Disclaimer - If they were mine each episode would be much (much) longer.

1. Reunion. - Whatever they had expected to find when they arrived at Pinon it wasn't to see Athos, stripped to his shirtsleeves and weaponless, staggering towards them as he tried to extricate himself from the rope that bound his hands.

Porthos was off his horse and moving forward, almost before Roulette had come to a stop. Whatever they had expected to find when they arrived at Pinon it wasn't to see Athos, stripped to his shirtsleeves and weaponless, staggering towards them as he tried to extricate himself from the rope that bound his hands. Working swiftly Porthos untied the remaining knots, letting the bindings fall to the ground as he tried, and failed, to catch Athos' eye.

"You alright?"

"I'm not bleeding if that's what you mean."

Porthos snorted his opinion of that. There was a lot that could be done to a body that wasn't caused by blade or pistol. Athos being back in a place that he associated with grief and despair was hardly good for him for a start. Porthos was also pretty sure he had caught a flash of red on his wrists before Athos had swiftly pulled his cuffs over them. Thankfully it didn't seem like the skin was actually broken but it would likely leave some painful bruising. Plus Athos' unusually sluggish movements suggested he wasn't himself right now.

"Athos!"

As Aramis skidded to a stop beside him, Athos made no move to acknowledge him, his head hanging low and his arms held loose at his sides, even as he swayed slightly. Exchanging a worried look with Porthos, Aramis reached out and gently took Athos' face in both hands, his brow furrowing with concern as he realised his skin was cool and clammy despite the heat of the day.

"Athos, look at me. No, Athos look at me," He tapped the man's cheek gently when his eyes slid away. "When did you last take a drink?"

"I am not drunk," Athos informed him tersely. "If I were I would feel considerably better than this."

"I am sure you would, my friend," Aramis said kindly, deliberately ignored his brusqueness. It was obvious that Athos was feeling utterly wretched. He looked pale and tired. His eyes were unfocused and he was holding himself in that careful way that Aramis had come to recognise to mean that he was somehow injured. "But I meant water. In this heat a body can quickly suffer badly from the lack of it."

"Here, have some of mine," D'Artagnan hastened up holding a water skin. He offered it to Athos who took it with a shaking hand, looked at it balefully for a moment and then simply poured the entire contents over his head. D'Artagnan sighed as Athos passed the empty container back. "Or I suppose that works too."

"See to Bertrand," Athos managed, swallowing thickly, as he felt his stomach curl sourly. Despite Aramis' hands steadying him, he almost toppled over as he tried to indicate the man lying on the ground behind him. "He tried to intervene on my behalf and was whipped for his pains."

"So that was a whipping we heard." Porthos said grimly.

"Don't worry about Bertram," Aramis soothed, looking over Athos shoulder. "He's in safe hands. Treville's gone to help him."

"Treville's here?" Athos looked blank for a moment and then, even though none of them had thought it possible, he went even paler. "And the King too? Dear God is there no end to her revenge? It's not enough that she shames me in front of the court in Paris but now she has led the King and his entire retinue here to see me utterly disgraced."

"Hey, hey," Unable to bear his friend's obvious distress, d'Artagnan stepped closer, resting a hand lightly between his shoulders. "It's not like that. This isn't Milady's doing. At least, I don't think it is. She's back in Paris. Treville didn't come with the King. Louis revoked his Captaincy, remember? He rode with us."

"As a comrade," Aramis put in, hoping to raise a smile. "Or so he tells us. He was worried about you. We all were. We didn't know you were planning on leaving Paris."

"I wasn't," Athos slurred slightly. "I didn't leave."

"Something's not right," d'Artagnan said decisively, waving an arm at Athos as if to illustrate his point. "He's really not himself."

"And he's not making a whole lot of sense either." Porthos agreed.

"A man's fighting instinct can keep him on his feet beyond what you would think the body could endure. But it wanes swiftly once the immediate danger is past." Athos reminded them. "Let's get some water in him. See if that improves matters. Then I'll take a proper look at him."

He looked at Porthos over the top of Athos' head and between the two of them they helped him over to the well and propped him on the edge. Without needing to be asked Porthos sent the bucket down to draw up some fresh water. D'Artagnan filled up his water skin and offered it to Athos who blinked at it for a long moment and then reached out a hand, only to miss by a mile, his fingers closing on empty air.

"That ain't good." Porthos said what they were all feeling.

"Here, let me help."

His expression soft with concern d'Artagnan held the water skin to Athos' lips helping him to drink. Wordlessly, Porthos dipped his bandanna in and then placed it carefully on the back of Athos' neck. The fact that Athos meekly submitted to their ministrations without a word only added to their concern.

