A/N: Here it is! Chapter 14! It took me nearly a month to write and honestly it was pretty tough (near IMPOSSIBLE) to break the writer's block I've been going through. This was a 14 pager when I typed it out on Word sooo hope you take the time to enjoy it!

AND I hope it's up to my usual standards :))

I'll try not to take so long with chapter 15. I'll be working on it as soon as I post this!

Also, to all my readers of 'Follow the Sun', I haven't given up on the story and I don't plan on giving up anytime soon! Please bear with me! The next chapter will hopefully be up within the course of the summer, depending on writer's block. If anyone has any ideas on how I should proceed, please feel free to PM me :)).

-Naturelover

'Stupid, drafty airplanes…' Lennon thought presently with an unshakeable scowl to match the unwavering, dark cloud preying on his mood. Would it bloody kill to have a little bit of heat on board? In spite of the fact that he was dressed to his utmost fullest, coat, cap, and all; the biting chill that had somehow found the time to hook its unforgiving claws into him didn't seem to have any intentions on departing. It had first latched on to him the very moment they'd set foot into the sunshine, somewhere between the hotel and the car, and it had refused to leave throughout the entire half hour solar-heated ride to the airport. Sure it was autumn; and such a transitional season meant cooler temperatures in certain parts of the world, the northernmost and southernmost points especially as they were further from the equator. And while their place of departure had been no exception to this logic, this chill hardly resembled anything that the Beatle had ever experienced. This one seemed to originate entirely from within, rattling his bones from the inside out and spreading permanent goose bumps across his flesh. He figured it was from lack of grub. Desolate and neglected, his stomach more or less didn't have enough within it to allow for his body to generate its usual amount of heat. So he'd dressed in layers. A lot of bloody good that did, as well. All his attire had even done for him yet was draw unnecessary attention to himself, courtesy of his mates; all in the forms of discreetly arched eyebrows, confused frowns, and the ever popular yet most annoying verbal inquiry.

"Aren't y'hot in all that?" every single one of them had managed to ask in each their own way. Over the general duration of time spanning the course of their road transit and airport trek, Lennon was certain he'd heard it a total of five times.

And to each of those five times, he'd managed the shortest and curtest response he could think of, "No." Plain and simple.

"I reckon yer lying," George had affirmed, calling his imaginary bluff, "Or yer bloody daft, ye' are!"

"Right daft," Ringo had lightheartedly quipped, the corners of his lips twisting up into an easy grin, "But we've known that all along, 'aven't we, Lennon?"

"Mm…" the rhythm guitarist had absently responded.

Sensing his disengagement, the conversation had dropped right then, only to be brought up by Paul a mere half hour later much to John's growing annoyance. Sometimes, his own mates were as nosy and intrusive as the lot of sods that made up the bloody press. So he had set off for 'mild' Los Angeles a bit overdressed for the climate. Why should it bloody matter? Why should everyone waste precious time dwelling on what mattered least of all? He was cold. End of story. At least his coat covered up the real issue at hand, and maybe just maybe as a result, there'd be no one daft enough to bring up the sore subject regarding his weight. The coat swallowed him up enough that only prying eyes should be able to see what was concealed beneath. He hadn't expected any of the others to understand.

It was in the cold cabin of the airplane ten minutes into the flight that everyone quickly began to change their tunes against their previously repelled burdensome coats. And one by one, the extra layers came out as a barrier of protection against the decidedly chilly conditioned air. George was even still fighting off a shiver a half hour later.

"Not so daft now, am I?" Lennon currently asked of the lead guitarist who he sat beside; having claimed the window seat for himself.

George turned to him slowly, an eyebrow arched, "What are ye' on about now, John?" he asked, looking his mate up and down in search of answers.

"The 'Great Coat Scandal'. It's come to an end now, hasn't it?"

George's unwavering face revealed neither agreement or disagreement on the subject, "If yer still wondering whether or not yer daft or not, the answer is yes. Wearing a coat in a hot car, madness, that." He jabbed a finger at his chest, "Really, I'm supposed t'be the cold one 'ere!"

