A/N: Wow... thanks. That was the biggest wave of reviews I think I've ever gotten... so thank you. Wow... you rock. Holy cow. You guys seriously rock. I guess the effect I had been hoping for got across then, huh? Wow. I just hope this chapter can live up to (or at least, isn't disappointing next to) the previous one.

Pretender Fanfic: I was never planning on it. I don't like writing fight scenes.

Raphael paused for a moment, allowing a short cough to escape his lips. It was so cold in here... but he couldn't let the others notice. He struck at his older brother with every ounce of energy he had, refusing to let him know anything was wrong. It had taken forever to convince them that he wasn't sick and could practice. He hated to look weak. Especially in front of them.

And he wasn't sick. He didn't even feel tired. Sure he had that stupid cough, but he wasn't sick. Was. Not. Sick. He, for one, was not going to let some dumb cough slow him down.

Leo paused for a moment to catch his breath. Raphael let himself cough again, but quietly. He was afraid that if anyone noticed, they'd freak out and treat him like a baby. He didn't need that. He was ten. He could take care of himself.

Leonardo was looking at him with eyes filled with concern.

"Are you okay, Raph?" he asked.

"M'fine," Raphael snapped. Darn it, he had to cough again. Couldn't this stupid thing just leave him alone? He was fine. No, he thought as Mikey and Don quit their fighting, stop it. Go away. "I said I'm fine," he told them firmly.

"You don't sound so good," said Mikey.

"Maybe you should stop," Leo told him warily.

"Leave me alone already!" Raph cried. "I ain't sick. Leave me alone already, will ya?"

"Raphael," said Splinter. Raph groaned. "Please calm down. Do not work yourself too hard; it is not good for your cough. You are slowing down, my son. If you overwork yourself, you will indeed become very ill."

"I ain't sick!" Raph cried.

"Not yet," said Don, stupid know-it-all that he was. "But you could be coming down with something. If you overexert yourself, your cough could worsen until you really are sick. Your body –"

"I don't care about it, braniac!" said Raph. "Jus' leave me alone, will ya? I'm – "

Splinter was immediately by his side. He placed a hand on Raphael's chin, hushing him, and knelt down. He stared into Raphael's glaring eyes.

"Practice is over for today," he told all of his sons. The other three nodded and left. "Be careful," he said to Raphael. "Be wise. You are sicker than you think you are. I fear that if you work yourself too hard, your weakened body will not be able to withstand it."

"I ain't weak!" Raph cried, yanking his chin from his Sensei's grasp. Splinter grabbed his shoulder and held it in a firm, but painless grip.

"You are not weak, my son," Splinter said, putting emphasis on the words 'are not.' Raph scowled. He hated being lectured on his language almost as much as he hated being called weak. "I did not say that you were. You are falling ill. You must be wise, and take precautionary measures so that you recover quickly."

"Yeah," said Raph. "Okay. Whatever."

Glowering as his Sensei released him, Raphael stormed out of the room.

The only sounds in the entire room were those coming from the figure on the bed. He gave a weak, raspy moan and shifted on the couch, grunting and muttering quietly.

April and Casey were clutching hands, the three brothers huddled together and were still. None of their terrified eyes left the couch.

An orange headband lay limp and forgotten on the bedside table. Next to it was a glass of water, a thermometer and a bowl containing a cool, wet cloth. Two blankets covered the turtle on the bed. Splinter and Dr. Cartagan, their eyes tired and grave, removed the top one.

"It is important," said Dr. Cartagan, wringing out the washcloth, "Since he is essentially cold-blooded, to monitor his temperature carefully." She placed the damp cloth on his forehead, "His body will tend towards higher temperatures than his environment, but if the air around him becomes too cold, he will not be able to maintain his fever. This is not a good thing. He will need the fever to fight the illness. Too much, however, will push him to delirium; it could do more harm than help. We will have to watch him carefully."

Everyone nodded.

"We also have to encourage him – as strongly as we can – to cough. I know this sounds weird, but the fact that he is too weak to cough is also not a good thing. He is unable to clear out the fluid in his lungs, or even loosen it up, and it is strongly hindering his ability to breathe. Whenever he wakes up, even if he is only half-conscious, it is good to try to sit him up and get him to cough as much as possible." Everyone nodded again.