Aramis looked sideways at Porthos his eyes dark with worry.

"See if you can find out if he hit his head, can you?"

"Oi, does anyone here know if this man hit his head?" Porthos hollered loudly at the assembled villagers.

Athos jerked violently at the unexpected noise, the look of excruciating pain which briefly chased across his features confirming Aramis suspicions of some as yet unseen injury, before his eyes simply rolled back in his head and he passed out. Only Aramis' quick reflexes stopped him from toppling backwards down into the well. With a swift tug he pulled him into to chest, only to find himself with a large armful of utterly boneless and rather unwieldy Musketeer.

"Alright," He soothed the unconscious form as he tried to heave him upright. "It's alright. I've got you."

"Really?" d'Artagnan glared at Porthos, hands on hips.

"Sorry," Porthos grimaced, realising Aramis had meant him to ask around. "Wasn't thinking."

"Baron Renard's soldiers set upon him," One of the villagers stepped forward. "Then his son, Edmond struck him across the back with his pistol. The Comte hit his head as he fell to the ground. And then my Lord Edmond kicked him in the ribs."

"Kicking a man when he's down," d'Artagnan scoffed. "That's brave of him."

"Gentlemen?" Aramis asked as he peered through Athos dark curls, struggling to support his weight. "A little help here?"

"I thought you said you had 'im?" Porthos smirked.

Even so, he stepped forward obligingly, tipping Athos easily over his shoulder and striding purposefully towards the cool and shade of the small Inn. Around him the villagers' expressions showed a mixture of shock and disapproval.

"I'm not sure the locals approve of you hefting their noble Comte about like a sack of grain." Aramis murmured as he walked alongside.

"Best way to revive a person is to get the blood flowing back towards the head, ain't that what you always say?" Porthos was ever practical. "I'm doing him a service."

"True, but," Aramis lowered his voice, as he went ahead to open the door and let Porthos pass. "It is a little undignified."

"But tying 'im to a chair, that's alright is it?" Porthos observed darkly, coming to a dead halt, his eyes fixed on the very obviously placed seat, with its coils of rope still snaking around its feet. "What the 'ell has been going on here?"

"What's happened?" Treville appeared in the doorway, with Bertram and some of the other villagers crowding after. "What's the matter with Athos?"

"That rather depends," Aramis replied as he swiftly moved a few cups out of the way so Porthos could lay Athos down flat on the rough wooden table. He watched with approval as Porthos carefully placed him on his side to protect him from further injury to what he strongly suspected was his abused back and damaged ribs and gently drew his arm and leg up to keep him stable. "A moment Captain, if you please."

"Of course," Treville nodded his permission.

Aramis was swift but thorough, checking Athos' pupils, gently passing his hands over his ribs to feel for breaks, lifting his collar to peer at the line of bruising blossoming along his back, running his fingers through his hair, looking for contusions. Then with a frown he checked his pupils again before looking over at Bertrand.

"What did you use to drug him?"

"He was drunk," Bertrand protested. "Passed out from drink they said."

"Athos has been missing for more than two days," Treville put in. "You told me he just woke up this morning."

"Athos wouldn't be affected that badly by a few bottles of wine." D'Artagnan added, moving to stand protectively in front of his best friend, his hand unconsciously hovering over the small scar on his side . "Believe me, I know."

"It'd take a whole wagonload," Porthos agreed, moving slightly so he stood shoulder to shoulder with d'Artagnan, blocking the villagers' view of Athos. "So, either you gave him more on the way or you slipped him something. If you want our help you'd best tell us the truth."

"It was just a few herbs, we couldn't risk him waking up on the journey and raising the alarm," A man hovering by the doorway spoke up, his face creased with worry. "And .."

"And ..?" Porthos pressed, with just a hint of danger. "What else?"

"The bottles of brandy we used to spike his wine." The man added miserably.

"Dear God," Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face. "And in all that time did you even think to give him any food? Or water? It's a miracle you didn't kill him. Show me these herbs."

Reluctantly the man pulled a small bag out of his jerkin. Aware that every eye in the room was on him Aramis tipped the leaves into his palm and crushed one of them with his thumb, before bringing it up to his nose and inhaling carefully.

"Well?" Porthos shifted impatiently, his brusque tone making his worry clear.

"They're harmless enough, a simple soporific," Aramis fixed the man with a disapproving look. "But even the most ordinary substances can overtax the body if taken to excess. You should have been more careful."

"I give you my word, I knew nothing of this," Bertrand looked stricken. He came forward. "He was always such a good Lord, a man who truly cared for his people. We could not understand his silence in the face of our pleas. We felt sure that if he only knew of our suffering he would return and take up his rightful place as the Comte de la Fere."

