(A/N: I hate to admit it, but I do not own The Beatles. No copyright intended...)

The Event of Melancholia

It was in the press. In the papers. It was everywhere.

Paul strolled outside into the cool breeze and picked up his newspaper from the front porch, as he does daily. He whistled some tune, feeling pretty great. He grabbed the rolled up paper and walked back inside.

Linda called from the kitchen that lunch was almost done. "All right," Paul called back as he slid into his chair, sliding the rubber band off the rolled paper. He sat the rubber band on the table next to his chair and unfolded the paper, reading the headline.

His heart sunk.

"JOHN LENNON SHOT DEAD"

He could barely read the words anymore. His heart ached, his eyes full of tears. "Wh-what?" He shook his head. This was impossible. He and John were just starting to get along again.

"Lunch!" called Linda, oblivious to Paul's sudden pain. She frowned when he didn't reply. He hadn't heard; He was lost in the article, skimming over the words frantically.

Linda smiled as she walked into the living room, not noticing that anything was wrong. "Paul, darling? Lunch is ready." She frowned more as he continued to stay silent. Then she noticed the look on his face. He was as white as a ghost. "Paul? Paul, what's the matter?"

Paul gulped. He could barely speak. "J-John..."

She frowned. "What has he done this time, darling?"

Paul scowled a little, eyes glazed in tears. "H-he's been shot. He's... He's d-dead." Linda looked stunned. Paul put his hands to his face and sobbed for a moment. Linda, knowing how close they were, crossed the room, bending down, stroking his hair gently, not knowing what else she could do but to try and comfort him a little. "There, there..." She cooed.

Later that evening...

Just getting out of the studio, Paul groaned as he saw the flash of cameras as soon as he opened the door. He was in the worst of moods. It was still the 8th of December. John had only been dead a few hours. Yet the people couldn't let him be.

A reporter stuck a microphone into Paul's face, asking about his reaction to John's death. Paul, panicking, said "Oh, I.. I was very shocked, y'know. Terrible news." If only they knew how he was dying inside. But sometimes he had to keep things a secret. Especially his deep love for John.

Then the reporter asked, "What were you recording today?"

Paul fought the urge to roll his eyes. "Oh, I was just listening to some stuff, y'know. I just didn't want to sit at home." He had been listening to some of his and John's work they did together. But he wasn't going to admit it.

"Why?" The reporter continued to wonder.

Paul shrugged a little, looking around. "Oh, I didn't feel like it."

"What time did you hear the news?" Paul frowned a little. Reporters; They just jump back and forth, don't they? he thought.

"This morning some time." He nodded.

A few more words were exchanged before Paul finally couldn't take anymore. His best mate died just earlier today, and they were already sticking microphones and cameras in his face? He frowned, getting into his limousine.

Later...

Paul flew to New York City. He got his luggage and fled from the airport, thankful nobody saw or recognised him. He got into a taxi and had the cab driver take him to Yoko's apartment.

Yoko's Apartment...

Paul knocked softly on the door, hands shaking a little. He could hear Yoko's sigh, figuring she must be more than lost, and more than tired of press. She slowly opened the door, looking a little shocked.

"Paul?" Her eyes were red. Paul knew she'd been crying.

"Hey. May I come in?" He asked softly. He'd never, ever gotten along well with Yoko, but there wasn't any way he was going to be rude or hateful at a time like this.

"Of course," she nodded, stepping aside to make room for him to enter. He did.

They were silent for a bit. Neither of them really knew what to say. Or what they could say. Yoko had a pretty good idea what John and Paul had been up to lately. And Paul knew how John really felt, and he did feel bad for Yoko.

"We really need to talk," Yoko said shakily. Paul nodded in agreement. Yoko continued. "John told me something. Something I never wanted to hear." Paul frowned a little, waiting for her to go on. "He loved you, Paul. More than anything." Paul gulped, nodding. "And he told me just last week that if you still loved him, he was leaving me for you." She looked down.

