The last chapter, you guys! A bit of fluff in this one - and dare I reveal that they finally reunite? Anyway, I hope this has been half as fun for you as it was for me. Thanks for all the reviews and the follows! For the past week they've been the one thing that would always make me smile. Seriously, they have the power to make a bad day good. I kid you not.

So, thanks! Here we go, enjoy.

When d'Artagnan woke, it was to the face of captain Treville in front of his own. He squinted and frowned.

Had he done something wrong?

„Hello, d'Artagnan. How are you feeling?"

When he thought about it, he found that his body was steadily pulsing, his head a pounding mess. He was cold and warm at the same time, sweaty and shivering. He'd definitely had better days. When he tried to answer, his throat refused to work. Nothing came over his lips. He looked at his captain pleadingly and Treville understood. He stood, walked to a table and filled a cup with water, then came back.

„Drink slowly," he said, pressing the cup against d'Artagnan's parched lips and tilting it carefully. „I've been warned I shouldn't give you too much. I've also been warned not to let you talk."

D'Artagnan wanted to protest, but the water was much too cool and soothing as it slipped down his throat. He felt his eyes close in admiration. The cup was pulled away much too soon, and the captain reclaimed his abandoned seat, leaning back casually. Only his eyes betrayed any sort of tension and d'Artagnan was so surprised that he had to do a double-take.

He opened his mouth –

„Don't speak," Treville ordered. „I'm pretty certain I know what you are going to ask, anyway. I'll tell you everything. Just stay silent and let your throat heal."

His voice carried an eerie edge and d'Artagnan decided to nod.

„Good. Well, first, let's talk about René. He's been brought to the infirmary and taken good care of. He'd been shot in the left shoulder – as I'm sure you already know –; he had a few cracked ribs, a nasty wound on the back of his head but no concussion, and many – too many – bumps and bruises scattered all over his body. The wound in his shoulder got infected, so he's currently battling a fever. But he has already woken up a few times and is now peacefully resting. The physician assures me that he is going to be fine. René wanted me to thank you for bringing him back – for saving his life, d'Artagnan, which I am sure he won't take lightly –, and he said he would come check on you as soon as he's able to move.

„Which brings me to you."

D'Artagnan wanted to protest, wanted to make clear that his condition wasn't the most important issue, that he had to know where they were, but Treville merely lifted a hand and stopped him.

„I said I would explain everything, d'Artagnan, and I am a man of my word.

„So, you were in a pretty nasty state yourself. The physician was shocked to hear that you had been conscious upon arrival. The wound in your leg had got infected as well – seriously, you could have taken better care of those bandages – and so you have a fever, too. It is still rising as we speak, but the physician assured me that he is getting it under control. How you brought René and yourself home, though, is a mystery to him. Not to me. I know you far too well." He winked, then cleared his throat.

„You have been unconscious or sleeping for three days now, d'Artagnan.

„You had similar injuries to René's; bruises, bumps, cracked bones here and there. A fingernail on your right hand had been removed but had already started growing back. The physician said not to worry. He also said – quite unnecessarily, I might add, because I am well educated in the science of injury – that there are signs of–" He heaved a deep breath and his voice hitched ever so slightly, his continual monologue interrupted for the shortest of seconds – „torture."

D'Artagnan swallowed hard and looked at his hands. His eyes were heavy and burning and he knew he wouldn't be able to listen to anything more Treville had to say on the subject. His head shook and the captain nodded, moving on to the next explanation without missing a beat.

„A certain Madame Bonacieux has been coming by regularly ever since you have gone missing. She wanted me to tell you that. She also wanted me to tell you that she couldn't wait for you to wake, because her husband has a lot of work to do and needs her help. But–" He leaned closer to the bed, an uncharacteristically mischievous twinkle in his eyes, „between you and me, she looked about ready to murder her busy husband and stay here anyway." He shrugged and leaned back. „I wonder why she didn't."

D'Artagnan tried to smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace of pain and frustration. He ran a bandaged hand through his hair and felt the burn the motion caused.

He knew a lot now, wasn't as confused anymore as he'd been right after waking up. But he still didn't know the one thing he wanted to find out most of all, and he felt that his time was running out, unconsciousness nearing relentlessly.

