"John? Are you even listening to me!?"
The rhythm guitarist looked at the bassist with hungry eyes. He felt his crotch pulse and couldn't hold back the urge any longer: he pounced.
They were pressed against each other. Paul had been crushed against the closet wall, squeaking out a yelp of surprise. When John had pushed harder against him, he fell silent.
His voice shook: a whisper over John's husky breaths, "W-What are you doing?" Then his eyes widened when John inched his face forward closer.
His dark orbs were watery with lust and pain. "Just... don't move, will you Paulie," he said as he rubbed the bassist's chest with a coarse hand through his shirt. He felt Paul tense under his touch.
Paul couldn't even catch a breath before John had pinned his lips down on his own. The older man's tongue tried to breach past Paul's mouth in a violent snog, but McCartney pushed him away.
"Get the fuck off!"
John ventured back just as swift, this time rubbing his groin against Paul's thigh like a dog in heat. His hands raced through the bassist's dark locks. Another kiss made Paul grunt back angrily and try to escape but to no avail. Finally, the kiss was broken and before Paul could call out, he felt John's mouth suck at his neck as another hand danced along the inner side of his thigh and dangerously close to his cock.
John licked and nibbled and chewed on the side of Paul's neck like it was his last meal. A particularly violent suck made Paul wince.
The bassist scrambled closer to the door but John had him pushed against the wall with all his might. Each attempt Paul made to break free, the more hasty John got with his mouth and his exploring hands. A venomous tongue suckled Paul's ear and the bassist's eyes rolled back into his head slightly in euphoric fashion, though he still fought to get away.
To his surprise- and horror- he heard himself moan when John cupped his package with a tender hand.
"Stop, John, please-" he begged, only the have John growl angrily at him, thrusting him harder against the wall. Paul felt waves of pain shudder up and down his spine.
"You're mine," the older man said firmly, much to Paul's confusion.
Another round of hasty kisses flew by, and John's bone-like fingers traced along the zip to Paul's trousers. The bassist almost yelled.
"Get off me, John." He tried to keep his voice steady, but to no avail. His hazel eyes bulged when he felt John's semi-erection pressed against his thigh and his fingers start to tug down Paul's zipper. The rhythm guitarist had one hand on the bassist's fly and the other pushed against the younger man's chest, keeping him there. John's eyes glinted with lust.
Suddenly, John groped greedily and Paul shoved him off, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I said get off me, you fuckin' queer!"
John panted like an animal, his body was now backed up into the corner of the janitors closet. Each man was suddenly very aware of the small space keeping them apart: each had a haggard look in in their eyes as they stared. John looked ashamed.
There was a cold silence between them, save for the rhythm guitarist's laboured breaths. The aftermath of Paul's outburst still felt like it was rattling around the room they stood in. Paul adjusted his ruffled hair and his slightly scuffled clothes accordingly and edged over to the exit. He took one quiet glance at John and opened the door.
"I'm going to call a car to pick you up,"
Then, he let the door slam as he left John alone.
... ... ...
The car pulled up outside the building. It had a long hood with a dainty ornament protruding proudly off the end. The black paint glimmered in the dim lights shining from the club behind him as he walked down the steps with two burly men flanking either side of him. Paul also followed. George and Ringo stood at the top of the steps watching.
As another man opened one of the back doors, John cast a look back at his two band mates further away. They both wore faces twisted with worry. Then, his dark eyes lapped up the harder expression of the man who had opened the car door for him, standing just an inch to his right. He had two beady blue eyes and a short buzz of blonde hair gracing his head. His firm line of a mouth jittered as he spoke.
"Get in, Mr Lennon," he looked over to Paul talking to another man for a moment, "we're taking you home."
"Aren't the rest of the lads coming?" John asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Mr McCartney and your other friends will be joining you later. Now, if you would please have a seat, we shouldn't be too long, sir."
John paused for a short moment and stepped into the car. As he sat, he watched Paul break off his conversation with the chauffeur and then step back. His sad hazel eyes drilled into John's darker brown. The door was shut and the engine roared to life. After a moment, the car began to pull away. John watched Paul until he became a smaller speck in the darkness and he was gone.