John shrugged, pure indifference undermining the action, "Y'know, I didn't realize it was a contest, Harrison."

"Even if it was, Harri would win, anyroad," Paul deadpanned from his own seat across the aisle next to Ringo.

Harrison brightened appreciatively, a lopsided grin blossoming on his face, "Ta, Macca…!" Confusion gripped him nearly instantly, as he began to wonder whether or not he had taken to Paul's statement correctly, "…I think…" he added cautiously.

"Wasn't a compliment," both Paul and John asserted, their voices blending together in perfect unison; sure enough, confirming the lead guitarist's initial right to be suspicious.

"And why not?" George demanded, crossings his arms over his chest as a frown ate away his grin in all its entirety.

"It means yer cold," John supplied wryly, leaning slightly forward in his seat so that he had a partial view of Paul. As Paul's eyes gravitated towards him, he offered him a wink; the silent action speaking as loudly as words themselves would've.

Paul caught John's wink and returned it with a tiny smile. "Downright coldhearted, son!" he verified, turning back to George with a chuckle.

"So this is a team assault, then?" George asked, having been all but blind to the display.

"Consider yerself lucky," Paul affirmed, feigning utmost serious, "Quite a few blokes out there would love to be in yer shoes right now. Subject to a good ol'fashion ribbing courtesy of Lennon-McCartney."

George's furrowed eyebrows, underlined without subtlety, his thoughts on such a statement.

And at this, Ringo broke out into a laugh, resulting cheerful baritone sound waves sending ripples throughout the airplane cabin.

George gaped at him, utterly appalled. "It wasn't that funny, y'know," the lead guitarist grumbled, fixing the drummer with an unappreciative glare of irritation, "Give McCartney a swelled head, y'will, carrying on the way yer carrying."

Unfazed, Ringo only laughed harder.

"Cor blimey, you'll pop a lung!" Paul warned, eyes wide, "It'll be too late to find a replacement drummer should we 'ave to!"

"I'll alert Brian t'start looking," George grumbled, still glowering at the elated drummer, "At this point, I wouldn't miss 'im."

Ringo was wiping at teary eyes now, sporadic laughter still easing out from his diaphragm.

Watching him in amazement as he struggled for control with each hiccupping breath, it wasn't long before Paul gradually fell victim to the same fate, unable to contain his own amusement regarding the drummer's overload on euphoria. It was refreshing. A much needed contrast to the dreariness that was now the norm.

"Oh sod off, the both of ye'," George muttered, failing to see such symbolism as Paul often would. The bassist could find the only drop of water in the middle of the Sahara desert if given the chance. Finding the best concealed within the worst had never been a foreign concept to him.

"Don't be like that, Geo," Paul insisted, laughing still, "We're jus' 'aving a bit of fun."

"At me own expense!" George skeptically went on, "I reckon y'think I'm a clown!"

"Well, y'do look the part…" John idly remarked from beside him, "Slap a big red nose on yer and you've a new job post-Beatle. Personally, I wouldn't pay to see ye', but someone might."

And the laughter started up again.

With Lennon's condescending tone ringing clear through George's ears, the lead guitarist turned to him, ready to unleash upon him his fiercest glare yet. The effort fell short; however, as the feat would've been more effective, had the rhythm guitarist even been looking at him.

Gaze fixated out the window, John seemed disconnected. As though the belittling conversation he was having was with someone else entirely. An invisible someone outside the plane that no one could see but himself.

Harrison wasn't one to be deterred, nonetheless. He may have been regarded as the 'quiet' one but at least he knew to open his mouth when it entirely counted. "Yer one to talk, Lennon," he retorted, speaking to the back of the rhythm guitarist's auburn head.

"Am I?" Lennon turned towards him finally, complete apathy glazing his eyes over, "And why is that, Havva? I look a right joke to yer?"

"Y'right look—" he trailed off, searching his mind for any quip he could readily assert. Anything to get back at the troublesome rhythm guitarist as he often would whenever the two went toe to toe, "I s'ppose y'look…"

"…Stupid in me coat and hat? Fat, y'twit?" The older Beatle provided in place of the silence that had befallen George. He narrowed his eyes on the band's youngest, daring him to say the wrong thing.

