A/N: Chapter 7's up :))! Hope ya enjoyyy!
A rather strange array of randomly placed chords struck George's ears as he emerged fully-showered from his bedroom. Wondering whom and where they originated from, he crept, unseen, into the living room area in search of its source. He was surprised to find John, also fully-showered; seated at the kitchen table, his guitar positioned comfortably within his lap, his fingers in strumming position.
'Good he's up. He must be feeling better, then…' George readily presumed inwardly as he regarded his friend with growing interest. John hadn't sensed his presence. He was in another world it seemed, his shadowed face tilted slightly away. His hair, still damp, fell into his eyes as he stared off into nothingness. '…or at least he should be…' George frowned as he took in what he could see of John's face. He was still dreadfully pale it seemed. His entire form oddly subdued in a non-Lennon-like manner. Maybe he was still waking up.
John's face remained partially hidden as he struck another series of unfamiliar chords, this group of notes lilting perfectly as they resonated throughout the hotel suite, absorbing into the surrounding walls. 'Seems to be working on a song of some sort,' George mused, his curiosity piquing his interest as his gaze shifted to the guitar. As if right on cue, John broke into song, his voice soft and oddly rough as his words carried above the haunting melody of his guitar.
"Half of what I say is meaningless…
…But I say it just to reach you Juliaaa…"
The words trailed off into lasting oblivion as John roughly proceeded to hum the unformulated lyrics he had yet to bring life to. Engulfed in augmented captivation, George's eyes widened in reaction to the way the lyrics and the notes had flowed perfectly together. Julia… as in Julia Lennon? Had he come across John writing a song about his mother? If that wasn't raw form, he didn't know what was. Fascination-inspired awe ruling his features, he crept slightly closer all the while struggling still to gain a curiosity-inspired glance to John's face. Success played off but George's sense of amazement was resultantly shattered at the presence of something peculiarly wet and reflective layering the visible side of his friend's abnormally ashen face. 'Were those…?' George swallowed hard in a growing effort to come to terms with what was unraveling before his very eyes, 'Had he…? Was John…?' He found he couldn't bring himself to finish the rapid-fire thoughts coming to his mind. Then it occurred to him. There was nothing to be said. John Lennon was crying…here in the open. A resulting feeling of sympathy crept into George's soul subsequently weighing on his heart as he furtively looked on. Suddenly, he felt as though he was intruding. As though he shouldn't be there. As if standing there watching John in so raw a form was not only forbidden but…cruel. Even as this dawned on him, he couldn't yet bring himself to slip away unnoticed. It was as though something was holding his feet in place.
More haunting chords filled the room, the order of them strikingly beautiful as they rose and fell, but John was growing increasingly restless and alarmingly agitated; his demeanor changing at a rapid, disquieting pace. He looked as though he was losing focus, becoming unexpectedly sidetracked by something not entirely obvious. His eyes, half-lidded in a lazy manner, had closed after a while and his fingers had taken on a slight but unnerving tremor as he gingerly strummed his guitar. Getting a closer look, George noted that it wasn't just his fingers that shook but his whole body in fact trembled in a barely visible manner that looked almost uncontrollable. Then it dawned on him. John was shivering. Whether it was from a struggle to keep his emotions in check or from simply being cold, however, wasn't entirely clear.
Before George could further assess the situation, John let out a frazzled groan and without so much a warning, hastily lifted the guitar strap over his head before setting the instrument down beside him in an air of pronounced frustration. By the way that he consequently grimaced and scrubbed at his forehead, it was apparent his stubborn headache still hadn't left him. Nonetheless, he was upset and disgruntled and an upset and disgruntled John wasn't normally a good thing for those around him.
George's frown continued to deepen in empathy for the older guitarist but he proceeded to turn away forgetting in all his distress that he was supposed to be incognito. His actions unintentionally caught John's eye who in turn subsequently called him back. Startled, George froze and after mentally preparing himself, turned to face what he was expecting to be John's wrath.
As he met John's gaze, however, he was shocked to find that there were no traces of anger present, just overall exhaustion as he regarded him with what appeared to be mild interest. "How long 'ave you been standing there?" he asked with neutral weariness.
"Not long," George responded, struggling to remain casual in the face of his spiraling nerves. Here it comes, he thought, John would certainly let him have it now for snooping.
He was again surprised as John gave a slight impartial nod in his direction before turning away in submissive disinterest. He wiped at his eyes a bit and sniffled, his worn out gaze finding a nearby window which he proceeded to stare out of, seemingly drained of any further conversation.
