A/N: Yikes, you guys... have I really gone three months without updating this? *cringe* I'm so sorry. I hope this chapter makes up for it. There's a lot of yes-no, right-wrong thinking going on in it.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you may recognize.

Sam fidgeted with her seatbelt uncomfortably. They were en route to India via plane and she was discovering flying was not her favorite pastime. Every spot of turbulence made her grip the edge of her seat and squeeze her eyes shut until it passed.

"Sam, relax." Liz nudged her shoulder. "You're more tightly wound than a spring."

"I. Hate. Flying," she said from between her teeth as they hit another air disturbance. "It feels so unsafe." This was only part of the problem. Yes, flying made her feel like she was hurtling to her death trapped within a hunk of metal at an alarming speed, but there was another thing. Rich and Mo happened to sit down right in front of her line of view and were snuggling in a way that made her stomach churn with jealousy.

Why, she didn't know. It wasn't like it was her place to feel that niggling little emotion. She had no claim over Rich, she wasn't married to him or even publicly with him.

Oh God, she thought with an awful sinking feeling. I'm the 'other' woman. That's what she was, nothing more than a little fling on the side. Rich probably only saw her as that, nothing more. She was likely far more head-over-heels than he was or ever would be.

Was it a mistake coming to India? she wondered, shutting her eyes and deciding she would be better served to take a nap and try to sleep away the remaining hours of the flight.

Unfortunately, sleep didn't come. She lay back in the plush seat, eyes closed, and tried like hell not to think of the snuggly couple in the row ahead of her. Thankfully, the seat was incredibly comfortable. She had never been on such a posh airplane. Flying wasn't a regular thing she did, but this was by far the nicest one. It probably came with the territory of being famous.

Next to her, Liz was having no such difficulties. Between writing in her composition notebook and doodling in the margins, she and Paul, who sat across the isle from them, exchanged flirty little glances and attempted silent conversation. Liz had managed to end up with an unattached, sweet man. Sam had the sweet part covered. Why couldn't she have the same luck with the unattached bit?

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

This flight is too bloody long, Ringo thought, wondering how much longer he could stomach Mo's over-clinginess. For some reason, she had developed a sudden inability to be away from him and not touching him for more than a few minutes. It was maddening. At any other time, he'd have been thrilled for the chance to return to the honeymoon chapter of their married life. Now, it just felt like she either wanted something or, God forbid, knew something he didn't want her to.

He knew Sam was in the seat behind him. What was going through her head right then? Surely this didn't look good in her eyes at all. She was going to think he had gotten over their short-lived fling already.

Fling. What a horrible word. It sounded like she was little more than an article of clothing or something else just as insignificant; something to be used and then tossed away when the user tired of it or had no more use for it. Was that how Sam thought he was going to treat her? He hoped not. Hoped with all his heart she hadn't gotten that idea.

Since when have the feelings of a woman I'm not even married to become more important than my own wife's feelings? he asked himself incredulously, though he already knew the answer if he really thought about it and was honest with himself.

Since he met Sam. That was when.

He clearly remembered the day she came into the conference room for the first time with the tray of coffees. Their eyes had met for just the briefest of instances, but he would never, not until the day he died, forget the way her stormy gray eyes had stolen his breath without her even being aware of what she was doing.

And when she had taken the time out of her own busy day to ask him what was wrong, he knew he'd just met somebody extraordinary. Most of the employees either kept their heads down or quietly trailed after them like an extra shadow or two. Sam had been one of the heads-down types. Now, the group felt fairly comfortable saying hello to her or stepping in for a short chat every once in awhile.

Stretching back in his seat, Ringo closed his eyes and waited for sleep to come and take his mind off the current situation he was attempting to puzzle through. It did come, but the dream he had wasn't a good one, nor was it free of thoughts of Sam.

~Dream~

He was running along a crowded sidewalk in a neighborhood in London that he vaguely recognized, but was unsure of exactly why he was there. An overwhelming sense of panic made his heart thump against the confines of his ribs, brain fizzing with fear and making normal thought next to impossible. Why did he feel so terrified? What was going on?

Suddenly, an all too familiar head of wavy brown hair appeared in his line of vision. Sam? "Sam, hey!" he called, trying to close the distance and reach out to her. She whirled around and stepped out of his reach. There was something different about her, something odd. What was it, what was...

