The sun was just setting and the faint din of the street sellers shutting up shop for the night reached his room. There was a distinctive autumnal chill in the air and the absence of a flame in the fireplace had not gone unnoticed in the room.

The bleeding won't stop.

He could hear the sounds of his comrades in the garrison below him dwindling as they stopped their training and commenced their personal time. Most would soon leave the grounds and seek refuge in the warm embrace of either a beer or a bosom.

Why won't it stop?

He knew of 3 of his brothers - the term almost stuck in his throat; he wasn't one of them anymore - that wouldn't be leaving the garrison anytime soon.

God it hurts.

He could still see Aramis' pale, blood-soaked face slumped in unconsciousness before his bear of a friend Porthos pushed him out of the way causing him to tumble into the wet grass.

Athos and Porthos had made it very clear to him that he was not welcome in the infirmary. The doctor had just left, d'Artagnan had been watching from his window to see if there was any update on Aramis' condition.

Maybe if I tell them I was injured they would help.

d'Artagnan quickly dismissed the idea. The fury in Athos' eyes before he walked away from him was enough to confirm that he was no longer wanted. He had disobeyed a direct order. Of course, he knew it was for a purpose - he had saved Aramis from getting killed - but he had still disobeyed an order from a higher command. He deserved to be punished. He just wished he could make sure Aramis was well.

Why won't it stop?

If he knew that Athos and Porthos would leave the infirmary, even for a few minutes, he would go and see his friend to check on him. If he was able to steal some bandages while he was there that was a bonus but ultimately, he needed to know his friend's fate. He couldn't get the bloodied face out of his mind. The bullet had come too close. They were lucky that the ball had grazed Aramis's head instead of planting itself within the skull.

He was sure the doctor would be able to help but head wounds were tricky things. Aramis hadn't even known that there was a bandit behind him until d'Artagnan had shouted his name. Aramis had dropped like a stone to the ground before d'Artagnan drove his sword through the thief's chest. Unfortunately, just as his sword had penetrated the skin, his opponent had slammed a dagger into his side, the blade slicing through him and causing him to gasp.

I need to know he's alright.

Athos had told him to hold his position. He had been instructed to watch their backs from the sidelines.

'Hold your position, do not come near the area. Shoot only if you need to. Do not engage with them, we will take care of them.'

Athos had told him not to engage but honestly what choice did he have? Was he supposed to hide behind his tree like a child watching as his friend was murdered, unaware of the bullet being sent towards him.

Athos and Porthos were going to fight the bandits as soon as they were attacked on the road, disguised as simple travellers. Aramis and d'Artagnan were supposed to wait on either side of the road and watch with guns ready to jump in if they were needed.

From the reports it didn't sound as though the attackers were particularly skilled, so it shouldn't have taken all of them to finish the job.

The reports had only said there were 6 masked men attacking travellers on the road. None of them mentioned a seventh. They didn't know. Now all 7 were dead; they had left their mark but at least none of the Musketeers were dead

He hoped.

He couldn't sit in his room any longer without knowing that his friend still lived. He pushed himself up from the wooden chair beside the window, grabbing frantically at the wall to stop himself falling over. Stars danced across his vision and he knew he was losing too much blood. He would deal with it when he knew Aramis was safe.

Pushing the rag he had been using to try and stem the blood flow into his shirt and hard against the wound, he bit his tongue to stop a moan threatening to escape him. He shrugged his doublet on carefully to hide the blood stain on his shirt and moved towards his door.

He knew Athos and Porthos were unaware he was injured; they had been too busy helping Aramis and getting him back to the garrison for treatment and reprimanding him for disobeying orders for him to tell them. It was for the best anyway, he thought as he made his way down the wooden steps and across the courtyard; they didn't need anything distracting them from Aramis.

Standing outside the door to the infirmary he felt a chill flow through him. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but it was opened before his knuckles could make a sound.

The anger in Porthos' eyes was not something he would forget in a hurry.

'What?' The dark-skinned man growled, stepping forward towards the younger man, ensuring that he blocked his view into the room.

