I walked on the streets slowly, a cigarette hanging loosely in-between my teeth, continuing back to the hotel the four of us were occupying. George and Ringo were still out and about, seeing the sights. But I couldn't stay out in the sun and happy chatter knowing that John had been locked inside all day. The fifteenth of July, five years today I think. His mum died today, run over by a drunken policeman.

I tried not to linger on the fact, for John's sake, and for mine. I don't like to think of things that aren't my business.

I took a long drag of my cigarette and then flicked it into a metal ashtray. Before I entered through the glass doors, I turned, hands in my pockets, to gaze at the gorgeous calico colored skies and huff the smoke out of my cheeks.

I sauntered over to the elevator then took the long ride up, and when I finally got there, I walked up the carpeted steps, and then trotted over to the door leading to our flat.

Paul, Ringo, and George left early in the morning, about seven o' clock. I figured I'd stay behind, either it being my mum's anniversary, or the fact that I'm just fucking lazy, I don't know. After they were ready Paul walked over to me and put his hand on my head, his eyes questioning me. I looked up to him and smiled the biggest I could, and Paul, being the man he is, looked past the pain in my eyes and grinned back, then ruffled my hair before leaving with the two others.

I reached out of my bed and grabbed my guitar, sitting up, crossing my legs, and strumming the coarse strings a bit. I jerked against random notes harshly, D Minor, E Major, G7, they didn't really fit together, but I always felt better feeling the bronze scrape and glide across my nails and my skin. I remembered when I played for my mum, how much she loved it, how she helped me learn and perfect every note.

I went on for hours.

As I approached the door I could hear faint strumming coming from the other side of the door. The noises came from John, no doubt. I rustled around in my pockets for a while until I found the door key, sticking it in the lock and turning it slowly.

I opened the door, stepping in and closing it behind me.

People tell me you can tell a lot about someone's mood by the music they're playing, and from what I could hear, John was in pain. Anguish even. The chords were loud and slow, so he was jerking his fingers down and then dragging them over the strings. John let out a soft agonizing sigh, and my heartstrings trembled.

I put my right foot in front of my left gingerly, then my left in front of my right. I repeated the process until I stood at the opposite side of where John was sitting. I was surprised, I was expecting him to turn and shout at me to get out. But instead he remained motionless, the pained plucking of his guitar continuing in a morbid waltz.

"John?" I asked softly, leaning over the bed a little.

The playing continued on, unhindered by my words.

"John, can you talk to me?" His sullen song sped up a little, his fingers dancing along the chords. Finally I backed off the bed and rounded it, looking at John. I opened my mouth a bit at what I saw, nearly whimpering.

His face was blank, his thin lips I'd been so used to seeing with a smirk were a straight line, unmoving. His eyes were fixated on the ground, and they seemed colorless without mischief sparkling behind them. I glanced down at the guitar John held so dearly, and the sight brought me to my knees.

His fingers were bleeding. His skin rubbed raw and his nails scathed down to the gory muscle underneath, the strings of his guitar stained red.

"John." I tried to raise my voice to a higher volume, but all that came out was a whispering plea.

I knew I shouldn't have left this morning.

I knew the agony that came with losing a mother, it was impossible to forget. When I'd 'asked' him this morning before we left the flat if he'd be okay, he'd replied with a fake smile, and that was proof enough that he wasn't ok. But being the ignorant man I was, I chose to brush it off and went off to have fun.

I grabbed his right wrist in an attempt to pull him away from his masochistic tool. He refused to let go, but he didn't struggle when I finally pried his fingers back from the strings and wood, like the hands of a dead man.

I set the bloodied instrument on the floor and took his wrists in my hands gently, trying not to move his mangled fingertips.

I looked up to meet John's dead stare, and my lip started to tremble.

John's silky murmur broke the silence I myself was too scared to interrupt.

"I was playin', Paul." His voice was dead, soft and emotionless.

I swallowed back against my fuzzy throat and stroked my thumb across the thin skin covering his wrist bone.

"I think you've done enough, Johnny, you can stop now."

"No, I can't."

I looked up at his face, a breeze of determination shimmering behind his mask of nothing. I looked down at his blood-stained palms and felt a deep sifting in my chest. My heart?

"Give it back." I looked up again. John's voice showed no hint of threat, he was only asking. Why did he seem so calm? His fingers were in ribbons for God's sake! His mum's dead!

I took a deep breath, "No."

"Who 're you to say I can't play? You're not my mum." His stare remained strong, but moisture gathered in front of it.

I wanted to hold him. Moments after he spoke, one small tear split out his eye and his lip quivered through his straight lips. I clutched his hands, carefully of course, wary of his tender fingers.

I bent my head, "No John, 'm not. But, you're hurt, you need to stop."

"No, I fucking don't." He choked.

I looked up at him, determination and sadness showing clearly in his pale face.

"She can't 'ear me if I don't play."

This time it was me who started crying.

Hello again!

This is going to be a multiple chapter story, so this is only the beginning. I just hit a little bit of writer's block, so it might be a while before I get another chapter up... But if any of you liked this, just tell me! Reviews like crack for me. Y'know, the legal, good-for-you kind of crack. It makes me work faster. :)

P.S. If you can find the little song reference in here, you get a thousand awesomeness points. Or a cookie, whichever I have at the time.

-Jamie