George frowned. John still seemed bloody exhausted as if sleep still hadn't bothered to show itself to him. George found that to be strange. He, himself, had had no problem falling asleep. In fact, the moment his head had hit the pillow, he'd been out. But then again, so had John, or so Paul had earlier reported. Looking at John now, such a thing didn't seem to be the case. The rhythm guitarist currently looked as though he'd seen better days and not just on an emotional level either. He looked right awful. Worse even than when he'd last seen him. Hadn't he slept any?
"Quit staring…" John mumbled; his voice hoarse and oddly low.
George turned to him in surprise. John was looking at him now, a decidedly irritated look dominating his face. Before George could stop himself, however, the resulting words were already tumbling from his mouth. "Y'look like crap, John…" he blurted out.
John blinked a bit, seemingly stunned, before responding, "Well, yer not exactly Elvis yerself, Harrison so don't push yer luck…" was his sardonic reply.
George shook his head, "I meant y'look like shit…er…y'look right ill…" Catching the resulting fiery look in John's eyes, he faltered, bringing his less than graceful redemption to an end. He suddenly eased into a grin sheepish in nature, "Never mind?"
"Just shurrup would ye'? I know what I bloody look like!" John grumbled, "I bloody feel like crap so why wouldn't I look it…" He paused, frowning, "Didn't exactly have a great kip either…" he admitted, his voice trailing off.
"Too much noise?"
John looked away again, his exhausted gaze falling down to the wooden surface of the table, "Y'could say that."
George frowned and tried again, "How's yer head, then?"
"I'd be better off stabbed in me ear…" John muttered, his morose words lacking emotion as he turned his attention back to the window.
George arched an eyebrow with a hint of amusement. Typical John; always so wonderfully descriptive. "That bad?" he asked as he pulled back a chair and joined his mate at the table.
John shrugged; the action barely perceptible in nature.
George sighed deciding right then that maybe a change of subject was in order. His gaze moved impatiently towards the refrigerator, "What's a bloke gotta do to get some food around 'ere?" he mused aloud.
"Wait…like everyone else," John muttered without looking at him.
George pouted, "But I'm hungry now, y'know…"
"When aren't ye'?"
George brought his attention back to John, "Well aren't you? Y'left 'alf yer breakfast behind this morning. A right waste if ye' ask me. If you 'adn't let it go soggy, I would've eaten it meself!"
John met him with a haggard glare, "Yer not gonna start on me now, are ye'? It can't be helped at this point, so y'might as well come off it. I wasn't hungry."
George smirked in the face of John's obvious annoyance, "Yer a barrel of sunshine this afternoon!" he chirped. He tapped a finger distractedly on the table and allowed his eyes to wander towards the suite's exit, "I wonder if the neighbors 'ave any food to spare," he wondered aloud.
"Could ye' stop with the bloody food already?"
George's face fell as a bit of concern surfaced within him, "Are ye' still not hungry, John?" he asked turning back to him, eyebrow arched as though the mere idea was absurd. Truthfully, in George's opinion, it was. Food was a basic means of survival.
John coughed and cleared his throat, "Not everyone's a bottomless pit like you," he responded hoarsely.
George frowned, "Well, no, but you've barely eaten a meal yet today!" his eyes narrowed in suspicion, "What's the matter with ye', anyhow?"
John heaved a sigh, "Nothing. Just stop talking, would ye'? In case ye' 'aven't realized, I'm not in the mood. Me 'ead feels like one of those ticking time bombs…"
George's frown deepened. Lennon was clearly in another one of his moods. That only meant one thing. Tread lightly. However, he just couldn't get over how horrible his friend was looking. He looked knackered beyond belief, off-color, bloody lousy. The bags beneath his eyes seemed to stretch for miles as if merely under the influence of gravity. Truthfully, he looked as though the only thing keeping his head from permanently meeting the table was the hand he currently supported it with. It was a bit unnerving, really. Sleep deprivation looked to be the least of the musician's concerns at this point.
"I still think y'should let a doctor look at ye'," George pitched with a bit of concern, "It might do ye' some good, y'know. He might 'ave something fer that 'eadache. If it 'asn't gone away on its own by now, it might not. Especially when ye' mix in millions of screaming birds."
"Dr. George Harrison…" John mused with mild interest, his eyes taking on a distant look, "Doesn't quite 'ave the ring to it, I thought it would…" He coughed again and grimaced, bringing a comforting hand to his chest.
George's eyes narrowed suddenly in utter confusion, "What are ye' on about, John?"
John shook his head absently, turning his gaze back towards the window, "Why does everyone seem to think they know what's best fer me? Last I checked, I was granted with a brain to make me own choices…me own…" he paused, allowing his eyes to close momentarily in a forced effort to think, "What's that word I'm looking for…?"