"I-" Paul was lost. He was not only surprised, but he felt even worse. He'd been coming to New York every once in a while, and John and him would get a hotel and do a one or two night thing. But he didn't think John really still loved him. Although, Paul never stopped loving John. "I'm sorry, Yoko." Paul looked down.

"It's all right. I knew he loved you. I just didn't want to admit it to myself, because I loved him." She admitted.

"You... you knew? How?" Paul bit his lip.

"The look he gave you. The way he talked about you. He was even careful with his insults. And although he said bad things to the press about you, he'd come home and praise you. And I knew his mind was set on you, and not me." She nodded. "He loved you, Paul, and I was selfish. I didn't want him to love you, and now I feel absolutely awful because I kept him from going back to you as long as I could. And when he set his mind on getting you back, he was murdered." Her eyes filled with tears. Paul gulped, tentatively hugging her. She hugged him tightly. This all felt very weird to Paul, and he was filled with this strange melancholia. He could've been John's again? He would've been John's again? His heart ached more than ever.

Eventually they pulled away. Yoko thought a moment. "Please stay right here," she insisted as she exited the room. She came back with a small urn, a few words engraved on it. She handed it to him carefully. "Please take this. It's only right if you have it now."

Paul's heart skipped a beat. He thought he might faint. Yoko was giving him John's ashes?

"This way, he never leaves you." She nodded. "He never wanted to, and now he never will."

With that, she turned around and walked into her bedroom, closing the door. Paul knew this meant goodbye, so he slowly turned around, holding the urn carefully, and left.

He called another cab from a payphone outside of the apartment. He held the urn close as he got into the cab, his eyes filled with tears.

"Where to?" The cab driver asked.

"Anywhere. Anywhere but here." Paul replied shakily.

The cab driver looked back, frowning a little. "You okay, bro?"

Paul nodded at the young, coloured male. "I'm sure I will be."

"You're Paul McCartney, aren't you?" He asked curiously.

Paul nodded, holding the urn closer to his chest.

"Oh. I'm really sorry about..." He trailed off, looking at the urn in Paul's arms. "Is that... him?"

Paul nodded once, a tear falling. With that, the man understood completely and pulled away from the apartment, heading for the nearest, nicest hotel he could find, figuring Paul would want to rest.

Inside the hotel...

Paul sat the urn carefully on the table beside the bed. He was exhausted. He was pretty sure he was still crying, but his tears had run out. He climbed into the hotel bed, pulling the duvet over himself. He closed his eyes, rolling onto his side, facing the urn. Not able to sleep yet, he opened his burning eyes.

He gasped. His eyes grew wide as he watched John reach over, running the back of his hand over Paul's cheek.

"Don't cry on me, luv." John gave his goofy grin, making Paul's heart skip a beat. He was speechless. "I love ye, Paulie. Always have, always will."

Paul frowned. "I love you, too. I'm so confu-"

"-Shh." John cut him off. "I made the worst mistake of my life when I left you." He frowned. "I promise I'll never leave you again, Paulie."

Paul looked confused and shocked. "John, you're... You're dead. Those are your ashes." He pointed to the urn. John nodded.

"I know I'm dead, Paulie. It's not really something you forget, y'know?" He grinned. Paul didn't understand how John was... there... or why he was being so cheerful. That was just John, he supposed.

"Are you... a ghost?" Paul felt foolish asking this question.

"A ghost? I suppose so." John shrugged softly, stroking Paul's hair. "Please sleep, luv."

Paul shook his head. "I'm not the tired in the slightest."

"You dirty little liar." John grinned. "Sleep. I promise, I'm not leaving. I'll never leave your side again."

Paul hesitated before giving in. "Will you be here when I wake?" John shrugged. Paul bit his lip before slowly closing his eyes. "I still love you." He whispered to John.

"Good." John replied. "Because now you're stuck with me."

Paul opened his eyes. John wasn't there anymore, but Paul could still feel his presence. He was still drowning in melancholy, but his spirits were lifted a bit. He didn't understand how or why, nor did he care. But he had John. And nothing else mattered anymore.