(WARNING: This chapter is where things start to turn slightly more mature in the story. Plenty of sex references in this one.)

A swirling lasso of smoke circled lazily about the kitchen early in the morning as the drummer sucked on his first cigarette of the day. He unfolded the newspaper with his ringed fingers and, hesitantly, he squinted at the front page. Black and white bold stood out immediately:

"BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN"

He sighed, "Bloody hell," and folded the paper away again. Grinding out the cherry of his cigarette, he took a swig of coffee and stood to toss the newspaper in the dustbin. "Where you belong," he muttered, when suddenly his eyes caught something on the counter top. Edging closer, he noticed that it was the same pad of paper Paul had been writing in from a few days earlier. He found himself flipping through the pages slowly.

Dates were written at the top of pages, a small passage or a few short words below.

'Arrived home today, John seemed to slightly recall the furnishings, although he was mostly confused." Ringo's brow furrowed as he carried on reading. "Later regained memory.

'John struggles to dress himself and make tea correctly. Tried to get him to play the guitar but to no avail. Brian visited. John broke down in my arms. Later woken up by John coming into the room with a gash in his palm. Brian rang and plans for a conference were made.

'Still struggling to dress himself. John tried to attack reporter. Panicked and confused during conference. Fled from conference room shortly after and locked himself in the toilet. Doctor prescribed John anti-depressants. Homosexual advances?'

Ringo's eyes widened. He read the last line twice to make sure they hadn't deceived him.

"Homosexual advances?" He whispered in a breezy voice, small with confusion. "What the bleedin' 'ell..."

The living room door creaking open made Ringo quickly shut the cover of the note pad and, in a particularly flustered manner, lean unnaturally against the counter top. George entered the sitting room sleepily and the drummer relaxed.

He greeted the younger man, "Mornin', lad, sleep well?"

George's bird-nest of wild hair bobbed up and down in response. He gave a yawn. "Yeah, alright. Why are you up so early?"

"I could ask the same to you. Coffee?"

"Sure," the guitarist replied, "but you didn't answer my question."

The drummer poured the pre-heated kettle water into a mug with the coffee granules already inside. He gave it a swirl and dropped a cube of sugar into the drink. Handing it to George, the drummer explained. "Haven't been sleepin' well lately... bet you can't guess why,"

"I know the feelin'; this whole situation is makin' me go a little mad me'self. And now 'e's on tablets, Ringo... just like the press said would 'appen. I can't help but worry."

Richard nodded. "Me too, George. I suppose it's for the best though; poor bloke couldn't even get out 'is own 'ead. He'll be on the mend soon I bet, we just gotta give it some time and be there for 'im."

George took a cautious sip from the hot drink. "I 'eard him crying last night."

"No... again?"

"Yeah," he said with a sad voice, "kept me awake half the night. I can't bear to 'ear him like that." A bony set of fingers combed through his dark locks. "Paul calmed him down around 2-ish."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah,"

"How did I sleep through it?" Ringo gaped. He really must have been tired.

"I don't know; he bloody shook the whole house with his blubberin'. You must 'ave been out like a light." Replied the guitarist, setting his mug on the counter. He patted himself down. "Got a spare ciggy?"

"Sure," Ringo gave a cigarette to George and lit it.

The drummer's mind still raced about what he had seen in Paul's note pad. Was John queer? If he was, it certainly wasn't a problem in Ringo's books; after all, Brian was gay and he was one of the most genuine men Richard had ever met, but it would still be a shock.

John Lennon, queer?

Why was Paul hiding this information? Surely John would want his closest friends to know of his new feelings. Could he only confide in the bassist? The thought made the drummer's heart sink. He eyed the lead guitarist puffing on his cigarette warily; should he tell George what he'd found? He opened his mouth.

"...George-"

Suddenly, the sitting room door swung like the wind had kicked it open. It gave a creak, and slowly a muddled-looking John crept through. Ringo shut his lips tight again.

"Hello," George greeted the rhythm guitarist with a half-hearted cheer in his voice, "what's the matter, John?" The drummer could practically hear the frown in the younger man's tone.

John replied with a sub-human-like grunt. His eyes drooped heavily when he passed by Ringo, he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and it left a scented trail behind him. George wrinkled his nose.

"Do you know if Paul's awake?" He asked. The question was directed to John but the youngest didn't receive an answer, not even the courtesy of noise. "Right. I'll go check then," he took one last puff of his ciggy and placed it in an ash tray before scampering up the stairs; it was now John and Ringo alone.

He can't be gay, can he? Ringo thought, surely he would have told me as well as Paul; I'm his friend.

A rustling sound alerted the drummer that John was now rummaging through the cupboards. He turned to find the rhythm guitarist with a white medication bottle clutched in his fist. The other hand struggled to open the lid with messy fingers.

"Let me do that for you, John-"

"I can do it me fuckin' self,"

Richard dropped his hands back down at his sides limply. He watched as John's face impatiently twisted into anger and suddenly the small bottle was hurled across the room with a frustrated scream.

Paul was definitely going to be awake now.

Ringo's eyes widened, "Calm down!" It felt like he was chiding a misbehaving child throwing a temper tantrum.