What the fuck? The dream-Sam looked mostly like herself, except for one aspect. One very important aspect. She had no face. Where her face was supposed to be was one blurred spot in the approximate shape of her face. There were no facial features of any sort, but somehow he could tell she was furious with him.

She could speak. "Just stay away from me, Rich! I don't want anything to do with you ever again!" she yelled, turning away from him and trying to run.

Feet moving without his volition, he grabbed her arm. He had to understand what he'd done and why she didn't want to see him. "Sam, please," he begged. "Tell me what I've done wrong. Please. I want to fix it."

Coldly, she wrenched her arm free. "You can't talk your way out of this one, Rich. Let me go," she spat, backing away from him. They were fairly close to the road and seemingly without noticing, Sam was backing directly into the street. Straight into oncoming traffic.

A car came barreling from the right. She didn't see it. It was too close. A choked cry of warning tore from his lips as it was about to collide with her.

~End Dream~

But it never did. As soon as it got to her, she dissolved into a puff of mist and Ringo was jolted back to the world of the waking with a gasp, rocketing straight up in his seat. Hair was plastered to his forehead by rivulets of sweat, heartbeats ringing in his ears like there was a bass drum right behind his head.

"Mate," George reached across the aisle, tapping him on the shoulder. "Rings, you all right?" Concern creased the brow of the guitarist.

"Yeah, just a bad dream," he murmured, unsticking the hair from his forehead and managing a half smile in George's direction. When it became apparent to the other man that Ringo was not in the mood to disclose any further detail, he turned back and snuggled back up against his sleeping wife.

Looking to his right, Ringo saw Mo sleeping against the side of the plane, small feet tucked beneath her and hands pillowed beneath her head. In her waking hours, she was so affectionate it was almost a bit unnerving. But it seemed that when she slept her inner feelings were revealed. He wondered in earnest then whether or not she had a suspicion her husband wasn't quite as faithful as he pretended to be. The thought made his stomach twist.

A heavy sigh expelled from him as he reclined against his seat once more and stared at the ceiling of the aircraft. There was no chance he would try to sleep again. That dream made him want to never close his eyes again, lest he witness Sam's—well, it wasn't her death, was it? She'd simply vanished into a cloud of mist, leaving his overactive imagination to sort out for itself whether she had lived or died. Is this my punishment for infidelity? he wondered.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

When the plane finally landed, Liz actually did have to shake Sam awake. After her mind had at last calmed down from the worried mess, she'd managed to catch a few hours of rest. Now, standing up and stretching, she decided she could use just a bit more. "God, I could sleep for a hundred years," she groaned, lifting her arms above her head, back cracking in the process.

"You can sleep tonight, we don't have much planned for the evening, other than meeting the Maharishi," Liz told her, picking up her carry-on purse and slipping it over her shoulder. Her cobalt eyes sparkled happily. She'd been going on about the trip ever since Rich asked them to go along. She was certain she was going to learn loads from the Maharishi about existence and life's many secrets. That sort of thing had always fascinated Liz. It interested Sam too, but she felt a little leery of this man who claimed to have all the answers.

She also guessed Paul was the other driving factor in her friend's excitement, a theory that was proven to be accurate when Paul slipped an arm around Liz's waist as they moved up to the front of the plane. "Looking forward to the trip, ladies?" he asked as Liz turned a dark shade of pink.

"Definitely," said Liz. "I think it's going to be quite interesting."

"Oh Christ, honestly?" cried George in frustration, peeking out one of the windows. "The airport is swarming with people!"

A little thrill of fear fluttered in Sam's stomach. She wasn't expecting something like that to happen. Why? she wondered, twisting her hands together fretfully. Why did I agree to this trip?

"Paul, you take care of Miss Watson," Neil Aspinall called. "Miss McMillan, if you'll come with me..." Quietly avoiding Rich's gaze, Sam crossed to the front of the plane to stand beside the man who had been the Beatles' roadie during their touring years. "You'll be wanting to put something over your face, miss," he informed her, a slight frown creasing his features.

"Why?" she asked, pulling her white scarf from her purse and looking at it curiously. How was she supposed to cover her face and why?

"If there's one thing you don't want, it's for the press to see two unknown young women coming off a plane with the Beatles," he said, apology written in his eyes. "Here, I'll help you." Gently, he assisted her in wrapping the scarf over her face, but loosely enough so she could still breathe freely. She could hardly see around the gauzy material, but she trusted Mr. Aspinall to keep her out of harm's way.