„'thos, P'thos, 'mis?" he croaked therefore, just to urge the captain in the right direction.

„You're not supposed to talk, remember?" Treville chided half-heartedly. „Fine, let's see what I can tell you about those three.

„See, once the Musketeers returned from the mission without you, all hell broke loose. They were all interrogated, but no one has seen much of anything. Villers was apparently the one to speak to you last. Athos, Aramis and Porthos planned the whole night through, then left as soon as the sun climbed over the horizon. They've been on missions on and off ever since, searching for you everywhere. They're doing it as we speak. As far as I know, they should be back by tomorrow."

„'kay?" d'Artagnan rasped worriedly.

Trevilled sighed. „They're as okay as can be expected. They've been holding on to the hope that you're still alive. But, d'Artagnan, you have to understand that this has roughed them up quite badly. We're soldiers and we all know, of course, that we could die any second, but whenever a Musketeer actually does, things get pretty desperate around here.

„Disappearing, though – that's even worse. The unknown, the endless questions without answers. You can count yourself lucky that you've never had to experience that. Losing a friend to mystery. The lingering possibility of something worse than death – that is torture too, d'Artagnan, nothing like what you've been through, but torture nonetheless."

Silence engulfed them, silence that reminded d'Artagnan much too much of a place he didn't want to think about. He looked expectantly at his captain, hoping that he would guess how he was feeling just the way he had guessed everything else. It took a while, but eventually Treville granted him his unspoken wish.

„You had me worried too, you know," he added absent-mindedly.

„Sorry," d'Artagnan breathed, but the captain waved away the sentiment.

„No need to apologize for anything, d'Artagnan. It was hardly your fault. But I think we shouldn't let them worry any more than is necessary. Rest, d'Artagnan, so that the fever may brake and your body recover."

The Gascon didn't need to be told twice.

The next time, he woke to voices.

"Where?" a demanding one questioned, one that d'Artagnan was sure he knew but couldn't place quite yet.

"A few minutes away," another one answered. "Should I bring them here?"

"Of course. And hurry."

"Yes, Captain." A door opened and shut, someone sighed and everything was quiet.

He felt someone lean low above his head. "I am going to leave you alone now, d'Artagnan," Treville whispered soothingly. "They'll be here any minute. You're in good hands."

The door opened and shut once more. And he was alone.

He could hardly stand that thought. His eyes snapped open and scanned the little room. He was in Treville's own chamber, he realised, lying in his captain's bed and not in the infirmary – but he dismissed the revelation without batting an eye. The covers were suddenly thrown back (his arm burned), his feet on the ground (his leg screamed and he would have, too, hadn't his throat been so raw and bloody) and his body flexing and relaxing in the attempt to get him up. Then he was out of bed, stumbling toward the door. His legs quickly proved too weak to carry his weight and he stumbled and fell, but he wasn't exactly one to give up. One burning arm in front of the other, he pulled himself forward, then repeated the process until he was, slowly but surely, crawling toward his goal.

He pushed the door open and he was outside.

It was bitterly cold. A thin blanket of snow covered the ground. A harsh wind was scraping his face, entering into his strained lungs and letting them flare up. He coughed, burying his mouth in the crook of his elbow and closing his eyes. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall limp against his chest.

What had he been thinking?

His clothes had obviously been changed, leaving him only with a thin night shirt and all the bandages draped around various injuries. Goose bumps had formed immediately; his body started to shiver and made his teeth clatter. This couldn't be good, he thought blurrily.

Too weary to go back or move forward, he decided to wait for whoever Traville had said was coming.

They didn't take long. Only minutes later, he could hear loud voices, booming even over the ever stronger wind. And he recognised those, recognised them immediately. How could he not? His eyes instantly snapped open, his heart picking up against his ribcage.

They were here. After so long, they were finally here.

"What?" Athos's sturdy voice floated over. "Where?"

There was an answer d'Artagnan couldn't make out.

"He said to tell us that?" Aramis queried, his tone dangerous and deadly. "You're sure?"

And then he could see them.

