A/N: Chapter 29 everyone! I hope to update more frequently this month mainly because I'm moving by the end of it and will be without a computer for most of June until I can afford to buy a laptop of my own :((. It'll be a long June but... I have no intentions of abandoning this story. Just bear with me if ya can!


George sat up and blinked into the rays of sun streaming down through the trees. It was so peaceful, the only sound emanating from distance birds situated in distant trees. Scrubbing at his eyes, he took a moment to glance about him, coming to the gradual realization that he hadn't the slightest idea of where he was. All around him stretched tall pine trees, as far as the eye could see. Somehow, he'd ended up in the woods… somewhere… in the midst of a random patch of pinewood forest that looked as though its location could be anywhere in the world. It was too bad that not an ounce of sense could be pulled from this unforeseen adventure. Maybe rather than worry about his whereabouts, he'd actually be able take it upon himself to allow a bit of relaxation to claim him. He needed to relax. He needed to unwind. Something had been bothering him lately… but what was it? Was it this recent transition in scenery? He glanced about him again, hoping to recapture a bit of recollection that would lead to the jogging of his memory. Nothing. Not a thing was happening. Where was everyone? Where were John and Paul and Ringo? Where was Mal or Eppy? Where was anyone? When had he even arrived to… to… wherever this was? What was he doing here? How had he…? Where…? Questions began to rifle through George's mind at a startling pace that he couldn't quite seem to control. He could vaguely remember that he'd been about to do something with someone… before this very moment… But… what was it? …And with whom?

"Georgie! There you are!"

The lead guitarist bolted up and turned towards the source of the voice. Paul emerged seemingly from out of the woodwork. Woodwork… George chuckled at the formed pun within his head.

"What are you doing here all by yerself?" Paul went on to ask in the absence of George's response.

"I-I don't rightly know… I'm not sure…" George murmured uncertainly.

Paul began to approach, stopping just short of him to give his watch a glancing at. "Well, this won't do. It simply won't do. We have a show to get to, y'know."

"A what?"

"A show! 'Ave y'lost yer mind or are ye' just naturally daft?"

"I-I can't… I don't 'ave me guitar!"

Paul shook his head indicating his disappointment, "Lazy and unprepared I see. Been hanging around our Lennon too much, it seems."

"'S'not the only thing he's given ye'," Ringo suddenly appeared beside Paul. George had to scrub at his eyes to clarify that he was, in fact, seeing what he was seeing. "Ringo?"

"At yer service!" Ringo grinned.

"Wh-where'd y'come from? And where's John? He's not going to come out from the woodwork, as well, will he?"

"Woodwork!" Ringo started to laugh, "That's real clever, Geo… Seeing as we're in the woods!"

"Where are we?" George went on to ask, "I feel like Alice in Wonderland or something…"

"Y'can't be Alice, yer not a girl," Ringo affirmed flippantly, "Perhaps, yer more like the dormouse… the one at the tea party with the mad hatter and the march hare! John's the mad hatter of course and—"

George shook his head, his frustration towards the unknown growing, "Where's John?" he repeated. He couldn't place why but… suddenly he was oddly concerned for his whereabouts…

Both Paul and Ringo turned with an uncanny unison just as John shimmered into view between them. George scrubbed at his eyes again and turned to take him in his newly solidifying form in surprise. "John?!"

"Who were ye' expecting, Buddy Holly?" John sarcastically mumbled; looking all but thrilled with George's shock at his expense.

"Perhaps, he was expecting Elvis Presley," Ringo joked.

"Too bad, I'm all there is." John grumbled, looking suddenly irritated and much paler than when he'd first arrived. "Don't we 'ave a show to get to?"

George couldn't keep resulting shock from overtaking him as he continued to gaze at John who was seemingly wasting away before his very eyes. Before he could begin to question him, the rhythm guitarist doubled over and started coughing. Wide-eyed, George started towards him, "Are you okay?" he was rapidly asking before the words could properly form on his tongue.

"Does it look like he's okay?" Paul asked, turning to glare at him as if it was his fault and only his fault that John was about to hack up a lung.

"Well, no but…"

"Get away from me… I'm fine!" John snapped, straightening up. He was much paler now, completely washed out it seemed.

"Yer not okay," George shakily confirmed, as though he suddenly had a medical degree, "Are ye' feeling okay? Ye' look like yer about to keel over!"

John nonchalantly shrugged as though they were merely discussing the weather, "'Aven't been feeling the greatest lately, really… Think 'm'dying…"

George furrowed his eyebrows. What an unusual thing to say. Even more unusual was the lack of reaction from Paul and Ringo. "John, what are ye'—"

Again, John started coughing. A thick heavy, heavy cough. Something red spurted from his mouth. He was coughing up blood…

Frantic, George turned back to his other mates to see if they were remotely seeing what he was seeing. Stoic, remained their faces. They were almost robotic in appearance. "Tell John it's not true!" he found himself yelling fearfully, "Tell him he's not-"

"That's impossible, Geo," Paul responded coldly, "He's gone, y'see…"

"What?"