Taking a glance behind her, she could faintly see Paul helping Liz with the scarf around her own face. She seemed to be having trepidations about having her vision limited by a piece of material, but Paul took her hands and kissed her forehead softly, smiling tenderly at her. While she was happy for her friend, she couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy in her chest.

"All right, one, two, three!" Mr. Evans called, yanking open the door of the plane. Mr. Aspinall grabbed her tightly to his side, an arm around her waist and the other holding the scarf in place. A barrage of screaming assaulted her ears as they ran down the ramp of the plane. Through her scarf, she could see a sea of people waving and jumping up and down. Bright flashbulbs popped, making her eyes sting.

"The car isn't far now, just keep moving," her guide murmured in her ear reassuringly. She held the edge of the scarf, careful not to let any of her features show. "Just don't stop. It's all right, you're fine." She was immensely grateful to him for keeping up a continuous stream of comforting words. It helped her to keep her mind off the cameras being shoved in her face, trying to get a clearer look at the woman behind the scarf.

She could just see the car when a fresh wave of people closed in around her and the rest of the group, shouting at her in a language she didn't understand, grabbing at her with curious hands and snapping pictures. The constant stream of blinding light made her eyes water; she couldn't see a thing. Groping blindly out in front of her, she tried to shove her way through the crowds in the general direction of the car. Her fingers scrabbled wildly on metal until they found purchase on something that felt like a handle and pulled with all her might.

Sam pulled herself into the car, quickly sliding to the farthest seat to make room for the rest of the group. Liz came flying in right after her, breathing hard and probably looking like just as much of a mess as Sam felt. "Oh God," she panted, yanking the olive green scarf from her face. "I thought I was a goner. They were gonna trample me."

"Same," Sam breathed out a long sigh of relief, slumping against the seat and unwinding her scarf. "Bloody hell," she muttered, wiping the sweat from her face.

"You girls all right?" Paul jumped in last of the many people piling into the vehicle. "Sorry about that, we had no idea people knew when we were flying in."

"You mean they weren't supposed to know," George growled from his seat, eyes smoldering in annoyance.

"We're all in one piece, yeah?" Liz interjected. Slow, surprised nods rippled around the car. "Then we're all fine."

The car only took them so far. After about half an hour of driving, they came to a stop in front of a tiny, wobbly-looking bridge. Tiny donkeys were lined up with guides. Sam's heart plummeted. Heights were not her favorite thing. Especially unsafe-looking heights. She'd fallen out of a tree at age ten, gained a broken arm, and hated heights ever since.

Thankfully, if Sam shut her eyes tightly and pretended she was elsewhere, the wobbly walk was bearable and she didn't feel nauseous. Liz seemed to enjoy it, talking to her guide animatedly and often repeating herself as his grasp on English didn't seem to be very good.

When they arrived at the school of transcendental meditation, they were taken to see the Maharishi and told about how their stay in India was probably going to go, given brief instructions on how to meditate (they were told more would come later in their lessons), and shown to their huts. Liz gave a squeal of delight upon being shown the room with the tiny beds and began to explore their tiny quarters.

"Oh Sam, isn't this amazing?" she exclaimed, tucking her suitcase into one of the corners.

Sam felt slightly less enthusiastic about the whole affair. Despite being an artist, she remained skeptical about religion. She believed in a higher power, but she wasn't exactly sure what she thought it was. However, over the course of the next three days she found great peace in religion. It calmed her excitable brain and allowed her to feel free and calm. She couldn't do it for very long, but she was slowly building up her meditation time.

On the third day, Sam was sitting in the hut she and Liz shared, meditating on the bed. Liz discovered she focused better out in the elements and often went down to the river not far away to meditate and write when she couldn't focus on keeping her mind still. She hadn't seen Rich for more than minutes at a time during those three days. It was in part because she'd been wrapped up in learning the ways of transcendental meditation, but also because she wanted to avoid him. She wasn't sure why, but she didn't trust herself being near him.

A sudden knocking at the door made her jump out of her chanting. "Um, come in," she said, hand on her heart.

Rich stood in her doorway tentatively. "Sorry, did I disturb you?"

Sam found she wasn't quite able to speak.

A/N: I'm terrible. I leave you three months without an update and then I have the nerve to leave a cliffhanger? Bad author, bad bad author...

But, as I've finished writing my Sherlock fanfiction on my other account (PaperbackWriter318), I'll have more time to finish my remaining four stories. Yay!

Review? :3