Brand new chapter! PLEASE READ! AND if you're feeling particularly generous, a REVIEW would be nice as wellllll :)
John wasn't entirely sure when they'd finally reached their destination, but at some point he'd managed to doze off with his head resting against the sun-heated window. Paul's frown only continued to deepen to the point that his eyebrows furrowed as he kept a close eye on his best mate. He was beginning to realize that no longer did he seem even extremely knackered, but utterly zonked. He was pale from lack of sleep and dark circles flirted with the underside of his bottom eyelids. He just didn't look well, Paul realized with a growing feeling of dread. John hadn't looked that great that morning either in addition to his then terrible mood, but looking at him now; it seemed the guitarist might not be feeling so great either. Could all those sleepless nights coupled with the nonstop public adventure that was fame, be finally taking its toll on him? It seemed almost inevitable.
"This is it, lads!" Epstein announced, breaking the silence that had fallen over the limo during the course of the past half hour. "We've officially arrived at your final stop before the show!" Without waiting to assess the amount of excitement his band threw back in his direction, he opened the limo door and hurriedly exited to talk with security. After a moment of gazing with silent curiosity at John's pale, sleeping form, Mal mirrored Eppy's actions and left the limo.
Having been dozing himself, Ringo's head popped up and he turned his attention towards the window in instant awe and surprise at the amount of crazy that surrounded them. Security was scattered everywhere. Happy, but increasingly wild screams were already penetrating the closed windows of the limo. A path lined with barriers had been designed to get the Beatles safely to the hotel's hospitality without the threat of being consumed by rabid fans.
Epstein and Mal could be seen talking to the head of the band's security, as well as some of the hotel security. At this point, the Beatles were more than familiar with the safety measures designed to keep them out of harm's way and remained seated until they were told it was completely safe to proceed.
"John all right?" George asked, peering beyond Paul in the direction of the soundly sleeping musician, "Was wondering why it got so quiet in 'ere. Didn't realize he'd managed to drop off."
"He's bloody knackered," Paul replied, unable to keep a slight frown from ruling his features.
"Maybe a kip's good fer him, then," George mused aloud, "He seems a bit off today…"
Paul nodded, the exact thought coming to his mind for what seemed like the millionth time that day. John did seem off; bloody out of it, really. He wondered if he was feeling all right. Without thinking, he lifted a hand and pressed the back of it gently against John's forehead, leaving it for a few seconds before frowning at the results. It seemed the musician felt a bit warm to the touch, like he was possibly running a fever.
Without missing a beat, Paul gripped his friend's shoulder and attempted to wake him, gently calling his name all the while. Finally after what seemed like an eternity, John's eyes cracked open and shifted lazily towards him in what looked like immediate annoyance. "Christ, Macca, what is it?" he asked irritably, his words slurred and sleep-clogged.
"We're here, Johnny," Paul told him, anxiously studying his face for signs of illness, "You feeling all right? You still look off-color…"
John blinked, looking a bit startled at the question, "What? …M'fine."
Paul shook his head, feeling entirely unconvinced, "I don't know…I think you may have a bit of a temperature…" he stated very quietly as if to purposely keep George and Ringo out of the loop, "Yer face felt a bit warm when I checked and…"
"Was leaning against a hot window, y'know," John interrupted with a feigned smile.
"So…you feel all right then?" Paul asked.
"If feeling bloody knackered off me arse falls in that category then I'm right as rain," John quipped, his assuring smile widening to the point that it almost felt genuine on his face. It may actually have reached sincerity if he didn't right then realize how much of a headache he truly had. Sleep hadn't done a thing to alleviate the pain… If anything…he maybe felt worse? …He wasn't positive…nor was he in the mood to evaluate the situation.
Paul smiled finally, feeling slightly eased by the surfacing of his friend's well-known cynicism, "Well, you can 'ave a proper slumber when we get in." With that, he turned away from him, his eyes finally following Ringo's out the window to their sea of fans, "So this is it, huh?" he questioned in amazement, "The fabled New York City…Bloody incredible! Looks even better the second time around."
"It's like we're on an undiscovered planet," Ringo offered, his tone awestruck, "and we're surrounded by aliens!"
"Try not to get too close to the lot of 'em. Might be rabid, y'know," George quipped, "'Ave ye' all 'ad yer shots?"
Both Paul and Ringo shared a laugh that seemed only for the sole purpose of covering up the ominous unease that had settled within the confined quarters of the limo. Just what were they getting themselves into? These Americans were borderline crazy it seemed.
The command to exit came quicker than expected and three eager Beatles rose out of their seats, the lull of their fans placing them into a trance. With George leading the way, they filed out, Ringo stopping to glance back at John who to his surprise hadn't moved. "Y'coming, John?" he asked tentatively.
John jumped, seemingly having been lost in his head for the entire preceding moment and after struggling to regain his confident composure, nodded. In his less-than glory, he forgot to flash his trademark reassuring grin that signaled that all was right with him and Ringo found himself studying his band mate, his eyes narrowing in concern, "What's the matter with ye' today?" he asked.
John grimaced, all but loving the questions being thrown at him as of late, "Nothing…" he answered almost too quickly, "M'fine…just a bit knackered as usual. Nothing to get yer knickers twisted over…"
Ringo didn't look completely convinced but he nodded and proceeded to make his way out the limo door. John followed Ringo's lead and stepped out of the limo into the hot sun. It was then when the raucous unrelenting roaring of their fans managed to permeate the haze that was his mind that it truly dawned on him what exactly was happening. He winced, letting out an uncharacteristic whimper as the continuous noise pounded against his eardrum like the onslaught of nagging locusts. The unrelenting sunlight did nothing to help as it seemed suddenly too bright, forcing him to squint against it. Through it, the fans were barely visible but they were certainly audible. Girls screamed as he walked by while struggling to give off the effect that he felt fantastic. He smiled, he waved, he smiled some more, but it all felt like he was going through the motions, as if someone far away was controlling his very actions like he was nothing more than just a puppet. Or better yet, he felt weirdly like he was watching himself from afar…if that bloody well made any sense. Briefly, he brought a hand to his forehead and dragged it down his face as if trying to physically rip away the strange haze he felt surrounded him. Fuck, was he cracking up? Losing it? "Yer in fucking New York City, Lennon," the guitarist wearily told himself, "Do yerself a favor…snap out of it!"