"Gone to meet his maker. What aren't ye' getting?"

George shook his head, "No! John's right here! He's…" He ripped his gaze from Paul to the spot between him and Ringo. The spot was now empty and Lennon was nowhere to be seen. How could that be?

"And now it's yer turn, Geo!" Ringo sneered. George turned to him. Suddenly he was in a doctor's uniform. The drummer glanced at his watch, "'S'only a matter of time, Harrison." His words were calm. Eerily calm.

Paul nodded, his head motion drawing George back towards him. He was suddenly dressed in a black robe, looking oddly similar to the grim reaper. He glanced at his watch, "Tick, tock," he ominously stated. He started towards George and—

Harrison sat up with a gasp. New surroundings manifesting about him as all around him, the woods peeled away revealing a room of some sort… A doctor's office? A hospital? Some sort of a white sitting room. He didn't even pause to revel in the familiarity of it all as it began to wash over him. It didn't matter. He didn't want to die. The lead guitarist drew his knees up in the chair he sat in and hugged them close to him, whimpering slightly at the faded nightmare, not to mention, the intense pounding of his heart and head.

"Geo?" Paul rose from his seat a few feet over and started towards him, genuine concern in his eyes, "Ye' all right?"

George recoiled as he came to terms with the bassist's direction of movement. Though he no longer looked like the grim reaper, George wasn't about to take any unnecessary chances. "I-I don't wanna die!" he whimpered, gazing up at him with teary, fear-filled eyes, "Stay back!"

"Geo… What are ye' on about?" Paul demanded, sitting beside him despite his wishes.

"I don't want to die!" George repeated firmly, "I know yer the grim reaper… and Ringo's a doctor and… he's… he's…"

Paul frowned at the assertion of George's fears, so childlike in nature, "Ye' were 'aving a nightmare, love. 'S'all right…"

"But it isn't! John died! He was right there and then he wasn't!"

"A nightmare, love," Paul affirmed, worriedly drawing the guitarist into a soothing hug, "A nightmare is all it is.'

"Wh-where's John then?" George asked, held off reality struggling to make reappearance in his head.

"He's been hospitalized… Remember?" Paul asked, gazing with heightened concerned at the intense flush in his mate's face.

"He's not dead?"

"Of course not!" Paul managed a halfhearted smile, "It's all right, Geo. It'll all be all right in the end." He placed a hand to his forehead, his smile fading in an instant. The lead guitarist was burning up.

"I had a dream…" George mumbled, "John coughed up blood and died… and then you…" he pointed to Paul for emphasis, "You… and Ringo… said I'd be next…"

Paul shook his head, "'S'just a dream, Harri," he went on to cajole, proceeding to stroke his dark hair affectionately, "'S'all it is, love."

George's eyes were wet as he lifted them to Paul's level, "Johnny's really sick, isn't he?"

A lie came to Paul's tongue but he bit it back, "Y-yes, Geo… he is…"

"And they still don't know what he's got?"

Paul solemnly shook his head, "No… they don't… but… I promise they'll find out…"

"Macca… what if…What if I've got what John's got?"

"It's what we're here for…" Paul revealed, "…to find out… and the doctor's— they'll operate accordingly. Provide antibiotics if needed or work their tails off to repair whatever might be wrong…"

"Why all of us?" George asked, "Why should we all need testing? I'm the only other that's sick, aren't I? Y'feel all right, don't ye', Paul?"

Paul nodded, "I do… and Ritch… and Eppy and Mal… The hospital wants to be safe is all. We've all been exposed… and they believe that the medications should have what it takes to prevent us from falling ill, as well."

"I'm… a bit… scared…" George admitted weakly, sounding so much like a child, it was unnerving.

'Some fever,' Paul mused, disconcertion proceeding to grip him. It had made even Lennon childlike at times… "No matter what, Geo, me and the others, we won't leave yer side. John's either."

"Promise?" George sleepily asked, stifling a yawn.

"Yeah… I promise," the bassist responded earnestly.