As the world spun by outside the window, the rhythm guitarist rested his head wearily against the glass. He couldn't believe how much of an idiot he was. Trying to get it on with Paul like that: his best friend: his straight best friend. It was ridiculous. No doubt the bassist would tell the others and have him locked away for it. Maybe Brian would understand...
John wasn't queer, right? John loved women. He loved their bodies... their... their...
Was that the only thing he liked about women?
He was a rock star. He was John fucking Lennon. He could get any woman he wanted. Why was he lusting after another bloke? Why was he lusting after Paul?
"I'm losing me mind..." He whispered to himself and shut his eyes.
"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Said the chauffeur suddenly, breaking John out of his doze.
"Fuckin' dandy," the rhythm guitarist mumbled back in reply. He raised his voice a little. "What was Paul sayin' to you?"
The chauffeur, John noticed, blinked back into the rear view mirror and cocked an eyebrow at the other man like he didn't know what he was talking about. "I beg your pardon?"
"You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"
"He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."
John rolled his eyes. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know."
"I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"
"Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just order me about does 'e?" John still had the pent up lust flowing through his veins like fire in his system; he was shaking with anger like a tense spring. "We'll see about that."
As they slowed to a stop in front of some traffic lights, John ripped open the car door and bolted from the seat like an animal being released from captivity. He narrowly avoided a man on a bicycle as he scrambled to get out of the road and onto the pavement. He looked back quickly at the stunned driver honking the horn and trying to pull over so he could collect the fleeing musician, but before he even had the chance to chance gear John was gone.
His mop top flew behind him as he ran. This was liberating, he admitted. He had missed exploring out in the night like this; he hadn't had the chance since he'd become famous. The wind whistled in his ears as he skidded down an alleyway but soon came to a stop.
There, at the bottom of the the alley, two bright, glowing lights waited for him. The beam from them blinded him and his face turned into a squint, lifting a hand up to shield his eyes from the lamps. Slowly, the aggressive rev of an engine growled like a rabid dog as the wheels of the car edged forward. John let his mouth fall agape.
It was him.
It was the driver, out to get John, the same sleek, black car, out to kill him, to run him down like he did the first time. It was him, and John couldn't mistake it for anyone else.
Once again, the car stopped. It was almost like it was taunting the rhythm guitarist, but yet John didn't have the sense to run away or move. His wide, brown eyes never left the two headlights staring him down, burning through his soul.
"What do you want with me!?" John yelled. He removed his hand from his forehead acting as a visor to shield his vision and placed them down by his side. "What do you want!?"
The engine moaned low and angry in response. It crept closer once again. The horn screamed at him, so he screamed back twice as loud and just as hysterical.
"Why do you want me dead, huh! I've done nothin' to you."
The vehicle halted. John was panting so much he almost didn't hear another car creep up from behind and roll its tires onto the cobbled paving of the alley. He turned with eyes as big as saucers.
Both of the cars we closer now, both of the booming engines deafening him. After a minute of pause, John heard the gritty shifting of dust being thrown behind the cars and the wheels screeching as they shot forward at the rhythm guitarist, who managed to duck into another smaller alleyway to his right where the vehicles couldn't fit, and were both left watching after him, honking their horns in defeat.
... ... ...
He heard the light "tap" of the man's head against the window. His two grey eyes looked back at John Lennon through the mirror and he called out when the man mumbled something under his breath.
"Is everything alright back there, sir?" Then he saw the musician's lids pop open and the haunting orbs burn back into his sullenly.
"Fuckin' dandy. What was Paul sayin' to you?" Mr Lennon asked in a cold voice.
The chauffeur raised his eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
John snarled his lips a little. "You were talkin' to Paul; what did he say to you?"
The driver's fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter, as if to steady himself from the impending wrath John Lennon would release on him. "He said to drop you back home... He asked me to keep an eye on you also, in case you needed anything."
The other man rolled his eyes at that. "More like he wants you to baby sit me so I don't hurt me'self. I'm a grown fuckin' man, you know." Then, he turned his head back to the window.
Before he could Stop himself, the chauffeur spoke again. "I know, Mr Lennon, but it's Mr McCartney's orders-"
John's wild eyes snapped back to look at him. They burnt with a manic fire he had never seen before. "Oh? And Mr fuckin' McCartney thinks 'e can just order me about does 'e? We'll see about that."