A hand grabbed him suddenly and he turned, startled, gazing into the eyes of a woman with a camera. The minute eye contact was made; she snapped a picture, the intense flash of the camera's bulb, disorienting him completely. Blinking rapidly, John struggled to see through the after-burn image the light left on his retinas. The attempt proved futile as dizziness quickly took over him, swaying him slightly on his feet. Fuck…was he passing out…? Within seconds, another hand grabbed him and yanked him firmly forward. He could hear bits and pieces of conversation that he assumed were directed at him, but the words were lost on him in the crazy that surrounded him.
He was ushered suddenly into an air-conditioned environment where the light was much dimmer, forcing his bleary eyes to readjust. He grimaced, realizing they now ached. Not his eyes themselves, but the sockets behind them emanated a deep pulsating ache that seemed to pour into his very being. His eyelids felt ridiculously heavy and his eyes themselves burned an incredible amount without much in the way of relief. And to add to his much developed resume of misery, the very headache that had been with him the majority of the day seemed to be worsening. The terrible throbbing that had once seemed to radiate from his forehead only, had spread down his entire face to his surrounding neck area and around to the entire back of his head. Even his outer ears hurt, which the fans were currently all but helping. It was becoming quite obvious to him that he wasn't feeling all that well. Still, he plodded on, a person that may or may not be Mal, guiding him through the hotel lobby towards the elevator where Ringo waited for him.
"…It was dangerous and uncalled for, Lennon. Poor judgment, really. What were you thinking?" his companion was barking, his words suddenly coming into auditory range, "You should know that you're unauthorized to wander in that close to the barriers. You're bloody lucky it was only press that managed to get a hold of ye' and not someone with worse motives! You've nearly gone and endangered yourself! Of all the stupid, bloody, idiotic, piss-poor…"
Mal, John realized, good ol' Mal. But what was he on about? Endangering? Wandering? He hadn't wandered anywhere near the bloody barriers…or had he? …Details that had been unclear to begin with, only seemed to scramble and conceal themselves even further out of reach. He felt muddle-headed, like everything from his neck up was filled with heavy, heated, throbbing sand. On top of that, he couldn't really think straight…or at all. John heaved a sigh, what in bleeding hell was going on with him today, anyway?
"Are y'listening, Lennon?" Mal asked, turning to gaze sharply at John.
Without really looking at him, John managed a feeble nod, wincing a bit, as pain engulfed his face. In all honesty, he couldn't wait to stop walking. His head pounded unremittingly with each step, pushing him to the point that he felt obligated to bite his tongue to keep the discomfort from showing on his face and to refrain from maybe losing his breakfast all over the fanciful lobby of the four-star hotel they were staying at. He hoped he'd be able to get his hands on some painkillers before the show. Somehow, he felt like his life depended on it…
Ringo frowned as John entered the elevator with Mal on his heels. Not only did his friend look much worse for wear, but he seemed awfully peaky, his features abnormally sunken and wan, making even more obvious, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Even his eyes lacked their usual mischievous light, just appearing tired and empty and for John, that was saying a lot.
"What happened?" Ringo asked almost immediately, not failing to notice as well, the irritated look on Mal's face.
John shook his head in tired frustration; forcibly avoiding his friend's concerned eyes.
The elevator jerked suddenly upward after Mal pressed the numbers that corresponded with the floor their room suite was situated on. John seemed to pale even more and Ringo watched, feeling unnerved as he noticed the guitarist's right hand find his forehead. At one point, he even closed his eyes as if feeling physically sick, "Fucking 'ead…" he muttered wearily.
Mal turned to him, frowning in sudden concern, "What's the matter? Yer not feeling ill are ye'?" he asked, speaking the words that had been momentarily building on Ringo's tongue.
"Just a bloody 'eadache…" John admitted quietly, "Can't seem to shake this one off…" His words seemed to slur slightly together, having nothing of its usual control in the way of articulation. By the looks of it, John didn't seem to have the energy to provide such control.
"Well, please take something when y'get the chance," Mal told him, "M'job's hard enough without having to worry about one of y'blokes bloody well keeling over."
John nodded in response, frowning slightly as he realized he still felt a bit dizzy, "A meal…may help too…" he added exhaustedly as the realization dawned on him.
"I've been telling ye' to eat all bleeding day, John!" Ringo hissed at him, risking what could be the unleashing of John's well-known temper, "You've barely eaten today. What did you expect was going t'happen? No wonder yer bloody feeling ill! We got a show tonight, Lennon. And in case you weren't aware, it's in fucking New York City, here in the bloody United States! No way are y'complicating things by running yerself into an early grave!"
"I'll eat dinner, mummy," John responded just to shut his little friend up. He fought a sudden urge to cough, coming to terms with a tickle that at some point had seemed to slip into his throat. He hoped he wasn't fucking coming down with something… Being a bearer of asthma, illnesses usually claimed him hard and fast and already he felt as though he had one foot in the grave…
"Please don't disappoint me, Johnny," Ringo pleaded as the elevator doors opened, revealing their floor.
A/N: Soooo I should probably take time to mention that AS FAR AS I KNOW, John DID NOT have asthma :)). Just putting that out there.