"Is he gunna make it?" asked Donnie. Splinter and Dr. Cartagan looked at each other, both sets of eyes serious.

"I don't know," Cartagan sighed, "Right now, I just don't know."

"Michelangelo is very ill," said Splinter, "He will need us here at every moment. But the bond among family is a powerful one. I pray it is enough to bring him back to us."

"We can count ourselves lucky," said Doctor Cartagan, "That he has the bacterial – not contagious – form. Severe viral pneumonia is one of the scariest things... but we don't need to worry about catching it."

The three remaining turtles exchanged glances.

Outside, the first spring rain was beginning to melt the layers of snow. Mikey shifted in his sleep but did not wake.

Although Splinter and Dr. Cartagan worked tirelessly to alleviate his illness and none of the others would leave his side, Michelangelo did not improve. For three days they cared for him. They wiped his face with the cloth and took off blankets when he became too hot, replaced them when he grew too cold, gave him water, tea or spoonfuls of broth when he was his most awake (a half-conscious state when his eyes would crack open and he would give the smallest responses to sounds), at least twice daily they would sit him up and try to get him to cough, with little results. His condition did not get better. In fact, Cartagan noted by the third afternoon that if anything, he was becoming more and more tired. His subtle responses were more sluggish than ever, he was having a harder and harder time waking up and his periods of half-consciousness were growing shorter. His heavy breathing seemed more labored. Cartagan felt a cold chill every time he moved now. He was growing weaker. Battling illness was an exhausting affair, she knew, and she wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on.

Being a veterinarian, she was more used to the nature of a relationship between a pet owner and an animal than she was to that amongst a family. But the brothers fascinated her. Personality clashes were obvious, but there was a bond between them that she could not describe. Rarely did she see the three turtles away from their sick brother; almost never would she find one without the other two in close range.

Leonardo, who seemed to be the leader of the group, hid his tormented emotions well. He was there to be strong, to support his family. All of his energy, it seemed, was spent on comforting his two brothers. He would put a hand on a shell or offer an arm to those who needed it, and only when they were taken care of would he allow his grief to show. For the pain was apparent in his eyes as he watched Michelangelo toss and turn on the makeshift bed.

Raphael was the sullen, angry one. He either spent his time and energy, when his grief wasn't too great to mask, in a furious silence, yelling at the others over small things or beating the stuffing out of whatever would stay still long enough. Sometimes he would shrug off an offered hand and storm out (he never stayed gone long), and sometimes he would take it. Usually he was too deep in his anger to notice.

It was Donatello, who's scientific expertise fell short of helping his dying brother, who showed the most emotion. Most of the time he remained by the couch, watching Michelangelo in silence or allowing himself to be comforted by April or Leonardo or Splinter. Although Cartagan caught each of them with tears in his eyes more than once, Donatello cried the most freely.

Truly, she thought, watching the three of them grasp Mikey's frail, green hand, the brothers' bond was strong. It could be Michelangelo's saving grace.

"You know," she said from the doorway. The turtles looked up. "He can probably hear you speak."

"We know," said Leonardo sadly. "We've tried."

"We've been speaking to him," said Donatello. "He hasn't come back."

"He will when he's ready," said Dr. Cartagan, sounding more sure of herself than she felt. "It may be that he's been trying. Speaking to him will give him something to cling to. It's comforting for him just to hear your voices."

"What do we say?" Leonardo asked. Jeanie got the impression he wasn't used to looking so helpless.

"Anything. It'll help him just to hear you, even if he can't understand what you're saying." Cartagan pulled up a chair next to Mikey's bed and stroked his fevered forehead. "Has he coughed at all?" The brothers shook their heads. There was a nervous silence.

"You know," she told them, "The four of you remind me a lot of some clients of mine. I'm a vet," she explained. They nodded. "Some of the cutest little buggers I work with, too, which is saying something. I've only met them twice, for check ups. A girl about nine or ten years old owns them..."

"Wait a second," Leo interrupted. "What are they?"

Dr. Cartagan looked surprised. "Turtles," she said.

Small faint, traces of smiles appeared on their faces. Jeanie stroked Michelangelo's forehead some more.