'Aramis?' d'Artagnan whispered, the name sticking in his throat. He needed water. His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

'Alive, no thanks to you.'

The words cut him far worse than his enemy's dagger had, and he struggled not to flinch away from the man he still considered a brother.

'Who is it?' Athos' voice called from inside the room.

'The boy,' Porthos called back, and those two words had tears filling d'Artagnan's eyes.

Athos appeared in the doorway, nudging Porthos back towards Aramis' bed. d'Artagnan caught a glimpse of his friend in the bed, a white bandage wrapped around his head, his skin as pale as the sheets he lay in.

'What do you want, d'Artagnan?' Athos asked exhaustedly. He had no energy left. He knew how close he had come to losing one of best friends and he was still furious with the man in front of him.

'I just wanted to see if Aramis was alright. I'm sorry, 'Thos, but-'

'The doctor said he will survive and should wake up in a few days. But honestly why do you care? You put him in danger. What were you thinking? Shouting his name all over the forest. Is it any wonder he was shot? You gave away his position.'

d'Artagnan's brow furrowed in confusion. He was sure that version of the events wasn't correct but now he was doubting himself. He had lost so much blood he felt so confused and was starting to think he had made his story up.

'I gave you a simple order and you disobeyed it. You put Aramis in that bed. Now go. And do not come back.'

The finality in Athos' words turned d'Artagnan's stomach to ice. The door closed in his face before he registered it and he blinked in confusion.

He knew he wasn't welcome here. The looks the other Musketeers were giving him as he walked past them had him ducking his head to stare at his boots as he stumbled towards his room. A shoulder or two were accidentally knocked into him as he walked up the stairs and it took all of his control not to fall down them.

He was back in his room before he realised it and closed the door softly behind him. He couldn't stay here. He knew that now. He couldn't stay and fight with men that he so easily put in danger. He hadn't meant to disobey an order; he thought he was helping Aramis but now he doubted that he had helped him at all. He was in an infirmary bed because of him.

He slumped into the corner of his room, his eyes fixed on the door. He shed his doublet with difficulty and dropped it beside him. The rag he had been using to staunch the blood was saturated and he peeled it away from his skin with a wince.

Crawling over to the chest at the bottom of his bed he grabbed his spare blanket and retreated to his corner. Not taking his eyes off the door he started tearing the blanket into pieces of material he could use to stop the blood.

He was waiting for Treville. He was sure that Athos had reported his failings to the Captain and he was expecting him to charge through the door any minute demanding he give up his commission and leave the garrison immediately.

A shiver wracked through his body as the chill of the room settled on him. He longed for a fire but the effort it would take to build one was not something he currently possessed. Equally his thirst was high on his list of needs, but he was positive he couldn't get down the stairs and back up again to get water.

The wooden floor was cold beneath him and he shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position.

He couldn't sit on the bed; the blood would stain the covers and the next soldier who would use this room would be hard pressed to get the stains removed. He leaned his head back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes. He bit his lip as he pushed a piece of the torn blanket against his side to stop the bleeding.

Several minutes passed by before he felt the blood start to slow. He breathed a sigh of relief and slumped his head forward. That was a terrible idea he decided shortly after. The world spun before him and he felt like he was going to vomit. Not that there was anything in his stomach to get rid of.

He took several deep breaths and rested his head back against the wall. He stared at the door, watching the handle, trying to give himself something to focus on. Anything but the dizziness. The blood loss was taking its toll. He needed help.

He mentally prepared himself to get up onto his feet, but he was so tired. He couldn't remember a time when he was so tired. If he could rest for a few minutes, then he would get up. He would pack his bag and he would go. Where he would go he had no idea. He wasn't welcome at the garrison. Constance had made it very clear that the Bonacieux residence was out of bounds too.

He would just close his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. He would feel better then.

His head slumped forward, and darkness crossed his vision. The hand pressing against the wound on his side fell to the floor, his fingers relaxing. A shiver ran through him and that was enough for consciousness to leave him.