A/N: You guys rock. Seriously. Having people enjoy this, and review telling me so... is just about the coolest thing ever. It really motivates me. So thanks. You all rule. (Oh, and Rene, thanks a million for the long reviews, and I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I'm not sure how healthy it is to stop breathing between updates. I promise you, they will come.)

Despite the post-winter cold, Raphael kept his bedroom door open that night, and the light from the bathroom, plus the unmistakable sounds of someone getting sick, jolted him awake. He blinked a couple times to drive the sleep from his eyes, then sat up. There was a short silence, followed by another round of coughing and retching.

"Oh, Mikey," he sighed, rolling out of bed and wondering if this really surprised him. Sensei had warned them all that this would most likely get worse before it got better.

In his rush to make it to the toilet, Michelangelo had forgotten to shut the bathroom door. Raph stood in the entry, hand on the doorframe, watching his youngest brother's hunched form tremble as he bent over the toilet bowl. Silently, he made his way to the sink and filled a stray cup with cold water. Mikey didn't even look up.

When he had finished, Michelangelo closed his eyes, panting, and rested his head against the rim of the toilet. Raph knelt down in front of him.

"Here," he said, offering the cup, "you don't hafta drink this, but swish it around and spit it out. It gets the taste out of your mouth."

Mikey obeyed. He flushed the toilet, opened his eyes and immediately dissolved into another coughing fit. Raph winced; the poor guy sounded worse than ever.

"How's his fever?"

Raph looked up. Don and Leo were standing in the doorway, looking wary but concerned. Neither of them wanted to get too close to where Mikey had been vomiting, that much was clear. Leave it to Don to get squeamish even now.

"It's all right," he assured them with a sly smirk, "it all made it into the toilet." Ignoring his brothers' glares, he placed a hand on Michelangelo's forehead, then drew back. "Geez, Mikey," he said, "You're burning up."

"That's what I figured," said Don. He found a thermometer and knelt down next to his brothers. "Usually a high fever will cause vomiting, especially in those who are prone to... to having a weak stomach," Even if he didn't have a thermometer in his mouth, Mikey would have been too tired to respond to this. "When the body gets this warm, the stomach will reject anything you try to put in it." Don glanced at the numbers on the screen after the thermometer beeped. He frowned. "Ouch."

Leo, meanwhile, was pulling a washcloth out of the cupboard, but Raph stopped him. "I have a better idea," he told him. "Sensei used to do this for me when I was sick." He untied Mikey's headband – the young turtle didn't protest – and soaked it in cold water. He wrung it out, told Mikey to close his eyes, and tied it back on. "Ya gotta be careful not to let it drip into your eyes," he warned him, "But it feels really good." Michelangelo nodded.

"We should get him back to bed, even if he can't open his eyes," said Leo. "He needs his rest." His brothers nodded.

"M'tired," Mikey muttered in a voice so hoarse that the others cringed. He started to cough again.

"Careful, Mikey," said Don as he and Raphael helped their sick brother to his feet. "You shouldn't try to talk. Save your voice, and your breath."

"What's wrong with him?" Leo asked as Raph began to lead Michelangelo to his room. Donnie sighed.

"I can't know for certain yet, not until I really listen to him. But Master Splinter and I both think he has pneumonia."

"I was afraid of that."

"It's been at the back of my mind since he first developed that cough. Just cross your fingers he has the bacterial form, like Raph did. One of us sick is hard enough."

"I should warn Raph," Leo started forward, "If Mikey's contagious..."

"I think if he were, one of us would at least have developed a cough or some sort of symptoms by now. And for it to be viral, he would have had to be in contact with another person carrying it. And none of us have. I think we can count on this being the same ordeal we went through with Raphael."

Leo gave his brother a dark look. "Somehow, that's not very comforting."

"I don't mean like that."

"Are you sure it isn't contagious? Because I don't want any more of us to get sick, and if there's a chance this could be a virus, one of us should warn Raphael before it's too late."

"I doubt he'd listen to you. You know him."

"Yes," Leo sighed, "I do."

"One would think," Donatello commented. "He'd have learned his lesson after what happened six years ago."

"I think he did. He's still stubborn as a mule, but if he got sick again, he'd be smarter about it. He wouldn't try to pull what he did back then. And he certainly won't let Mikey run off on us."

The two brothers stood in silence for a moment.