And George shrank away for what felt like the sake of his own safety, having been unsure of how to properly navigate this unusual turn of events. Completely serious and callous as portrayed by his stony face, Lennon no longer seemed as though he was larking about. And George began to wonder if he'd actually ever been. This now seemed a personal matter for the older musician; a bit too heavy really, for Harrison's immediate understanding.

"John… you all right?" Paul hesitantly interjected, blatantly aware of the mood change and concerned with the suddenness of its occurrence.

John's lack of response spoke volumes. 'I'm not all right,' George could almost hear from the venomous likes of Lennon's eyes, 'I'm bloody outraged!'

At this newfound yet unconfirmed revelation, the lead guitarist found himself subject to another frown. He'd only been trying to stand his ground, maybe crack a joke to lighten his own mood and show that he wasn't really browned off at his mates. Stepping on toes had been the last thing he'd been trying to accomplish. Leave it to Lennon to find offense where offense didn't exist.

"Aw come off it and leave 'im be, John," Ringo hastily cut in, his own wariness growing in the face of the unfurling scene, "He doesn't think any of those things."

But the rhythm guitarist was already up in arms for reasons unknown, "Let me 'ear it from 'is own gob, then!" he sneered menacingly.

"John Lennon, stop!" Paul asserted, raising his voice only slightly but applying much emphasis where it belonged, "Yer being irrational!"

"Yeah, John, I'm sorry!" George apprehensively put in, equally eager to stop things in their tracks before they could somehow escalate even further out of control.

And John froze; Paul's truth as well as George's pathetic apology managing to settle his unruly world into stabilizing perspective. What had been maddening about it all was that somehow… he hadn't been able to help himself even a little bit. While he'd known he'd been entering the darkened corridor of irrationality… While he'd known he'd been unfairly targeting their youngest, he hadn't been able to bring himself to stop. He hadn't been able to bring himself to care even… It was as though the rhythm guitarist had been locked out of his own body, and all he could bare to do was watch himself as he spiraled out of control like the madman that he was quickly becoming. Fucking hell… Why couldn't he even manage the simple concept of keeping up with his own moods? Why couldn't he any longer seem to control himself? Why was this always happening? And why was it always happening to him? This had to be the starting point on the road to insanity. If so, Lennon was certain he'd be in a straightjacket before the week was up.

Remorse moving in to overtake him, John dropped his gaze to his lap. "No…" he murmured finally, his tone oddly quiet, apologetic, "No… I'm sorry, Havva… I-I'm not really sure what's come over me, really…" Rubbing his forehead now, he guilty turned his face away from perceptive eyes, his wearied gaze finding solace in the window once more.

"Sure yer all right, John?" Paul could be heard asking.

John pretended he didn't hear.

'How hard would it be to break such a window open,' he wondered vaguely as his mind proceeded to wander. Perhaps, he should give it a shot and toss himself out. He imagined the Beatles' lives would be easier to handle if he could…manage such a thing… They'd be rid of his temper. That's for sure. Squeezing his eyes shut, the singer and songwriter forcibly drove away the impending twisted thoughts struggling to take up residence within him before they could grab permanent hold. Such dark contemplation scared the wits out of him. These weren't proper thoughts for one to be having. This wasn't right. He wasn't right. Not at all…

He rubbed distractedly at his forehead once more with his good hand before dropping it to the bridge of his nose which he proceeded to rub and then pinch tightly between his thumb and forefinger. The headache, he'd been luckily graced with earlier in the day, had yet to go away. And though he'd taken a handful of aspirin, the only thing affected by the painkilling agents was the immense throbbing emanating from his wounded hand. He was certain he would need to eat something sooner or later too because the gnawing, burning ache in his stomach—a sure factor of food-deprivation had long since evolved into an equally annoying and attention-commanding churning mess. And as a result, he actually felt sick. Nauseous sick. And overwhelmingly dizzy. The dizziness came in spurts and even threatened him while sitting; a strange and disconcerting new development to the already present misery. Twice, John had had to run to the bathroom desperate to relieve himself of the god-awful feeling. And twice he'd failed as there was hardly even enough bile within him to bring up. He'd dry-heaved until his stomach muscles ached… and oddly enough, he only felt worse. No wonder he was so unreasonably ornery.

