A/N: This is just a quick update. I wanted to get something up for John's Birthday. We Love you John! I aplogize for making you seem all weird and sappy in this chapter, but it was neccesary to the plot line. I hope you're having fun up there, jamming out with George and all the angels. We're still trying for the dream of World Peace you imagined, Johnny. RIP.

P.S. Virtual Cookies to whoever finds the Beatles Album reference in this chapter. Happy hunting!


John sat down at a table, panting. Leaning his head against the back of his booth, he sat still trying to clear the loud buzzing echo of screaming out of his head. He clutched his sides and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with much needed air. He didn't know how long he sat there. It could've been mere minutes, or even hours. However long it was, after a good deal of time a short, balding man in his mid-fifties sauntered up to John and tapped him on the shoulder. John's eyes flashed open and as he turned to face the man, the man spoke.

"C'n I get ye anythin', laddie, or are ye just takin' a breather from runnin' away from them there lassies?" the man said, a heavy Scottish accent weighing down his words. He gestured towards the door with a meaty fist, and John glanced over and suddenly it hit him: the echoey buzzing wasn't an echo at all. There, pounding away at the diner's locked door, were screaming fan-girls galore. John glared down at the bright orange laminate tabletop and muttered darkly to himself.

"They just don't give up do they?" The Scottish man chuckled heartily.

"Women never do, laddie, I c'n tell ye that. Don't ye be worrin' tho'. I locked that there door on them lassies when ye came in. Don't want 'em maulin' no one on me property, eh? I'd say tho' if ye be wantin' to escape 'em soon, ye might want ter make a head start through th' back door, once ye regain yer strength."

Glancing at his watch, John realized the man was right. He HAD been sitting there for hours. It was getting late, and he needed to get back to the studio soon. Brian and the rest of the lads would be worried sick, that is, if Paul were there and not left for dead in an abandoned alleyway by some rabid fan-girl. John shook his head. That wouldn't be likely. The girl probably would've taken Paul's body home; had him dressed up like some sick toy doll. John shivered at the very thought. Poor Paul.

"Laddie? Ye still alive there?" The sound of the man's voice snapped John out of his gruesome daydream. He looked at the man and smiled his craziest smile.

"Sir, yes, sir!" he spoke with a harsh American accent. "I'll be on my way, sir, thank you, sir!" He stood up and marched towards the hallway two bright yellow and orange tables down from him, only getting a glimpse of the plump man rolling his eyes.

"Hold, Seargent!" the man commanded, playing along. "Seargent- what is yer name anyways, lad?"

John glanced around him for some inspiration. His eyes settling on a pair of salt and pepper shakers at a nearby table he shouted out,

"Pepper, sir!"

"Well, Seargent Pepper!" the man barked back.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"Th' door s'in th' OTHER direction!" John spun around, and there, indeed, across the room from him, stood the door.

"So it is, sir, thank you, sir!"


John had been walking for several minutes, and he was still out in the country, not sure exactly where he was. He shoved his hands in his pockets and breathed in the humid air. Throwing a glance toward the sky he noted the dark grey clouds blocking the evening sun. This could mean only one thing. He sighed. Rain, rain, and OOOH YIPPEE! more rain. He sang quietly to himself under his breath.

"But tommorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun..." Glancing down at the dirt path, he noticed the darker spots where raindrops had begun to fall. He looked back up and watched raindrops falling from the charcoal sky. He felt a light sprinkle on his arms, and turned down to see the dark spots appearing on his blue cotton shirt. He sighed again. As if sensing his melancholy and thriving off it, the rain picked up, and started to fall in earnest. John truged on through the now muddy roads and attempted to shake his soaked moptop out of his eyes. It didn't work. The hair remained plastered to his face. He was stomping along like this, battling with his hair when he heard it. A faint voice, singing.

The hills are alive with the sound of music,

John stopped in his tracks.

With songs they have sung for a thousand years.

He felt a strange urge, like someone was tugging on his collar, like a Siren, pulling him towards her beautiful voice. He put it down simply to his musicianship, curious to know who was making such beautiful noise, so he could pay proper homage to his fellow singer. He shook it off and resumed walking.

The hills fill my heart with the sound of music,

My heart wants to sing every song it hears.

He jerked short again. This ran deeper than musicianship and curiosity. He NEEDED to know who was singing. He gathered his dignity about him and followed the sound bouncing around his brain. Pushing his way through the soggy, calf-high field bordering the dirt path.

My heart wants to beat like the wings of the birds

that rise from the lake to the trees,

He was stumbling now, stumbling towards that voice, that wonderful voice.

My heart wants to sigh like a chime that flies

from a church on a breeze.

It got closer and closer. It was almost as if he could reach out and touch the notes the voice was singing, but not see the voice, he couldn't see it, and it frustrated him. He HAD to find the voice.

To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls over

stones on its way,

To sing through the night like a lark who is learning to pray.

He burst into a clearing, looking down at his feet to avoid stumbling any harder.

I go to the hills when my heart is lonely,

I know I will hear what I've heard before.

The voice echoed in his brain, as if the word were ingraved inside his mind.

My heart will be blessed with the sound of music,

He looked up...

And I'll sing once more.

And there she was.