The pain… it was everywhere. Completely integrated with everything that was and had ever existed. It stemmed from whatever the fuck had taken his body over. It stemmed from repeated, ruthless, intrusive hands. It stemmed from his overly sensitive ears as they strained to tune into and make sense of the low humming murmurs that floated about him. Humdrum humming— like various insects… or flies. Bees were more like it. John was surrounded by bees. Busy bees, busy making a commotion as they fluttered aimlessly about him; beating their larger-than-life wings gruffly against him and occasionally injecting their freshly sharpened, shiny stingers into various places. But why so many? Perhaps, he'd upset one of the hives as he'd often done as a mischievous tot while looking for a thrill on one of his very early childhood adventures. He was trouble. John Lennon was trouble and now they wanted revenge… Revenge. What a word. It even sounded threatening. Venge… Vengeful… Vengeance…

A sharp sting presently entered his arm and John woozily swatted it away. Bloody bees… just… wouldn't… die… He wondered vaguely how much bee venom it would take to kill someone. If this was what was going wrong, it was no wonder he felt so lousy. He was dying.

Every now and then, one of these bees would attempt to buzz his name in what seemed to be a concentrated effort to stimulate some kind of response from him. No matter what, he could never seem to answer. His throat seemed painfully swollen shut and… his head and neck… they ached far too much. 'Venom side effects…' John mused with a bit of a smirk. Had he actually smirked or had he only imagined that he had? His face even hurt too much to properly comply with any expressions he might want to portray. The trivial wonderment slipped away into the surrounding haze. He was dying. And there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Perhaps he could save the others… at least… The othersWho were they again? There was… Paul… and… Stu… No, that wasn't right… Was it Steve? Pete? Keith? No… still not right…' John shook his head in growing frustration at his own shortcomings, dominant as they'd been of late. The bees, increasing in ferocity, began to swarm angrily about him. 'Ringo! That was itRingo— whose real name was—' As quickly as Lennon had inflated with pride at the recalled memory, he'd deflated at his failed attempt to collect the next item of interest. 'What was Ringo's real name? The one that wasn't… Ringo?' Names weren't important right then, he dizzily decided after a while. But who was the third? The third member of… what were they again? The angry hums about him increased as though running on a timer and suddenly the rhythm guitarist felt highly threatened by their presence. The bees… Surely they'd kill him if he couldn't remember. Lennon couldn't help an unbearable feeling of wanting to panic. 'Who was it, then? His name began with a… a… 'J'? No… his own name began with a 'J'…didn't it? 'J' for…' Why couldn't he focus? It was too hot. That was it. But why was it so hot? Bloody hell… Bloody, fucking hell, he was bloody, fucking burning up. Woozily melting like an out of place iceberg in the middle of the Sahara. And what was all this bloody haze? Was someone smoking… without him? How dare… he! When he found out whohe'dhe'd

As if to answer his unformed question, someone stepped through the thick haze and John could just make out the form of a frowning face as it proceeded to give out orders to a … someone. One of those bees possibly… Busy, busy bees… They were in cahoots… all of them. And he was a prisoner… completely at their mercy. And not one of them had the decency to include them in on their smoking party. It was the least they could do, really… Help out a doomed prisoner… Help him to enjoy his last bit of time on earth; however long that would be… However long the venom would take to fully run its course…

Who was smoking? It was a simple inquiry. Who had dared to roll up without him? Perhaps, it was his bees. Somewhere in the room or wherever he was, a group of bees were in a corner sitting in a circle passing around a joint. He imagined four of them. They'd resemble his group… his band… 'Who were they again? The Beatles… That's right!' Or more appropriately; the Bee-tles. John found he couldn't help wanting to laugh at his silly crafted pun. If he could've or if he could even begin to withstand the pain, he probably would've. He was a bee… and beside him… Paul, Ringo, and George—that was it! George was their third…or fourth if he included himself. But what about them again? Oh yeah… Bees. He was a bee and Paul, Ringo, and George were bees. They could fly. John could fly— which meant by default, he was no longer a prisoner in this… hazy, hazy dungeon. If he concentrated, he could flutter his wings until take off ensued. He had wings didn't he? Of course he did. He was a bee! What kind of bee didn't have wings? A sorry sort of bee, that's who. And John Lennon wasn't a sorry sort of bee. Not now he wasn't. Soon he'd be out of here. Soon he'd be free. They'd be free. Free as birds. Only they weren't birds. They were bees. Free as bees could be. John could feel himself getting lighter now. Somewhere above him, a skylight had opened up. How convenient…

"His temperature's out of control!" someone shouted… "It's pushing the boundaries of 105!"

"Quick, bring it down! Fetch the ice!"

"But he's beginning to seize!"

'What a mess…' John mused, feeling oddly at peace as he drifted away.

"Give him another injection!"

"Prepare him for transport then get him to ICU stat!

"But he isn't stable enough!"

"He'll die if we don't! Would you rather have that on your conscience?"

"Right away, doctor. Making the arrangements."