The chauffeur new he had put his foot in his mouth and remained silent until they reached some traffic lights and rolled to a stop. He was just about to offer going to get something to eat, when he saw the musician throw open the car door and zip out, dodging a cyclist like a cat in the middle of a busy motorway. He yelled out, "John, stop!" but he was certain the rhythm guitarist couldn't hear him. Even if he did, the driver thought, he wouldn't have stopped anyway.
After the lights had changed back so he could move on, the man quickly pulled over to the side of the road and ran to a telephone box with lightning heels and shaking fingers.
There was only one person he thought of to call.
... ... ...
They were after him. They were trying to murder him. He had to get out of here.
But where could he go? The club was so far away, and it would take too long to get back to the house without them finding him and killing him in the process. Unless he made it back to the chauffeur, there was no way John would make it anywhere alive.
Suddenly, as he rounded another corner, he heard a gasp. His brown eyes met a pair of shocked hazel and suddenly he approached with arms outstretched. The figure hugged him back over-enthusiastically and squealed. John smelt the lingering scent of women's perfume.
"Paul?" He mumbled into the shoulder holding him tight with a confused tone.
Finally the person released him and John found himself staring back at a grinning, young lady with a long set of brown curls dancing in the breeze. She looked to be in euphoria.
"Is Paul with you!?" She yelped, "What about George? Or Ringo!"
John blinked in surprise. "You aren't Paul," he spat.
She sighed. "Oh, I wish, but at least I got a hug from my favourite Beatle," she went back for another embrace and John tried to push her away. "Wait 'till I tell my friends about this!"
"Where's Paulie," it came out as a confused mumble, like John was speaking to himself rather than asking the question to the woman. Suddenly it was all a blur, and all the rhythm guitarist could remember was kissing someone and something about a fashion show. "I... I can't 'member,"
The woman's hazel eyes pooled with concern and understanding for a moment. "Oh that's right: you have all that amnesia from the car crash. Maybe we should call the police to find Paul."
"Car... crash... I was in a crash?" John's eyes squinted in disbelief and partly from straining his sight in the darkness to look at the girl.
She nodded. "Or, at least, you were knocked down by one. A car, that is."
"A car," he breathed, hearing the screech of tires and the angry head lamps chasing him. He watched her face grow worried.
"Are you feeling alright, John? You look a bit mad,"
The horn of the car was carried through the wind and muffled by his screams.
... ... ...
"He what!?"
"He took off, Mr McCartney. He opened the door and he ran. I couldn't go after him because I was still in traffic. I'm terribly sorry-"
"Sorry doesn't cut it; he's out there on 'is own and he's got fuckin' brain damage. He doesn't 'ardly know what he's doin'. Knowin' John he's probably halfway to Birmingham by now... bloody 'ell." The chauffeur heard Paul sigh down the phone and speak again. "We'll 'ave to send out a search party, call the Old Bill to be on the lookout too. We 'ave to find John."
The driver twisted his face in scepticism. "The police? Are you sure they'll appeal to look for him in such short notice?"
"We're The Beatles; they have to listen to us."
The man heard a 'click' as the receiver was put down on the other end.
... ... ...
It all happened so fast. Rita Winters was coming back from her job at the restaurant only down the street when she turned into an alley to cut off a few minutes from her journey and bumped into John Lennon. He gave her a hug out of nowhere and he reeked of cigarettes and his clothes were cold to the touch but she didn't mind: she was hugging a Beatle.
Then, after a few distant honks of a car horn, he turned back to her and screamed his heart out. She could feel his strong hands grip her shoulders too tightly, almost to the point where it hurt, and shake her back and fourth saying that someone was trying to kill him.
She remembered reading a newspaper article about him.
'BEATLE JOHN SUFFERS BREAKDOWN'
Maybe it was all true. Maybe John Lennon was a madman; maybe the horns were from white vans going to take him away to be locked up somewhere; maybe she could get a reward for bringing him in.
Rita, despite being throttled by a panic-stricken Beatle, smiled to herself. She gripped the strap of her purse in a fist and swung the bag with all her might and hit John Lennon square in the jaw. He tumbled to the ground, utterly perplexed.