"Yeah," Porthos murmured sotto voice to no-one in particular. "I don't see that happening anytime soon."

"You will have your chance to put your case to him, but for now he needs rest," Treville spoke up. Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged an amused look at their 'comrade's' natural inclination to take command. "First we need to care for those wounded by the Baron's men. Yourself included, Bertram. And then make a plan to get your daughter back."

"What if the Baron returns before our Lord wakes?" Another man demanded.

"He won't," Treville assured him. "Renard wasn't expecting any resistance. First of all, he'll wait to see if we leave. Then he'll need time to re-group and make a new plan. Granted there's still a few hours of daylight left. But he'll most likely use that to gather intelligence. He won't launch an attack until he has a better idea of what he's facing. Now come, let us see to the wounded."

The villagers seemed grateful to have someone take charge. They did as they were bid and followed Treville out into the square where he could be heard setting a rota for a watch and organising the fetching of water and bandages.

"Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.

He fought to keep his tone matter of fact. They were all of them soldiers. It shouldn't matter that he had never actually seen Athos seriously injured before. Nor that this had happened, not in the service of the crown, but in a place that should be home to him, should have been safe. Not even that he could not begin to imagine a future that did not have Athos in it.

"What he said." Porthos said gruffly.

"He needs rest," Aramis ran a hand through his hair. "We've all worried that he hasn't been eating or sleeping well since the King took Milady as his Mistress. Not to mention that he has been drinking heavily again. Being Athos, of course, he's still managed to do his duty admirably, but even his body has its limits. The combination of a sleeping draught, a lot of strong drink and a blow to the head would test even the strongest of men." His eyes fixed on the wall. "We just need to give him time to recover."

"Hey, why don't you go fetch a couple of blankets?," Porthos butted d'Artagnan's shoulder fondly. "We'll make him nice and comfy and you can sit with him for a bit. Keep him company, eh?"

"I have just the thing," D'Artagnan smiled, as he headed towards the door, throwing over his shoulder as he went. "I brought it specially."

Aramis shook his head fondly as he took Porthos' damp bandanna off Athos' neck and gently began to wipe down his face. He had absolutely no idea what d'Artagnan was talking about but there was absolutely nothing the young Gascon wouldn't do for Athos, even, much to Aramis and Porthos' admiration, incurring his displeasure to speak a few home truths if he felt that his best friend was being too hard on himself.

His hand faltered in its ministrations. If Athos died d'Artagnan would be inconsolable. God help them, they all would.

"Alright," Porthos' hand closed over his from behind, gently taking the strip of cloth and turning him by the shoulder so that he was forced to meet his eyes. "What is it?"

"There's no way to know anything for sure until Athos wakes up," Aramis hedged.

"Nah, there's something. Something you don't want the lad to know. But this is me, so, out with it."

"There's no contusion on the back of his head," Aramis admitted. "Those are always the most dangerous kind of head injuries. It means the swelling has gone inwards putting pressure on the brain. Taken with the effects of the wine and the drugs there's no way of telling how serious it might be until he wakes up." Aramis swallowed hard and added the hard truth of it. "Always presuming, of course, that he does wake up."

"So, that's how it is." Porthos said quietly, gazing down at Athos' still form. "What can we do?"

"I don't know," Aramis' eyes filled with tears. "Porthos, I don't know how to help him."

"Hey now, none of that," Porthos chided, he wrapped his arms around Aramis, trying to hug some hope into his friend. "Athos, would never give up on us, so we 'ave to keep strong for him, yeah?"

Even so, Porthos had to blink hard against a swell of tears when he felt how desperately Aramis clung to him, burying his face in his broad chest. This really was bad then. They truly could lose Athos. Then, as if realising that he couldn't afford to lose himself to grief and fear, Aramis abruptly pulled away, keeping his back to Porthos as he fought to master his emotions.

"Is there anything we can do?" Porthos needed to know.

He fully expected Aramis to tell him to pray. He knew that his brother believed deeply and took great comfort from his faith. Porthos was more of a God helps those who help themselves type. But he would willingly pray for Athos from dawn till dust if there was a chance it might save him. The former Comte de la Fere might believe his soul was already gone to the devil, but that didn't mean his friends would give up on him without a fight.

Instead Aramis surprised him.

"He's going to be hungry when he wakes up," He looked round at Porthos, with a brave attempt at one of his more incorrigible smiles. "You could make soup?"

AN - If you look too closely at the timeline for this episode Athos does seem to have been out of things for an unconscionable amount of time, especially for a man who can has built up sufficient tolerance to alcohol so that he can still shoot, (relatively), straight after three bottles. So, forgive me for taking some liberties with that.