Initially, sleep had seemed like the only escape… But… it was hard to sleep when one was so hungry and so… cold. And so nauseated. And so dizzy… And so bloody irritated. Nothing made sense. But then again, nothing had made sense for the past several years…

His eyes still closed, he weakly began the act of massaging his aching forehead once again. With each movement following a prolonged effort, he began to feel somewhat shakier and shakier as though his body were protesting its own use on so few calories. Christ, he was miserable. When would it end? How could he end it? 'Eat!' his stomach screamed. Break the cycle! Chances were if he ate, his relieved stomach, warm and content, would feel better; in turn helping him to feel better as a whole. And he could potentially cross hungry, nauseous, and cold off the list, thus ending all his problems, right? Easier said than done and seemingly unlikely. Eating would only serve to start up the most vicious cycle of all. The one he'd been trapped in for several months too many now. It would only fuel his unhappiness, leading him to eat all the more in hopes of filling a limitless void, which in turn would only lead to more unhappiness. 'Break the cycle,' John internally snorted. Break one cycle, get sucked into another. Was this what his life had come down to?

"Headache, John?"

It took the rhythm guitarist almost a whole several seconds to realize that the question asked was not a mere product of his own head but a verbal contribution courtesy of Paul.

And it took several more seconds for his eyes to finally convey to his wishes and seek out the direction the bassist's unanticipated voice had originated from. As long as it took, however, when he finally completed the action, he was immediately sorry he'd chosen to do so. Paul's perceptive eyes portraying unnecessary concern were fixated on him. Paul who'd done nothing for the past several days but watch him like a hawk.

His own eyes immediately glazed over as he proceeded to take the bassist in, chasing out all forms of initial surprise within them. "Can't keep yer eyes off me, can ye', Macca?" he responded finally, coldly, derisively; seeking to gain control of what he could of the situation. Seeking to gain control of anything for that matter. "Perhaps yer more like Brian than we all thought. If y'fancy a shag, its him y'should let on to."

George stifled a giggle for his own protection. There was no way he'd intentionally provoke McCartney into starting in on him now. Not after Lennon's earlier display.

Paul's jaw muscles tightened in a fit of growing exasperation, resulting tension becoming evident in every ounce of his face as he continued to hold John's impassive gaze, "I asked you a question, Lennon," he firmly countered, his own gaze somehow remaining calm and unaffected despite the rhythm guitarist's contemptuous words running through his mind.

John smirked devilishly, humorlessly, an eyebrow arched in feigned interest, "Yes, love. What was it?"

"You know damned well, what it was!" Paul countered, exasperation disrupting now any control he had within his voice. Next to him Ringo cringed, turning his attention quickly to his own window and George stiffened looking as though he wished he were anywhere else in the world but stuck helplessly between the headstrong likes of the Lennon-McCartney duo.

"Yer not helping it, y'know," John indolently responded.

"Helping what?"

"The size of Ringo's nose," came Lennon's sardonic response, sure-fire speed attached, "'E' needs help with that thing, y'know. Zookeepers everywhere have been mistaking him for some kind of elephant subspecies."

And George snickered, this time unable to contain himself.

"'Ey, I resent that, Lennon!" Ringo spoke up.

No one could be bothered to pay the drummer any mind, Paul especially. Remaining fully serious in the face of his best mate, he strived to let his feelings be known. "That sarcastic streak of yers won't get ye' anywhere, son," he skeptically informed him.

Lennon rolled his eyes, his irritation surfacing all over again, "Neither will yer inattentiveness!" he snapped, "I was on about me headache, y'git… And yer not helping it! Christ! What'd y'think this was about?!"