"Anyway," she continued, "There's four of them, and they're all brothers... at least, I'm pretty sure they are, and geez... people who think reptiles can't have personality have not met these guys...

"First, there's Razor. She calls him that because he thinks he's so tough... and actually he is. He doesn't like me at all, but many animals don't like their vets... what can you do? He tries to fight me every time I take him out of the box (I always win); I swear he would snap at me if he could, but he's not that kind of turtle. Then I set him on the table, and he gets this evil glare, like 'touch me and die.'"

Their smiles were growing larger now. Even Michelangelo didn't seem so much in discomfort. Leonardo and Donatello were taking sidelong glances at their red-banded brother, who was staring at the ground letting the faintest of smirks take over his expression.

"If he weren't this big," Dr. Cartagan made her thumbs and forefingers form a circle, "he might be remotely frightening." Raphael almost grinned. "But it's just hilarious. And then there's Houdini; she calls him that because he's the only one who's been able to break out of the cage. He's one of the more curious ones. He always has to check everything out. Every new environment, the scale, the measuring tape, his owner would swear he's making little observations in his head, like he's got to figure out how everything works." Donatello smiled. "I mean, his cognitive skills are limited, of course, being a not-mutated domestic turtle, but what that little guy could do with opposable thumbs..." Jeanie smiled and shook her head slowly. "Where Razor is an aggressive little fight-picker, Houdini is more mellow. He's pretty peaceable. Most of the time he just ignores Razor when he's being obnoxious."

Michelangelo's face was definitely relaxing now. Maybe he couldn't smile, but it was clear he could hear her voice, and was enjoying it.

"Nutshell (no idea why she calls him that) on the other hand, will fight back, with a vengeance. He doesn't look for trouble the way Razor does, but if there's a fight between two of them, most of the time it's between Razor and Nutshell." Leonardo and Raphael looked at each other. Donatello almost smirked. "I've never seen one that isn't. But Nutshell isn't angry, he's just tough. But he isn't super-curious like some of the others are. I've often wondered what he would say if he could talk... you have to wonder what must be running through that little guy's head...

"And lastly, you have Bean. He's the super-curious one, but he's not as tough as the others are. Usually when Razor comes on looking angry, he's the one that'll retreat into his shell. He's done that when I've picked him up too. And he won't come out... until you put food in front of him. Then automatically he's your new best friend." All three of the brothers looked at Mikey. Dr. Cartagan stroked his forehead. "The little girl who owns them thinks it's his only motivation in life... 'Getfood-getfood-getfood- getfood...' I wouldn't put it past him. Curious little guy, too, he'd walk right off the table if I wasn't there to catch him. We think he probably thinks there's food waiting for him on... where ever he thinks he's going." Dr. Cartagan paused. "Now, I've never actually met your brother when he's completely himself, but April tells me – "

"That's him," Raph interrupted her. All three expressions had gone dark.

"Mikey in a nutshell."

"Uh-huh."

There was a pause.

"He's been hearing me," Cartagan told them. "I can tell."

"So can we," said Donatello. The other two nodded.

By that evening, Michelangelo had changed again, though still not for the better. He stirred less, rarely made any sort of noise and never woke up. They kept his environment steady, so his temperature remained the same, but his hands were clammy and cold. They seemed more limp, heavier than normal. Dr. Cartagan gently squeezed a hand and shared glances with Master Splinter. Both expressions were grave. They knew what it meant.

We're losing him.

No one spoke for nearly an hour. They surrounded the couch in a tense silence. Hope was dwindling.

"I would like," said Splinter, his voice older than it had ever been, "To spend the night alone with my son."

Leo and Don exchanged glances.

"You can't give up," Cartagan replied, "Not yet. He – "

"I am not giving up," Splinter's tone didn't change. "I am simply requesting to spend the night alone with him."

Leo and Don looked at each other with wide eyes, remembering. Could it be... could they still hope...?

Everyone agreed that the request was not unreasonable, but no one wanted to leave. The chances of Mikey making it to the morning were questionable. What if this was the last time they saw him alive?

"I will call you if anything goes wrong," Splinter assured them.

His eyes were the only ones dry as everyone else got up to leave.