Alexandre Dumas and the BBC own the Musketeers, I'm just borrowing them.

Chapter Seven

The next few days were slow and painful for the three musketeers and their patient. D'Artagnan spent most of his time sleeping and when he did awaken, it was never for long. Every time he opened his eyes, it would be to one of the older men trying to coax him to eat. At first, the young Gascon agreed, despite not feeling hungry in the least. More often than not though, his stomach would rebel against the nourishment and he would be bringing it back up again soon after. The constant pain brought by the heaving and coughing had him refusing food, which in turn, upset and frustrated his brothers.

D'Artagnan had just drifted off again after once again refusing to eat when Aramis finally snapped.

"I don't know what to do with the boy anymore!"

Athos glance towards the bed as the boy lying there stirred at the shout. "Maybe we should speak of this outside?" Taking Aramis by the arm, Athos led him to the door, Porthos following close behind after one last look to check on the fitfully sleeping Gascon.

With the door shut, Aramis sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Porthos gave Aramis' shoulder a hard squeeze. "Don't feel too bad. I'm pretty sure we all feel the same right about now."

"He's certainly not the best patient right now," Athos agreed gruffly.

"I'm just concerned at the toll his continued fasting is taking on him. He should be showing signs of improvement by now. Yes, his wounds are healing but he should be able to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. He needs to start eating soon or there will be little I can do for him."

"Let me talk to him." Aramis and Athos were mildly surprised when Porthos spoke up. He wasn't usually one for talking, being more a man of action, but the others conceded, not having any idea themselves of what to do.

Porthos re-entered d'Artagnan's room and closed the door quietly behind him. For a long while, the older man just sat beside the younger, watching him sleep restlessly. After a few more minutes, small cries of pain started to make their way past the boy's lips as he drifted into a nightmare. Not being able to stand the sounds of pain and fear from his little brother, Porthos placed a strong hand on his shoulder and gave him a light shake.

"Open your eyes little brother. You're safe now. Open your eyes."

Porthos smiled as tired brown eyes locked onto his face. "You're ok, lad. Do you want some water?" At d'Artagnan's nod, Porthos slid a hand under the younger man's neck and lifted his head so he wouldn't choke. After replacing the water on the side table, the large man moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he was directly within the Gascon's line on sight.

"We need to have a chat." Porthos held up a hand as d'Artagnan opened his mouth to interrupt before continuing to speak. "I know you don't feel like eating, and I know it's no fun when you bring up most of your food, but you have to start trying again. The fact of the matter is you are not well and if you don't start gaining your strength back your body could never properly recover. It could seriously affect your career as a Musketeer. I don't want that, and I know you don't either. So, are you going to be a good little boy and make a serious effort to eat whatever our mother hen Aramis decides to put in front of you?"

D'Artagnan looked up at his friend for a moment before nodding. A huge grin spread across Porthos' face before he got up and opened the door.

"He's ready to eat," he informed the other half of their group.

Over the course of the week, d'Artagnan slowly but surely began to improve. For the first two days after his talk with Porthos, the young man still threw up more of his food than he kept down but through his determination and his brothers' encouragement was able to keep down everything that was forced upon him by Aramis in the third day. By the sixth day, his good behaviour as Aramis put it, in conjunction with his near constant complaining about being cooped up inside for so long was rewarded when Athos suggested they all sit in the warm sunlight that bathed the courtyard to eat their lunch. With Porthos and Athos bearing nearly all the weight of heir recovering little brother, the quartet made their way out of the infirmary in into the yard at the centre of the Musketeer garrison.

The clanging of swords and constant conversation of the other Musketeers fell into silence at the sight of the youngest of their troop. D'Artagnan, feeling their gaze on him, looked down in shame and was about to ask if they could return inside when someone started clapping. The first set of hands was soon joined by a second, then a third. Soon the entire garrison was applauding the young man in front of them. Serge, the garrison cook, shuffled past the four men with a tray of food for their lunch.

"'Bout time you were up, boy," the old man grumbled. "Rest of these darned Musketeers were right worried 'bout you."

Athos and Porthos helped their comrade to sit down, Athos taking the seat next to him to ensure he didn't fall off the bench. They sat in the warm sun for nearly an hour eating and joking with each other and many other Musketeers who came by to see d'Artagnan. It was Aramis who noticed the change first, nudging Porthos with his shoulder before nodding towards their Gascon friend. D'Artagnan was very nearly asleep in his seat, leaning heavily on Athos' shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. Porthos stood from the table with a slight groan as his muscled stretched. "I think it's time we put our pup back to bed."