"Well, maybe if you'd jus' eat like a normal person…" Paul pointedly suggested, putting much emphasis in his statement, "It would go away, then!"

Ringo sternly turned to face Lennon right then. Despite the lack of eye-contact with him, he'd been silently following the conversation all the while. "Have you still not eaten, John?" he disapprovingly inquired, his blue eyes sweeping over the younger Beatle in ongoing scrutiny. Without waiting for the answer he was almost certain he wasn't going to get, he turned away, his eyes scanning the aisle dividing Lennon and McCartney, leading towards the front of the plane. A pretty stewardess was slowly making her way down the aisle offering edible delights to all she passed. What perfect timing she demonstrated. "The snack cart is on its way," he pointed out, "Y'better help yerself if y'know what's good fer yer."

Paul nodded his agreement.

John no longer had the will to respond, he felt that miserable. As the cart drew closer, however, offering apples, peanuts, pretzels, and the like, he subconsciously made the committed decision to give in finally to everyone's wishes and shut them up once and for all. After watching George grab every edible thing he could get his skinny hands on, he settled for an apple, deeming it as the healthiest and possibly most filling choice. Surely one apple should easily be manageable.

"Aye, so you've decided t'listen t'me after all!" Paul affirmed, smirking smugly at him as he worked to tear open a bag of peanuts, "I'm right after all! Let's 'ear it, then!"

John shot him a look. 'Like hell, he'd hear it!' No bleedin' way he'd let on to a swelled-headed McCartney that he was right and had been right all along. Choosing to ignore the bassist's looming presence in all completeness, he took his first bite. The delicious, crisp, crunch filled his ears, preceding the resulting splash of juicy tartness as it graced his tongue. Hunger took over almost immediately, at the command of his intrigued stomach and before he knew it, more than half the apple was devoured in what seemed to be a matter of seconds. In all his glory, he'd forgotten all about his surroundings. He'd forgotten about… everyone in his immediate vicinity. George, Paul, Ringo… those were a lot of potential witnesses to such gluttony… John didn't even have to turn towards them to know that they were all staring at him, wide-eyed and all, disgust probably written all over every ounce of their collective faces.

"Blimey, John," George piped up right then, confirming the beliefs of the rhythm guitarist. His nasal tone saturated with incredulity, all but added comfort, "When was the last time you've eaten? …I mean truly eaten?"

Suddenly disillusioned, John brought the apple away from his lips and set it down on the tray he'd been offered along with the snack. Suddenly he felt sick all over again. 'Too much, too fast,' his stomach grumbled resentfully by way of protest. John swallowed hard as a consequent fit of nausea flirted with his insides. "This morning, remember?" he croaked softly, ceasing to look at his mate as he managed to answer his question, despite the hellish feeling creeping up on him.

Paul crossed his arms over his chest in that stern manner he'd often resort to when the life of an unformulated opinion, he was working to solidify, was at stake. "Before or after yer impromptu bath?" he skeptically demanded, challenge evident in his tone, "Because I 'onestly can't say I remember such a thing."

John shrugged, his demeanor yielding further disengagement with the conversation. His stomach churned unhappily. "Well… that's yer problem, love."

"If I recall correctly, you disappeared shortly after filling yer plate," Paul pieced together, bringing to light the matter that he'd been wishing to discuss for quite some time now, "I remember that much because I then had the displeasure of watching George consume everything on his plate before starting in on yers!"

"It was quite good too!" George filled in unnecessarily with a grin, "Shame t'let it all go t'waste, really…"

"Right. I forgot," John mumbled, clumsily, truly looking as though he was struggling to remember. Still he couldn't remember much that had transpired between sitting down at the kitchen table that morning and ending up in the bathtub… Still it bothered him… "Guess that explains me hunger, then," he concluded absently. He then impatiently proceeded to wave away the bassist as though continuing to dwell on such a matter wasn't important and therefore not worthy of conversation. In truth it wasn't… All this talk about food wasn't helping his insides any… Nor was it putting his mind at ease.

