A/N: Thank you SO much for reviewing, guys. It makes me ridiculously happy to hear that people like what I'm writing.

I don't know how exactly to transition from Jude in the kitchen to Jude telling the story, so just bear with me, okay? :D

After a brief explanation of what has happened since Jude's letters have slowly dwindled to nothing, Jude takes a deep breath.

"I suppose I should start, really, after Sadie's rooftop concert."

The brief burst of celebration after Sadie's concert was over. They returned to normal, or whatever they classed as normal since Jude and Max had left and returned.

Jude; his inspiration lost completely. His attempts to draw Lucy, once his favourite subject, always turned into a dull, lifeless outline with vacant eyes. He would emerge from drawing with his hair sticking up in tufts where he had clutched at it in frustration, his face and hands covered in black smudges, the only product of which was a few crumpled up sheets of discarded drawings.

Lucy wasn't Lucy since the 'man with the megaphone' she once looked up to, had been killed as a result of his own dedication. The once fiercely independent and opinionated girl became clingy and paranoid. She seemed to need the constant security of both Max and Jude, and would constantly badger Jude, questioning whether he would leave her or not.

"No, no, of course not," he would soothe, "I love you Lucy."

And yet, whenever he uttered these words defiantly, something deep inside him would twinge. When Jude was being honest with himself, (which, admittedly, wasn't very often) he would admit that, although he was almost definite that he was in love with her, something would stop him. A tiny, almost unnoticed little voice somewhere in his conscience would mutter, "No you don't."

But he pushed this to the back of his mind, blaming it on drink, the confusion of everything that had happened. He was being ridiculous; of course he loved Lucy. There was nothing that you couldn't love about her.

Anyway, he had more important things to worry about. Like Max.

The old Max was back. Not the happy-go-lucky, charmingly perverse Max before Vietnam, but the haunted, daunted, empty shell of Jude's best friend. Countless attempts to bring him back had failed. Jojo would take his guitar and Sadie would sing old funny tunes that they threw together when drunk. Prudence would offer a listening ear, a shoulder to cry on. And Lucy would do nothing but beg and plead with her brother to come back, or at least to smile. She would return from his room and throw herself into Jude's arms, sobbing hysterically and angrily at him.

For Jude would not try to do what the others were so desperately attempting. He couldn't see Max. He couldn't bear to go into Max's suffocating refuge of a room, couldn't stand to attempt to force conversation with the guy who, six months previously, had staggered drunkenly down an empty street with him at two in the morning belting out songs about submarines.

"He's still the same Max!" Lucy would urge, "You'll be able to bring him back, if you'd just try!"

But Jude couldn't. He refused to associate with the affected, war torn monster that had stolen his best friend away.

So Max stayed sitting on his bed, empty, numb and expressionless, and Jude stayed sitting at the table, scribbling meaningless charcoal swirls.

Molly stares at him; her face a mixture of incredulousness and despair.

"Why, though? You'd have probably been able to cheer him up, just like that!"

Jude shakes his head.

"You didn't see him, Moll. He wasn't depressed, or even empty. I caught a glimpse of him when he first got back, love. He was....desolate."

Though the apartment was filled with a dark sense of depression, he realised that not everyone's current life revolved around Max, which came to light when Jojo seemed to need Jude.

He was almost stunned. Not only because Jojo was the last person he would expect to actively seek advice, but that he had chosen to come to the doodling, scruffy English boy as opposed to...well...someone a lot more sturdy.

One seemingly nondescript afternoon, Jojo collapsed at the table, which was dripping with charcoal and cigarettes, in front of Jude.

"Sadie," he gasped.

Jude's face twisted quizzically.

"I don't know, man," Jojo said, "But....there's something....bad."

"Bad?"

"I catch her off guard, a hell of a lot. She looks confused, worried...guilty even."

"Keep talking mate, "Jude said, picking up a stick of charcoal, "I'm listening."

This would soon become a regular occurrence; Jude would sketch whatever was in front of him, and Jojo would pour out what was bothering him, which never failed to be about Sadie.

Anyone who knew Jojo well enough would not believe that he would benefit from letting out his worries, but as Jude came to learn, everyone was worried about something.

The timer on Molly's oven rings through the air, bringing Jude back from New York.

He glances at the clock on the wall.

"Maybe we should go to sleep."

Molly nods.

"Listen Jude, I was thinking...." Molly hesitates, "Look, stay as long as you like."

Jude smiles, relieved and grateful.

"Have you brought any things with you?"

He sighs, and digs his hands into his pockets. Removing his hands, he pulls out nothing but scraps of paper. Jude bites his lip.

"J-just drawings, love. And maybe about ten quid."

Molly rolls her eyes good naturedly. Typical.

"Go upstairs and grab a few blankets from my room."

He does so, and she can hear the stack of pillows and quilts topple over. Obviously Jude has not retained enough sense to choose from the top of the pile.

She sees a crumpled white ball that has fallen out of his jacket. Overcome by curiosity, Molly unfurls it and her heart jolts at what is messily sketched out in front of her.

A girl with short dark hair and wide eyes, staring into space.

She turns the paper over. A heavily detailed drawing of a scruffy looking man with a cheeky grin, his eyes crinkled up. It has been lightly coloured with watered down paint; sandy blonde hair and electric blue eyes.

Molly compares this to the wispy, probably half-hearted, scribble of herself. But if she tries, she can pretend Jude has drawn her, and only her. And that as much love went into her portrait as the beautiful one of this unknown person. This unknown person that Jude seems to care so deeply about.

She smoothes out the paper and studies it some more. She can't help smiling as she tucks it behind a photo of two grinning teenagers outside the Cavern club.

Reviews make me happy. :D They don't even have to make sense!