more like a confession.

'Flashbacks, panic attacks?' Porthos asked. At an affirming nod Porthos nodded 'join the club.' He intoned, smiling brightly.

As he sat there, comfortable in their presence, d'Artagnan wasn't fool enough to think that speaking it all aloud would somehow bring an end to it. He knew that the dreams would continue, the insomnia would linger, the fear of the dark wasn't going to magically disappear overnight. But at least he could start living again instead of just existing as he had been. Better still, he was surrounded by people who understood, who knew what it was like.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, glanced over at Athos, who looked back at him steadily, his gaze warm. They both looked back as Aramis let out an exclamation.

Unable to ignore the box at his feet, Aramis had begun to dig through, pulling out a calendar and thrusting it under d'Artagnan's nose. Athos took one look, lifted his head to meet d'Artagnan's gaze and simply said 'explain.'

D'Artagnan knew that if the calendar had been the usual found in barracks, scantily clad buxom women, he wouldn't have been as embarrassed as he was, staring down at a Disney calendar of the cartoon Bambi.

'If you get off to cartoons...' Porthos let the sentence hang, even as three looks turned his way.

D'Artagnan laughed. 'It was a nickname.'

'Bambi?' Porthos asked

'Which one's Bambi?' Athos asked.

Aramis looked at him askew. 'How do you not know who Bambi is?'

'Why would I know who Bambi is?' Athos countered.

'Everyone knows who Bambi is!'

'Clearly not!' Athos shot back.

'Why Bambi?' D'Artagnan's hopes that his nickname would be forgotten were dashed by Porthos butting in.

'It's really not that funny. On basic training the others found out my birthday, and that I was the youngest. They called me Bambino and' he shrugged eloquently, 'It got shortened.'

'Huh.' Aramis looked like he was thinking this over way too much.

D'Artagnan got in quickly. 'Call me that, and I'll have to think of something embarrassing to call you.'

'Can't be worse than sweet-cheeks.' Aramis said.

'Sweet-cheeks?' D'Artagnan queried.

'Don't ask.' Athos advised.

'Alright, Bambino, where's the beer?' Aramis asked. D'Artagnan moved to shove him off the sofa arm, but Aramis moved quicker, laughing as he dodged the shove.

'Where's the beer, Bambi?' Porthos joined in with relish.

'I hate you all, I'm going to rescind by decision.'

'You can't.' Porthos sang out. 'You're stuck with us.'

'The horror!' D'Artagnan couldn't help but join in the laughter as Porthos pulled him from the sofa and proceeded to attack his hair. D'Artagnan battered the hands away, going for an elbow to the ribs in defence as Aramis joined in, Athos laughing at them from the sofa.

xx

Later, lying in bed, d'Artagnan tried to remember the last time he had laughed so hard. Unable to get his mind quiet enough to sleep, he at least had a future to think on rather than just a past to dwell on.

Hope you have enjoyed this story.

This is a work of fanfiction, emphasis on the fiction. In case you haven't guessed, I know little on the realities of flying a helicopter. So, apologies if there are any glaring errors- feel free to point them out!

I love reviews, and thank you to anyone who takes the time to leave one. I don't know when/if I will carry this on. But I said that last time, so there's always hope!

Rx