Paul continued to stare at him, his mouth slightly agape, his hazel eyes filled to the brim with an overflowing supply of incredulity mixed with exasperation, "So that's it, then?" he asked, "That's that?"

"Me memory's not me strong suit, as it turns out," John added lazily in the form of a forced quip. To disarm anymore concern aimed at him, he smirked in the face of his statement, "But at least I still got me health!" What an ironic statement for one to make when so nauseous…

"Do ye'?" Paul abruptly questioned, his eyes continuing to probe John's very soul it seemed like, "Do y'still have yer health? Because looking at the way you've been acting lately, I beg to differ…"

McCartney… Always acting like he knew him better than he knew himself. There was a name for people like that. "I'm fucking fine, Paul," John growled with such sudden and unexpected vehemence, the bassist couldn't help but jump back in surprise, "When I bloody well admitted to feeling overwhelmed earlier, that wasn't an invitation fer yer t'move in on me personal space as me own personal psychotherapist! Haven't we gone over this already?"

Again, Ringo found comfort in his window, while George shrank down in his seat, concentrating on his array of snacks.

"Well, I can't help but worry, John!" Paul plaintively sighed.

"Well, stop! 'S'waste of energy, y'know… a right waste of ti…" John's stomach thrown completely off course by his explosive temper, shifted tumultuously into reverse, bringing his words to an untimely end. He stood up suddenly, convulsively swallowing back bile all the while and eased himself past George en route to the aisle.

"Where are you off to now?" Paul sharply demanded, deciding he was all but finished with the discussion he'd initiated.

"Loo…" John managed to choke out.

"Again?" Paul bluntly questioned, indicating that Lennon hadn't been the only one keeping track. He looked up at him, concern burning out the anger he'd initially felt, "Feeling all right, then?"

"Nerves…" was John's only response. He was off before anything more could be said on his behalf.

Nerves… Paul wasn't entirely convinced. Usually Lennon's nerves would surface minutes before a pending show. He'd get sick once as a result and be fine. This wasn't that. He was sure of it… With this thought in mind, he rose from his seat without an explanatory word to his mates and trailed the rhythm guitarist to the bathroom. He wasn't sure why, but he felt he needed to get to the bottom of whatever this was and soon… It felt strangely as though everything near and dear to him in the world depended on it…

Of course, there was always that tiny chance that maybe he was overanalyzing things thus overreacting as a result… but one could never be too careful where John Lennon was concerned. That was a known fact.

Gathering all the confidence he could find, McCartney gradually made his way up to the bathroom door and cautiously knocked on it.

There was a pause before a seemingly breathless voice permeated the closed off entryway. "Jus' a minute…"

Paul frowned. He sounded rather hoarse… And he was practically whispering. Very un-Lennon-like.

Jolted into full consciousness by the untimely knock at the door, Lennon groaned as he lifted his head finally from the toilet seat it had been resting on. This was his third time throwing up on this bloody plane ride. This was getting ridiculous. Bloody old. Fast. It was clear his body didn't know what it wanted. All he knew was that the thought of eating… ever again… was becoming less and less appealing by the moment. 'Good too,' his mind poisonously contributed, 'Serves a fat Beatle right.'

He did feel better though, having emptied his stomach properly. Sure he was still tired… Sure he was dizzy… and cold… and a little petulant… but the nausea had subsided, no less. Strange… He began to wonder how much of this was psychosomatic. How much of this was potentially in his head. Had his body learned to ward itself against food? No of course not. The mere thought of that was just plain absurd.

Lennon rose shakily to his feet and went through the usual method of cleaning himself up post-vomit. He dared one glance in the mirror and regretted doing so on instance. He looked like absolute shite. Everything about his appearance screamed out: 'Help me, I'm stressed! I'm falling apart!' Dark-circles beneath his eyes indicated a lack of sleep. Lackluster eyes and pale skin indicated the lack of energy associated with a lack of sleep. Searching for hope in the sea of desolation that was his face, he tried on his best smile. It shone wan at best. John sighed. He wasn't fooling anyone today. It was no wonder everyone thought he looked ill. It was no wonder everyone seemed keen on coming to his bloody rescue. It was like looking at a ghost, his reflection was. His newly acquired eating habits couldn't have been helping either. Lennon frowned. He'd have to find a way to take care of this before the press found a new way to torment him. 'John Lennon, the Newly-Proclaimed Ghostly Beatle,' the headlines would announce, complete with the subtitle: 'Judging by his Looks, He May as well be Dead!'