His eyes locked with Athos's for the shortest of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The world spun together with his thousand thoughts, and he had to swallow around the lump in his throat. Funny how good things and bad things could make him feel the same way. Torture made a lump form in his throat. Home did, too. But those were two different lumps, weren't they? One was happy and one was sad. One promising, the other hostile. There had to be a difference, because he couldn't go back there again.

And there was. When Athos found his bearings and started moving toward him, when all three of them started moving toward him, he stayed where he was. Not because he physically wasn't able to move, not because he was all but frozen to the spot – but because he wanted to wait. He wanted to stay. He hadn't wanted it for so long.

Boots pounded off the wooden steps as all three of them tried to climb them at the same time. They fought momentarily over who would go first and – unsurprisingly – Porthos proved the victor, all but jumping toward d'Artagnan. He fell to the floor next to him and placed the thin frame onto his lap, his strong arms wrapped protectively around him and his body rocking with something that weren't sobs, and weren't laughs either. Athos was next to them only a moment later, his hands brushing over d'Artagnan's hair and face and body and legs, as if to make sure he was actually there. Aramis sat down beside Athos, his eyes and fingers roaming over the Gascon's form. Their hands were warm and soft, soothing, and d'Artagnan exhaled.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said, as if not grasping the full extent of the situation. "D'Artagnan, d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan."

"'Thos."

Porthos squeezed harder. Aramis bowed his head, burying it in the soft fabric of d'Artagnan's shirt, clutching his cross with a white-knuckled hand. He was murmuring something unintelligible, and none of them even make the effort to understand.

"You're here," d'Artagnan breathed instead, and Athos nodded.

"So are you."

"But you're real."

Another curt nod. D'Artagnan felt himself smile out of a true sense of happiness. He felt it bubble out of his stomach, up his throat and spill over his lips in a waterfall. And he laughed. He felt himself tense in pain but found that he couldn't stop – and then came the tears and he was half laughing, half crying, and he didn't quite know what he was feeling anymore, only that he was home and so were they.

"You're okay," Porthos muttered and his chest rumbled under d'Artagnan's cheek whenever he said a word. "We've got you. You're safe."

The words seemed too good to be true.

Aramis looked up from his prayers, his eyes misty and unfocused. He smiled through the redness, placing a hand on top of d'Artagnan's hair.

"Don't do that ever again," he said. "Just … just don't, okay?"

The Gascon nodded uncertainly, feeling himself shiver.

Porthos noticed immediately. "You're freezin'," he proclaimed and rubbed two hands over d'Artagnan's exposed arms. "Why was you out 'ere, anyway, whelp? It's way too cold. You should be in there, restin'."

D'Artagnan groaned.

"Aramis?" Athos questioned, unable to rip his gaze away from the friend they had all thought lost in order to look at the medic. Nothing happened. Aramis didn't even seem to register the demand.

"Aramis." Firmer now. More urgent. D'Artagnan felt his eyes closing. He snuggled closer to Porthos, enjoying the extra body heat.

"ARAMIS!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Aramis sighed. "We have to get him inside. He's much too cold out here."

"I knew that."

"I know," Aramis huffed. "I can't say much yet, just that his injuries have all been taken care of. We have to get him inside."

Porthos stood without regard to anything else, and carried d'Artagnan effortlessly through the door. Athos and Aramis were right on his heels. D'Artagnan yelped when his bones were jostled, but then heat engulfed him, comfortable and nice, and he found himself losing the battle with unconsciousness.

"No. D'Artagnan, stay awake," he heard Athos's voice and forced his eyes back open. Porthos lay him down on the bed, then stepped back reluctantly to let Aramis closer.

A cool hand was pressed to his forehead. "You're a little warm; are you feeling okay or should I give you something for the fever?" D'Artagnan shrugged, his eyes drifting closed again, but a gentle pat to the cheek brought him back to reality. "Hey, hey. Look at me. That's it. I just want to examine you, then you can sleep. That sound okay?"

The Gascon nodded once.

"Okay." Probing hands glided over his aching body, pushing tender spots and making him flinch every so often. Quiet murmurs spilled over the medic's lips, commenting on everything he found, and d'Artagnan felt the tension in the room grow with each hushed word. Once he was done, Aramis pulled the covers right to the Gascon's chin, and smiled down at him bitterly.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos questioned warily, his expression brooding and a hand still resting on the Gascon's arm. "Can you tell us who did this to you?" There was a barely contained rage in his voice, hiding under the surface of the trembling words.