John yelled and yelled- half the things he said were meaningless slanders or gibberish or animalistic moans- and Ringo tried to silence him; it was far too early for another melt down. He grabbed John's wrists and pulled them to his chest, in the process of forcing the other man to stare straight into his pleading eyes.

"It's alright, John, everything's alright. You're fine. Just. Be. Quiet."

Ringo felt a small surge of importance flow through his veins like fire; he had never been able to speak to John like that before; he had never really made a connection.

The brown eyes rippling back into the blue were watery with tears that threatened to fall. He looks absolutely lost, Ringo thought. This wasn't the John he knew. This was... someone else.

"Do you want me to open it for you?" Ringo asked quietly.

John just nodded, and the drummer went to collect the pill bottle up from the carpet across the room. He could hear George and Paul's gentle murmuring from above. They must have been discussing the noise.

"Here we are," Ringo said softly, "watch me, eh John?" He pushed the lid and twisted, and it came off with a 'pop'. He repeated it a few more times until John muttered.

"Push... twist... I got it, Ringo,"

"Alright," He handed the bottle over to the rhythm guitarist and watched as he shook out a yellow pill and put it on his tongue, gulping down a swig from George's abandoned mug of coffee. He grimaced.

Richard slapped on a lopsided smile, "There you go," he patted John on the shoulder but pulled away when the other man flinched. "How are you feelin' this morning?"

Ringo didn't really need an answer to see that John was quite the opposite of any positive response he could give. Two beady eyes stared back and, although they were dark and rippling, they appeared empty. His hair held a slightly greasy sheen to it, limp and matted on a muddled head. He had a set of shaking hands and fingers, trembling digits that couldn't keep still so he shoved them into his dressing gown pockets like he was concealing a weapon. No, he really wasn't fine at all.

"Shit," he muttered, sitting himself down on the sofa in the living room. He sighed. "I just wanna be normal again, Rings."

'Were you ever normal to begin with?' The drummer thought. He didn't really know what to say. The knock on the front door saved him the trouble.

"Who could that be at this time?" He pondered aloud, making his way out of the living room and to the door. "Stay here," he ordered John as he left.

Richard eyed the front door warily before pulling it open a crack. His worried, blue eyes met with Mal's cumbersome expression and his arms full of sacks.

"Mail," he explained shortly, handing the four bags haphazardly over to Ringo.

"Oh, won't you stay for a cuppa?" The drummer offered.

The road manager shook his head with a tight set of lips. "I have to dash; Brian is at 'is wits end and I 'ave to make sure he doesn't explode on us."

"I see... well goodbye then."

Then, Ringo shut the door and dumped the sacks at the bottom of the stairs in the hall. George's lanky frame all but tumbled down the steps.

"Who was that?" He asked.

"Mal," Ringo sighed, "We've got letters to read."

They were all gathered on the carpet in the centre of the living room like children on Christmas day, except the usual festive joy you could feel like electricity through the air was missing.

"Dear Ringo," the drummer read aloud, "I have a nose like yours but I am a girl. What should I do?" He frowned when George and Paul snickered quietly. "Go on then, Paul, let's 'ear one of yours."

The bassist cleared his throat. "My dearest Paul, I am madly in love with you. I have fainted for you six times." Ringo and George cooed in feminine voices and chortled to themselves while Paul fluttered his eyelashes and pretended to blush.

George spoke next, "George, I adore your accent; I could listen to you speak for hours." The guitarist grinned with his sharp fang-like teeth while Paul tried to imitate his voice and failed.

Then, silence fell like night when all eyes settled on John staring at one of his post cards with half-lidded orbs of dull brown. His mouth was open slightly, his hair hung over his face like a curtain.

"John?" Paul was uneasy. "What's it say?"

The voice was low and quiet. It was just above a whisper.

"Johnny baby," said the rhythm guitarist with a chalky tone, "I think about you everyday. I'm a few years younger than you but I think of us together and I can't control myself. You're so very sexy..."

Ringo's eyebrows raised. "Well that's not so bad-"

"Below I have attached a photograph of myself, which I hope you will enjoy. Lustfully yours, your number one fan."

John said nothing then, just continued to stare at the card like his eyes were burning through the paper. Paul reached over and snatched the card from his hands and let his eyes run over the picture.

"Oh my God..." He breathed.

His nose wrinkled in disgust and he stormed into the kitchen and threw the letter into the dustbin. He caught a glimpse of John's angry face on the front cover of a newspaper amongst the other rubbish but in his anger he ignored it.

John was still in his position on the floor when Paul entered once again: slightly hunched and eyes down. He looked awfully tense as he sat cross-legged. His too-big dressing gown pooled around him like a sea of warmth. The guitarist and the drummer just stared at the bassist in confusion, but all three pairs of eyes flew to John when he uttered in a breezy voice.

"I need a shag..."

They were dressed and ready at around 1 o'clock with nowhere to go.

Paul tinkered on his bass like he was caressing a girl. With a bevy of fingers, he picked up his pencil and etched down some lyrics on the paper. His eyes slowly wandered over to Ringo's when he felt a stare burn through his side. The older man had his chin rested on his hand patiently.