Disenchantment evident, John reluctantly reached for the doorknob and yanked it open, nearly jumping back at once as he was met instantaneously by none other than Paul McCartney. What the— He was the one who'd been easing in on his privacy?

"Listening in on me bathroom habits now, Macca?" Lennon demanded, his voice quavering unnaturally under the initial weight of his surprise despite the snide tone he tried to convey. Christ, hadn't he left the stupid bassist behind in his seat? What was he doing here? Outside the bloody loo of all places? Had he heard him vomiting? Was he going to question him about it? What words could he construct to properly deter him?

Paul faltered, realizing he hadn't yet made an effort to weave together a story regarding his intentions. The truth would certainly do more harm than good in this situation. "I uh… needed the loo, as well…" he blurted out, his brain pulling through with the most logical response it could think up.

John rubbed tiredly at his eyes and at his forehead once more. A slight wince of pain permeated his features subsequently. "Oh well… have at it then…" he mumbled, his words tumbling out as hoarse and worn as they had sounded through the door. He started to push past Paul only to be stopped in his tracks. A common theme for the day it seemed.

"John…" Paul clasped a hand firmly around his arm and guided him back slightly so he could get a good look at his face… in the raw. The guitarist didn't look great, to say the least. Not to mention that tackling him shouldn't have been so easy. The bassist frowned at this. "Are you really all right?" he asked, "…off the record?"

Caught off guard by the entire feat constructed by his friend, John didn't have time to throw his usual façade back into play. He floundered about like a fish out of water, his incapacitated mind incapable of forming the right answers. "Wh-what… are we on about…?" he mumbled finally, resorting to crossness as a means for covering up his enhanced confusion.

Paul stood his ground. "I think you know."

In the following blink of an eye, confusion dissipated and the known façade that had been lost seconds ago, clicked finally into place like a second skin as did sense regarding the entire presenting situation. "…Off the record…" the rhythm guitarist scoffed derisively, "Right…" Tilting his head back slightly, he looked McCartney directly in the eye, his gaze trailing down the bridge of his own nose in supreme condescension. "Let me tell y'somethin', McCharmly," he growled, tone dangerously low, "Nothin' is ever off the soddin' record. Jus' ask the press."

"Well I'm not them, the press!" Paul declared, refusing to be put off by his mate's frightening display of distrust, "'S'only me, y'know! It's Macca! We could sit… 'ave a proper chat… get to the bottom of things…" He tightened his grip on John's arm hoping the power of touch would further relay forth his message.

Reacting with ample haste, John made a show of struggling to twist out from the bassist's grip. "Not now…Paul," he sighed defeatedly, averting his eyes to the floor, "Please…"

"But y'know y'can trust me, don't you?" Paul pressed on, moving his face into his mate's line of vision, "I realize a lot has changed with us, with the band… but I'll be damned if our ability to trust each other should fall into such a category."

"I know, love…" For that split second of time, Lennon's hardened gaze softened. But within the following second, the look was gone as though it had never been intended to see the light of day. "Jus' sod off, will ye', then?" he suddenly sneered shoving Paul's hand away, "Everything's fine. I'm jus' tired. 'S'all it is… Trust me on this."

As he walked away, Paul thought he even looked a bit dizzy in stance. The bassist heaved a sigh of defeat as he watched him disappear down the aisle. Just what was it that was going on with his mate already? Was it the stress finally breaking him? Was it something more? Was it something less? Something less would be wonderfully welcome. But such chances seemed highly unlikely given the circumstances. Lennon was locked up like a fortress, moat and all… This hardly seemed like nothing. 'I'm jus' tired. 'S'all it is… Just a headache… 's'all it is…' Stupid John. Didn't he know that he was on to him? Didn't he know that he knew him far better than he sometimes knew himself? Best mates often did. And as a result, neither had ever been completely able to deceive the other in any way or form. Stemming from the very start of their long-term friendship, this fact wasn't about to change. 'Trust me on this…' And for the rhythm guitarist to lie like that to his face, it was obvious he was crying out more than initially realized. Regardless of whether or not his songwriting partner even knew, Lennon needed him. And McCartney wasn't about to let him down.