"That's not the point, Lennon," George interrupted, waving away the latter of his band mate's trivial words with a sigh, "The point is, yer not doing a very good job looking after yerself. I'm not sure if you've ever been aware but you do 'ave limits, y'know."
John remained detached from his surroundings, his gaze permanently fixated out the window in a manner of indifference. "Well, I hate to break it to ye', Miss America but y'don't know everything now, d'ye?" he objected mockingly, his tone picking up in the way of frazzled exhaustion, what it lacked in intended irritation.
George sighed; choosing from known experience to ignore the brunt of John's fighting words. The musician was clearly miserable, and whenever he was in such a state, he'd sometimes inadvertently do anything to bring others to his level as well. The band had gotten used to overlooking it and avoiding the subtle traps he set. "I never said that I did," he responded quietly after a while, "Christ, y'don't 'ave to be such a git about it."
With another cough, John folded his arms over the table top and laid his head down into them, wincing slightly at his chosen actions. An obvious shiver ran through him right then and he grimaced in reaction to it, "Leave me alone, then…" he murmured grumpily, "I didn't sign up fer a bloody 'round the clock therapist…"
George's eyebrows knitted together as he noted the presence of familiar goose bumps his band mate had been sporting on and off all day. "You sure yer feelin' all right?" he asked apprehensively. There really wasn't much in the way of air-conditioning in the building at the moment; the only source of refreshment, being the occasional breeze from the open windows. The air temperature could currently rival that of what they had experienced in Florida months back…
"If I 'ad a pound fer every time someone's bothered to ask me that today…" John muttered flatly, his words trailing off in a negligent manner.
"Well, it's asked fer good reason, mate." George responded as if he was suddenly years older and wiser than John, "And judging by the way y' keep waving us off, it's blatant someone should. Yer not yerself today, y'know."
"Mm…" John mumbled disinterestedly. He closed his eyes and George fell silent, debating whether or not to check him for fever. He was shivering still, the tremors taking hold of him when he least expected it, forcing him to hug himself in attempt to fight them off or make them less obvious. Though the rhythm guitarist probably thought he was, in that manipulative mind of his; he wasn't fooling anyone. Putting all the pieces together, George was almost certain he had figured out the puzzle he'd been presented with. And if he had, then all arrows were pointing specifically at one thing. John Lennon was falling ill.
John really did look right terrible. A persistent, deep, rosy flush had spread across his cheeks and obvious pallor dominated where the hue hadn't been able to reach. If that wasn't a red flag of illness, he didn't know what was.
John raised his head after a moment and turned to him, his depleted brown eyes subdued and alarmingly lifeless in nature, "Y'think Mal's on his way back with the groceries yet?" he asked softly, "Could use a cup of tea or something to that effect…"
George sighed, "I hope so. Me stomach's about ready to eat itself…"
John grinned wryly in spite of his obvious discomfort, "If I 'ad a pound fer every time you've said that since I've known ye'…" He startled to chuckle but his tormented lungs still suffering from his earlier asthma attack, sent him into a heavy, sputtering coughing fit.
George watched wide-eyed as John's entire face proceeded to redden dramatically in the midst of his distress, "Christ, ye' all right, Johnny?" he asked slight panic emanating from his tone.
Clutching his throat, John managed a feeble nod as the self-limiting fit came to a merciful end. His entire chest area, lungs included were on fire…
George frowned, skeptically taking in the appearance of his friend's face, heavily flushed from the bout of coughing he'd just seen himself through. "What was that?" he demanded suspiciously.
Sucking in a quavering, rather wheezy breath, John managed a wearied glance in George's direction. "Nothing…Just a stubborn tickle in me throat…" He displayed a brief lethargic, halfhearted grin, "Guess that's what I get fer screaming at ye' blokes all day like a sod, 'ey?" Without waiting for a response, he cleared his throat and turned to look out the window once again, "…At least I can still sing…" he added distantly.
George continued to observe him suspiciously, his eyes narrowing in concern as John continued to rub at his throat in what seemed like an absent-minded manner. He frowned, remembering his own bout with the flu. His throat had been bothering him something terrible before he fell ill. He decided against mentioning it, however, not wanting to upset his band mate. John looked especially woozy now as though the coughing fit had successfully robbed him of whatever bit of energy he'd been able to cling to, "Ye' want some water?" he asked instead, "I think there's some in the fridge left fer us by the hotel staff…or maybe the tap water's drinkable…"
Seemingly distracted by some outdoor happening, John didn't readily respond.