The rain began to pour as he stared up at her with scared, brown eyes.
"Help! Help! I have John Lennon here, come quickly!" She yelled out to the darkness. The raindrops felt like knives against John's skin as he began to scoot himself back along the floor and try to scramble away, but she hit him on the head again, this time twice as hard.
John felt a bevy of black dots explode in front of his eyes, the rain howling in his face. The woman continued to shriek out about the Beatle being injured and mad and lost but, when she turned to whack him again, John's hand caught the bag in mid-swing and he tugged her down with him, landing hard on the cobblestones with a thud and a groan.
The rhythm guitarist clambered unlawfully onto her torso and straddled her, bringing back a hand and whipping her around the face. She yelped from the blow and John slapped her again. In the darkness, John could see a steady stem of blood trickle down her nose, and, when he hit her again, he managed to get some of it on his crisp shirt soaking through with crimson and rain.
"Get off me! Somebody help!"
John huffed, "No one's gonna hear ya, sweetheart," and hit her again. He brought his lips close to her ear and bit down harshly, licking her neck with a pointed tongue. The rhythm guitarist suddenly caught his hands moving up to her breasts in the heat of the moment but he stopped himself with a shudder, and clambered off quickly.
"Oh my God," he whispered, looking down at the woman with a busted lip and a bleeding nose. He saw the rouge splatters on his wet shirt and blood running through his fingers like the rain itself. "I'm so sorry," he lifted her upper body and used his lap as a cushion for her to lean on while he wept. "What have I done!?"
She looked up at him through the rain and moaned. "It's alright... I-I'm fine. I'm sorry for hitting you too." She gasped when John leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.
"Come with us, Mr Lennon,"
The musician's head whipped up to the voice speaking above him. It was a policeman, and behind him was a shopping wet Paul looking horrified. The bassist approached John and lifted him up by his arms, holding him tightly and embracing him.
"Don't you ever fucking run away again," he hissed and buried his head into John's damp collar bone.
The policeman knelt over the lady and helped her to her feet. She said, "I was mugged and this man here scared off the attacker and stayed by my side." She looked at John with earnest and guilt. "I'd like to thank him properly." Paul let John break off the hug and she wrapped her arms around his waist and whispered in his ear. "I forgive you," then, she was escorted through the alley by the policeman as Paul led John back to the car.
They climbed inside, the same chauffeur as before looking back at them with sad eyes. "Good to see you back, Mr Lennon." Then, they began the drive back to the house. John was shivering.
Paul watched him with anger in his hazel orbs, as wide and doe as the woman's. "What the fuck is wrong with you, John Winston Lennon." His plump lips reared back into a growl. "You've disobeyed me too many times. I'm not letting you leave my, George's, or Ringo's sight, you understand. You can't keep doing this. Look at you: you're soaked right through to the skin, and... you're covered in blood." His tone softened slightly at the last word.
John's heavy eyes were glued to his shoes. "They were after me,"
"Who was after you?"
"The... cars. They were tryin' to knock me down, like before, they were tryin' to kill me."
Paul exchanged a glance with the chauffeur.
"Those were delivery vans, John."
"What?"
Paul shuffled closer to his friend. "That's how we found you; we were askin' all the people we came across to see if they'd seen you and we asked these two van drivers and they said you were just standin' in the middle of the drive screamin' at them. Then, you ran off. They were delivering apples, John." He gently touched John's shoulder in worry. "There were no cars."
John Lennon watched Paul's doe eyes darken in sadness. "It wasn't real? Nothin' is real?"
Paul shook his head. "Did you take your pill this morning?"
John nodded. Paul kissed his cheek gently, in a brotherly way.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
... ... ...
(Hello, long time, no update. How was this chapter? Good? Bad?
Also, just to clarify, the hallucinations and psychosis John experienced in this chapter are real symptoms of a traumatic brain injury and they do occur in most cases. Just thought I'd tell you so you wouldn't be confused.
So, yeah! What did you think? Please, please, please leave me a review telling me. I appreciate every single comment I get. I love you all and thank you for taking the time to read this. See you soon!)