By the time McCartney returned to his seat after deciding he really did need the bathroom, the small plane had begun the detailed act of landing. One glance out the window at the rapidly advancing scenery provided him with the day's first look of Los Angeles' airport and surrounding congested landscape. And he was surprised to find that unlike their last visit sometime in 1964, there wasn't a screaming fan in sight. Just security… and… more security.

Resultantly distraught and even a bit disheartened by the odd and unexpected twist of events, he hastily tore his gaze away from the window, his brows furrowed in confusion and a near hint of panic. "Where are all our fans?" he asked aloud to no one in particular, "Where's the welcoming committee?"

Ringo stifled a yawn before smacking his lips, "I reckon this is all there is," he calmly speculated, as Paul peered anxiously over his shoulder, "Rather strange, really… 'S'not much of a welcome at all."

"Get on!" George drawled, mouth full of peanuts, "I think they look right happy t'see us! Guards are people too, Rings!"

But Ringo refused to be swayed, "I still reckon that Los Angeles must've grown smaller since our last visit. Or maybe they don't like us."

Paul looked thoughtful, then amused by Ringo's theory. "All these defenses would seem a bit overkill then, don't y'think?" he asked.

The plane jolted slightly as it hit the ground and taxied forward several yards at a time.

"It's more likely that our fans have been diverted, y'know," George proposed, sounding in those few words, years wiser than all of them combined. He then grinned cheekily, "I heard it from Mal earlier."

"So yer not a know-all, then," Paul stated, arching a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him.

"I don't know, I'd like t'think that I am!" George argued, "I jus' rely on external sources as the basis fer me knowledge!"

Ringo laughed.

Towards the front of the plane, Mal, Brian, and Ira conversed animatedly, most likely planning ahead and attempting to figure out how to navigate from there on out. John looked on languidly before taking in the outdoor scenery once more. Mid-gaze, he closed his eyes, his stomach growling mournfully. He was dizzy again… When he reopened his eyes, hazy black spots were where his vision should've been. A distant buzzing filled his ears… Acting fast, he squeezed his eyes shut, against the unanticipated onslaught of faintness and leaned his head protectively against the window.

"John…" George could be heard calling out to him.

Hesitantly, he cracked an eye open and glanced back towards him, head still plastered to the window. The black spots had cleared somewhat now but ongoing haziness continued to soften the appearance of everything, "What?" he murmured.

"All right, then?" the lead guitarist asked. He looked genuinely worried and John felt even more remorse for being such an arse to him earlier.

He nodded in response, ever so subtly, managing a weak, assuring grin, "Knackered…" 'Knackered over this life is more like it…' his mind unnecessarily supplied, '…aren't you, fat Beatle, John?...Who are you trying to kid?' And John's face abruptly fell courtesy of his own mind. Disconsolate, he turned away from Harrison's prying eyes, blinking rapidly as a tiny tears dared to spring into action.

"Come 'ead, lads!" Brian's voice rose suddenly from the depths of the faded background, "Ready yourselves, for we've officially arrived in glamorous and posh Los Angeles, home of the stars! America's pride and joy so to speak!"

"Cor, 'e sounds like a bloody brochure, 'e does!" Ringo whispered to Paul.

Making an effort to hide his antics, Paul discreetly laughed.

"Look alive, now," Eppy continued on, sounding as animated as ever, "…because Los Angeles… or L.A. as Americans call it, has been eagerly anticipating your arrival for days! Weeks even! A lot is in store, here! Surely, you'd hate to disappoint!"

John shook his head in utmost disgust. It was truly shaping up to be another day in paradise.