Aside from this story being an unexpected part two, it is also one of my stories for which people often ask if there will be a sequel. The answer is no. Like The Lab or the Darkness, the whole value of the story is in the ambiguity of its ending. Writing a sequel would only spoil the fun of imagining what you think happens next.

He's been like this for three months.

Mike found him first, standing on the bridge, staring into the water, tracing little ripples with his fingers.

Two hours later, he was still there. And after dinner, still there.

("Donnie?" Mike asked gently. "You hungry?" No answer. They packed up the leftovers, put them in the fridge.)

At the end of the evening, still there. They moved him to the couch, and even their touch didn't call him from his reverie. He walked when propelled, sat when Raph pressed down on his shoulders. The motion of his hands changed, his thumbs twitching as though he were wielding dual remote controls, and they thought he was coming out of it, but he just kept staring blankly at the darkened TVs, didn't respond when they called him.

In the morning, he was still there, silent, motionless, closed off. Leo carried him up to bed.

By the next day, he still hadn't come back to them. (Hadn't eaten. Hadn't drank. "You have to drink!" Mike pleaded, holding up a glass of water in front of his face, but Don wasn't reacting to anything anymore.)

"He'll dehydrate," Mike said, because Don had certainly told them often enough, and after a desperate call to April, they slid an IV needle into the back of his hand.

Shortly after that, he soiled the bed.

That's when they knew it was bad. Donnie could forget to eat and sleep even when he wasn't in one of his trances, but he never, ever failed to make it to the bathroom.

They dug out an old dish they never used, and pressed it into service as a bedpan.

That was three months ago.

Leo weighs the half-empty IV bag in his palm. Another few hours. He lifts the blanket, checks the bedpan, pulls the soft fabric back across Donatello's chest, tucking it close in under the curve of his shell. It's getting harder to keep Donnie warm enough, now that New York is settling into winter. Raph has been futzing with the heating system - he's a competent mechanic, but he just doesn't have Donatello's genius for getting machines to do exactly what he wants them to.

"How much longer?"

Leo doesn't answer.

"Leo."

He startles, realizes he's hearing an actual voice, and not an echo of an argument he's had too many times lately.

("As long as it takes," Leo always replies. (He would wait forever, for his Donatello to return to him.) "How long?" Raph will press him.)

"Please wait a little longer," Leo says mechanically.

(It could be tomorrow. It could be in a year. It could be never. "I don't know," Leo will say softly, when Raph demands answers he can't give.)

Raph moves into his line of sight, gestures to the hollow body in the bed. "He doesn't need you, bro. Me and Mike and Master Splinter – we do. You gotta come back."

Leo smoothes a corner of blanket. "He needs me."

"Not all the time."

("He's a vegetable," Raph has told him, more than once. "Let him go. He wouldn't want to live like that." But Donatello's expression is serene, more happy than neutral, and so Leo knows his brother is still in there, enjoying the beautiful vistas of his mind. Every time he sees his little brother's peaceful face, it renews his resolve to stay with him, to watch over him, so Raphael can't come and steal Donnie away to a world he can never come back from.)

Raph moves again, makes it hard for Leo to avoid looking at him. "Have you even seen Mikey? He's falling apart." He seeks Leo's gaze, can't find it. "Bro –" He puts his hand on Leo's arm, and his fingers go too far around. "You can't help him. He's gone. You're spending all your time trying to get him back, and meanwhile you're losing everything else. Let him go."

Leo doesn't answer.

A little shake. "Leo."

Leo closes his eyes. Eventually, Raph goes away.

It's been seven months now.

His life has become a narrow, suffocating tunnel, and he can't see any light at the end. Change the IV bag. Empty the bedpan. Turn Don. Wash him. Take his temperature.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Mike has gone silent and red-eyed, working without rest to take care of the whole family as Leo takes care of Don, picking up the slack for two brothers, who are right there, and so far away.

Raph is out a lot lately, doing all the scavenging, venting his frustration on any wrongdoer unfortunate enough to cross his path, hanging with Casey and stumbling home at four in the morning loud and reeking of alcohol.

Splinter is no longer training them. There was no announcement, no official cessation. They just don't have the energy or the will to keep doing it, and so it has fallen by the wayside, another unmarked grave in the cemetery of all they have lost since Donnie faded.

Raph was right.

Just a little longer.

Seven and a half months.

Don shifts, but Leo doesn't pay much attention. This has happened before. It's only ever followed by Don sighing and settling back into his waking dream.

Leo remains slumped in his chair, not lifting his gaze from the floor.

The blankets rustle again, and there's a funny sniffing noise.

"Hi, Leo," says a soft voice. "How long were you sitting there?"

Leo closes his eyes, and weeps.