"Wha'?" Paul asked.

Richard shrugged. "Nothin',"

Paul raised his eyebrows and then went back to scribble more words. However, he couldn't shake the odd feeling that Ringo was doing more than just innocently staring.

He looked up again. "What are you bloody lookin' at, Rings?"

"The notebook, Paul,"

"Huh? What about the notebook?"

It seemed for a moment Ringo hesitated internally. "I saw the note pad open on the counter this mornin', I 'ad a look,"

Paul squinted. "So?"

There it was again, the conflict inside his eyes. It was like he was arguing with himself.

"Is John gay?" He asked quietly.

The bassist widened his eyes. "Pardon?"

"You wrote... homosexual advances, Paul... Was John... coming onto you?"

Paul had to decide himself.

Maybe he was reading too into John's words. Maybe it was in fact the recent stress and the medication speaking for him. John wouldn't say that on his own accord. Of course not.

But why had he held his hand? Why was he so desperate to touch Paul? He did blush an awful lot when Paul had to sit on his lap in the car that one time...

It was ridiculous. John wasn't queer; Paul was just being silly.

"No," he said to the older man, "I don't know why I put that, Ringo. John likes his birds; you saw 'im earlier. 'E was gaggin' for a shag, he even said so 'imself."

The drummer nodded in understanding but frowned again. "What was that a picture of anyway?"

Paul almost grimaced at the memory. "Some lass- must have only been about 15 I'd say- topless. I don't know how it got past the post office like that."

"Oh God..." Ringo shook his head in dismay; that rarely ever happened. After a moment of pause, he spoke again. "Why was John cryin' last night?"

"'E said 'e wished none of this had ever 'appened," Paul answered sadly.

Silence fell once again, until the bounding sound of two pairs of footsteps pounded down the stairs. George and John entered the sitting room.

"Fancy going out somewhere, lads?" Proposed the rhythm guitarist.

"Where to?" Said Ringo.

"Well I got an invitation to this fashion show thing for tonight, could be a laugh I suppose."

Paul and Ringo exchanged glances. "How about it, John? What do you think?"

John nodded. "As long as we're anywhere but 'ere, I'm happy."

The dark hall carried a potent smell of expensive cologne, a sweet daisy-scented perfume that tickled the senses provocatively. The room was cool and clean, rows of benches one after the other below a catwalk illuminated by white and blue lights angled each side. The four men in their suits arrived a little later than most but were still seated at the very front because of their notoriety.

After a few minutes of chatter, the remaining lights dimmed and the music began to play. It was the first woman walking out onto the stage that caught his attention.

Her legs seemed never-ending, long and thick, and toned. He licked his lips hungrily. Two petite breasts danced under a cherry garment, hidden. He could practically feel the lust radiating off his skin.

She disappeared back into the black curtain, and another woman returned. Her dark hair moved as her hips swayed in the melody. Two piercing eyes called out to him. He could feel himself longing for a taste. Then, she evaporated back into the shadows.

He looked around himself; the dark-haired man beside him watched attentively. The lighter-haired man with his blue eyes look slightly disinterested. The youngest had his gaze fixed on the floor.

When he heard the clip-clop of a pair of heels clack across the catwalk, his head shot back to the stage. She was a bronze beauty wearing a flowing lilac gown. When she turned, the man could see her assets accentuated perfectly in the light. He couldn't control himself.

He stood, all eyes were on him.

"Would you look at the tits on her!" He shrieked.

Paul's face dropped in utter embarrassment and he stood with John and quickly murmured threats in his ear. He thoroughly apologised to the audience and the fuming model onstage, while he dragged the rhythm guitarist out of the hall like pulling a child away from a sweet store.

His face was red, his footsteps loud and angry on the tiles. When he found a store closet, he threw open the door and tugged John inside, then locked the door with the latch. They were trapped in there: the older man cornered next to the bleach bottles and the mop bucket with sad eyes.

"What the fuck was that, John!?" Paul screeched. He wasn't holding back any longer. "Are you fucking insane! Do you like humiliating yourself?" Paul ranted and raved, blue in the face expressing his rage. His hazel eyes bulged out of his skull as he yelled.

John fiddled with the material on his trousers. He was still as tense as a spring. "I've got the worst fuckin' case of blue balls you ever did see, Macca, alright? I'm in desperate need of a fuck."

"That does not give you the right to talk to that woman like that! You must understand that there is a line we aren't supposed to cross, and you've gone straight past it. How do you think the public are gonna react now? They've already seen you try to punch up the press."

John's face fell slightly. "They... saw that?"

"It's in the bloody newspaper, John."

His dark eyes pooled into two black holes of sudden sadness. His crotch ached as well as his heart. He looked at Paul with those dark, hungry orbs and bit his lip.

Good thing the door was locked.

(Oh my goodness, it's been a long time hasn't it? I'm so sorry this took so long but I made it an extra long chapter for you all.

The letters Ringo, Paul, and George read are actually extracts from real letters sent by fans.

So, what did you think of this tense chapter? What is John planning to do with Paul? Only time will tell.

Reviews are my oxygen.)