A myriad of injections brought John heavily and painfully back to earth. Once again, it was hot. So bloody unbearably hot. A soft, airy hand graced the right side of his face in a way that proved soothingly familiar and he had just enough strength to open his eyes to investigate. Surrounded by a glowing aura stood his mother by his side complete with the most loving look he'd ever seen stemming from the emerald green that was her eyes. Her red hair glowed with a fiery passion enveloping the serene calm that was her face. "Keep strong and you'll be just fine, love," she whispered sincerely. And it all went black from there.


George had been afraid to close his eyes, let alone, fall back to sleep following the stubborn, haunting grips of his nightmare. So, he'd sat up in the waiting room, stiff as a board, while Paul made repeated attempts at soothing his frazzled form in a way that proved similar to how a mother would coddle a frightened child. Truthfully, the bassist wanted him to return to sleep where he'd be free from the anxiety of all harsh and realistic happenings. All the worry he was falling subject to in his sick state wasn't good. There was no telling how much damage it was doing to his frail, weakened body. It was doing a number on Paul himself, and there wasn't the slightest sign of weakness in his hale and hearty body. He was a tense and apprehensive mess. And Ringo… Paul could see what it was doing to him. The drummer looked as though he hadn't slept in years, though in truth, it had only been a few hours since Lennon's collapse. Stress had paled his face permanently and the bags beneath his eyes were a bit more than unsettling. He actually looked quite unwell. Ill. A few times, Paul had found himself succumbing to sternly questioning the drummer on whether or not he was handling all right. He knew Ringo was particularly susceptible to illness. Chances were if he fell ill with whatever this was, he'd fall the hardest… They couldn't have that. They just couldn't.

"I wish you'd try and catch a kip, Rings," Paul sighed, glancing to him from his seat beside George, "You look—"

"Awful, I know…" the drummer filled in for him with a tired smile, "I know. You've told me several times already."

"Are y'sure yer feeling all right?"

Ringo nodded, his eyes portraying utmost sincerity as they had each and every time the bassist had chosen to badger him. "Knackered but… I feel all right, yeah…"

Paul still looked doubtful and Ringo frowned. What would it take to engrave his words into his brain? "'Onestly, 'm'just knackered!"

Paul couldn't seem to wrap his head around the concept. He rose from his seat and swooped in on the drummer like a hawk tackling its prey. He had his hand to his forehead in a flash, taking in any abnormality he could readily seek out. "Well… you don't seem to have a fever…" he murmured after a while. He looked oddly even more troubled by the revelation.

"Relax, would ye', love?" Ringo insisted, sensing the tension radiating off his mate, "Give yerself a heart attack, y'will!" Come to think of it, Paul didn't look so hot himself. "Are you feeling all right?" he demanded, turning the tables on him. The bassist was shaking; a reaction Ringo hadn't been able to take in from afar. Now that he was standing directly in front of him, there was a lot he could see now. And it was enough to conclude that something wasn't right as far as visual assumptions went. "Paul?"

"'M'fine…" Paul responded, his voice quavering just as much as his body.

Ringo reached for his forehead this time, and left it there. While there wasn't a fever present, it was clear something was truly wrong. The drummer shook his head. "No. Yer not fine, Paul. What is it? Speak. Yer starting to worry me."

"I-I don't know what it is…" Paul murmured, his eyes mirroring blatant distress, "Something's wrong… I can feel it…"

"Something's wrong with you?"

"No…"

"Who?"

"I don't know… I thought maybe it involved you and y'weren't quite being honest with me about yer health but… it's not… and… I'm not sure what to think, really…"

A woman cleared her throat from in front of them and all eyes gravitated towards her in a state of alarm. A rather stout nurse had come out of nowhere. The head nurse potentially, Paul mused. He wasn't sure why, but he felt the tremors of his body increase even more at the sight of her ominous appearance.

"Has Mr. Epstein or Mr. Evans returned?" this nurse asked; her voice as stiff as her cold brown eyes.

Paul shook his head. "Not yet, I'm afraid. In fact, they're—"

"I'm right here, actually," interrupted a familiar and welcome voice. Both Paul and Ringo turned just as their road manager filed in through a pair of double doors to their left as if right on cue. Mal acknowledged the Beatles briefly before shifting his glance to the nurse. "What is it?" he tiredly asked, "I'm Mr. Evans."

"Mr. Evans," the head nurse declared briskly, pausing to take in his presence as if ensuring that it was, in fact, real, "I need to speak with you in private. It's about Mr. John Lennon." The nurse led him out of earshot and proceeded, without hesitation, to fill him in. "Mr. Evans, John Lennon has been moved to the ICU. I'm afraid he's not doing well at all."


A/N: Please review! :)) Tell me this chapter isn't too sporadic... It sure felt that way writing it!