D'Artagnan swallowed, having to remind himself that the anger wasn't directed at him. The anger was for the captor, for the one who'd made d'Artagnan suffer, and it was born out of Athos's devotion. The Gascon looked into the green eyes and they stared back, uncharacteristically wild. Weary and red, but still the same eyes.

He knew then, that he could. He could tell them anything they wanted to know. He could tell them anything he wanted them to know. And he would, he promised himself, as soon as he got a good night's sleep that would help him sort out the details.

"Later?" he rasped hopefully.

"Don't talk too much," Aramis quickly ordered, and Athos nodded his understanding.

"Of course. Whenever you're ready."

"You can rest now, d'Artagnan," Porthos reassured. "We're not goin' anywhere."

He let his eyes slip closed, because he believed them.

He knew it was the middle of the night the next time he opened his eyes, but only because it was already dark outside. The three other people in the room weren't showing signs of wanting to go to sleep any time soon, though. They were all seated around the bed, playing a game of cards on the blankets covering his legs.

He quickly closed his eyes again, hoping not to disturb the game.

"Oh, you wish," Porthos said and tapped lightly against d'Artagnan's foot. It felt as if the Gascon was part of the fun, even though he wasn't actively participating. They were including him even when he couldn't contribute. "This card right here is the best you can do?"

"Oh, hell. We all know you cheat, Porthos, you could at least try to do it a bit more subtly," Aramis shot back.

"Subtle is my middle name."

Aramis snorted. "If Subtle is your middle name, then Ugly is mine."

"Seems about right," Porthos agreed mockingly.

"Will you two stop being idiots for a second and actually acknowledge that I've won?" Athos's rational voice chimed in. It was silent for a few moments, then Aramis spoke up again.

"Damn," he said. "Athos has actual skill, does he not? I mean, to beat Porthos – that's all great and fun –, but to beat me; well, that takes competence. Let's call it a night and say that Porthos buys us drinks next time, and let that be the end of it."

"Hey!"

"I can't say I disagree," Athos admitted.

"Hey!"

"Look, it's only fair. I paid last time and Athos has bought us that delicious meatloaf the other day. Remember?"

"Wha' about the whelp?" Prothos grumbled teasingly, and everyone fell silent. The Gascon could hear their brains rattling quite clearly.

"We could have lost him," someone breathed and d'Artagnan would have thought it was Athos if it hadn't been for the teary quality of the voice.

"I know," Aramis agreed. "Still gives me the chills. Probably always will."

"But that's not the problem, is it?" Porthos pointed out. "We could still lose 'im, we could lose 'im any second if …"

If he becomes a Musketeer, hung heavily and unspoken, but true in the air.

"And then what?" Aramis agreed.

"Then we live on without him, right?" Athos said, his voice small and uncertain. "Isn't that what you do? Loved ones pass away and you move on, and you live without them."

"Yeah, but could you do that with the whelp?" Prothos questioned. "'Cause I can't imagine it."

It was silent. Too silent for d'Artagnan's liking and he was just about to say something when Athos spoke up again.

"I think I need him," he said quietly, so quietly that the Gascon had to strain his ears to hear.

Another silence, deeper this time and filled with genuine surprise. The people in the room let the words sink in, the words of a brooding man that had opened up.

"I think we all do," Aramis finally concurred. "I think we all do and that's the scariest thing. We're soldiers – we're not supposed to need anything."

"Wrong," Porthos argued, suddenly seeming the wisest of them all. "We're people, too. We need to need something. And because we're soldiers, this is all we get. Each other. Though if you ask me, that's a hell of a lot right there."

Hums of agreement drifted through the air. D'Artagnan wanted so desperately to join in, to tell them that he was of the same opinion, that he needed them, too, but the next dream was already too close.

And he knew that this one wasn't going to be dark and scary and hurtful. It was going to be nice and peaceful. Because of them.

Everything was always because of them, and he wouldn't have it any other way.