"Enough of that," said Leo. "We should turn in, too."

Donnie nodded.

A tiny green hand held the screwdriver steady. He tried not to listen to the repulsive vomiting noises coming from the other room and concentrated on putting the finishing touches on his remote-control car. He was planning on trying it out as soon as it was done; Leo had agreed to go with him. Later that day, the two boys would return to the lair, dripping wet and gasping for breath, without the car, but for now Leo was practicing and Don was forced to listen to the sounds of Raphael getting sick in the bathroom.

Donatello breathed a sigh of relief when the noises stopped for good and the bathroom door opened. He heard Splinter's gentle voice, followed by Mikey's small one, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Soon the door to the boys' room opened and shut, and Mikey approached the couch with wide eyes.

"Raph's sick," he informed his brother.

"I know," said Donnie. "I could hear it."

"Mas'er Splin'er says he has moo... new – moo-non... new-mony..."

"Pneumonia?"

"Yeah, that." Michelangelo pulled a box of markers and the card he had been working on out from under the couch. "What is moo-nony-a?" he asked.

"Pneumonia," Don corrected him. "It's when the inside of your lungs gets irritated – that means sore – and sometimes swell up real bad. It's characterized by a high fever and a bad cough."

Mikey's eyes were even wider. "Is that really bad?"

"It can be. In some people, if not treated right, pneumonia can get really serious."

"Could he..." Mike whispered, "... die?"

"Some do." Mikey put down his marker, his tiny hands shaking and his lower lip starting to tremble. "But not Raph," said Donnie quickly, "He's too tough. And Sensei will take real good care of him. You'll see."

"Really?" Michelangelo whispered, his eyes welling with tears. Don put down his car, sat on the floor next to his little brother and wrapped him in a hug. "Cuz I don't want him to die." A single tear made its way down Mikey's cheek.

"He won't," Don assured him. "This case doesn't look severe enough; it has to get really bad for someone to die. He'll be okay. Especially because he has us around to take care of him. You and me and Sensei and Leo... we'll make sure he gets better. You're good at taking care of people, Mikey. Remember when I broke my leg? You helped me a lot, and I'm sure you'll do just as well with Raph. You'll see. He'll be better before you know it."

If Don had been unsure about anything he'd said, his little brother would have seen right through it. Donatello was not very good at hiding things from others, and Mikey was more insightful when it came to his family than people (term used loosely, of course) gave him credit for. But Donnie believed every word, so Michelangelo did too. He smiled, rubbing his eyes.

"Thanks, Donnie," he whispered.

"Anytime."

The two boys broke and went back to work.

Mr. Miller removed his cap upon entering Sir Ratcliph's office. He bowed once and approached the desk.

"Have you any more photographs for me?" the older man asked.

"Only two, sir," Miller replied, "And they're not very good ones, I'm afraid. But I 'ave somethin' else that I think might be of use to ye."

Ratcliph rested his chin on his fingers, looking mildly interested. "Yes?" he said, "And what might that be?"

The first photograph was so dark, that making out the three green figures was extremely difficult. The fourth figure, a woman with dark red hair, stood out more clearly. She and the others seemed to be entering a warehouse of some sort. It was the piece of paper that Miller believed would serve his boss well. On it were two addresses written in messy cursive.

"The first is where I found that warehouse," Miller explained. "Those green things never came out. The second," he slapped a picture of an apartment building on the table, "is this place."

"Oh?" said Sir Ratcliph.

Miller gave him a sinister smile, "It's where she lives, sir."

"She..." Ratcliph took a closer look at the woman in the photograph. He had never seen her before. "Do we have identifications for her?"

"No, sir," replied Miller. "Nor her apartment number."

Ratcliph thought for a moment. "Quite all right," he said. "You have done well, Mr. Miller. I am exceedingly thankful to have you on board."

"Me pleasure, sir."

"I dare say we can make our move soon. Tonight, if possible. Dr. Cartagan regrets that she must work late tonight, but I think we will be able to manage without her. This is not woman's work. She will become useful later, but for now I think you and your friends can do the job, am I correct?"

Miller nodded.

"Good. Have some of you watching that warehouse around the clock, and some of you watching all entrances to the apartment complex. Contact me only after you have the... results."

Miller nodded again. "Sure thing, sir."

"Thank you. You are excused."