"John?" George hesitantly called out, raising his voice only slightly. When the rhythm guitarist failed to even flinch, he turned his own attention towards the window to see if he could locate whatever it was that had successfully captivated his friend's attention. Other than the usual sea of fans, he couldn't see anything particularly out of the ordinary. From what George could see; John was just staring unnervingly into space. "John!" he repeated, louder still.
After a moment, John turned to look at him finally, a genuine look of unfocused disorientation coming into his exhausted eyes. He gave his head a slight shake as if to clear it, before managing to get a hold of his bearings, "What is it?" he demanded rather brusquely.
George frowned, completely taken aback by John's uncharacteristically muddled mentality. "Christ, Johnny. Are ye' absolutely sure yer feelin' okay?" he demanded.
John smirked tiredly after a while in idle amusement, "For someone who's supposedly so quiet, ye' sure talk a lot." He turned away just in time to avoid sneezing all over George.
George stared at him, not knowing whether to smile in amusement or display his gratitude towards not being covered in snot courtesy of the older Beatle. Before he could mentally decide, however, he'd already broken out into a resulting grin. "Gesundheit!" he stated, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.
"S'not funny…" John mumbled, sniffling, "Just be lucky I'm not Ringo. Nothing in the suite would've been safe, including you."
"S'not funny..." George echoed, with a laugh, "S'not funny...S'not...snot..."
"Yer a regular riot, Harrison..." John muttered with blatant displeasure before erupting rather violently into yet another sneeze. Breaking out into a full grimace, he groaned slightly in annoyance as a noticeable chill proceeded to grip him.
"You've gone and caught something 'aven't ye'?" George accused rather suddenly, concern-inspired suspicion chasing away all traces of his grin.
John shrugged as if the revelation wasn't all that important. "It does rather feel I've got a bloody cold coming on…" he admitted tiredly after a while, clearly aggravated with the inconvenience. He regarded George's look of concern before flashing a brief sincere smile, "I'll be all right though, really… Been through much worse in me life."
George skeptically eyed him, "A cold is a cold, John. Either way, yer ill and this isn't the time for that. I think I'm going to send Eppy fer a doctor."
John's resulting annoyance unfurled in a matter of seconds, "What is it with you people?!" he growled, "I'm bloody fine! Christ, a bloke gets a little bit knackered, feels a little bit ill and suddenly everybody's off their bloody trolley!"
"Before my initial bout with the lurgy, I felt as though I was catching a cold," George calmly explained his concerns.
"I don't have the lurgy," John muttered petulantly, dropping his volume a considerable amount, "I 'aven't slept in years it seems like. I'm bloody tired and the more I let you all into me 'ead, the more I understand why. You people are all driving me mad."
"We're just a bit concerned, is all," George told him, sharply repeating his words from earlier as he dared to hold his ground, "And frankly, I believe we 'ave every right t'be. Y'look like bleedin' 'ell! Ye' 'ave all bloody day!"
John closed his eyes, allowing a sigh to escape him. What a day this was shaping up to be. First Paul had decisively dared to blackmail and threaten him and now George was standing up to him? He'd be damned if he was going to let that happen. Still, he couldn't help feeling slightly amused despite the circumstances behind it all. Quiet or not, George certainly had a clear streak of adamancy. With a frown, John quickly found that for what seemed like the millionth time that day, he wasn't in the mood to comment on yet another rare occurrence. He just wasn't feeling well enough to rightly come up with all the words such an action would require… Maybe he really was sick after all. Regardless, he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. "Clear off, would ye'? M'fine."
"So ye' wouldn't 'ave a temperature then?" George asked, his tone alarmingly taking on a conniving aspect to it.
John glared tiredly at him, "What are ye' on about now, George?"
"If ye' were fine as ye' put it, ye' wouldn't 'ave a temperature," George explained derisively.
"I don't!" John snapped indignantly, feeling suddenly flustered, "Bloody piss off, would ye'?"
"Like a child…" George smirked with a slight hint of amusement, "Well go on then, let me 'ave a feel if yer so sure."
"I'll let you 'ave a feel, all right," John muttered, "'Ave a feel of me foot in yer arse, y'will! I don't have time for this rubbish." He started to get up from the table, the attempt failing miserably as dizziness chose that very moment to grip him. Unable to properly grasp what was happening to him, he fell back into his chair; his head listing temporarily forward as everything began to take on an uneven spin. Just as suddenly as it had come on, the spinning sensation subsided and he managed to catch hold of himself, saving himself from what would otherwise have been a rude awakening in the form of an untimely acquaintance with the floor. When he managed to look up, George's eyes were wide and his face was completely drained of color as though he'd seen a ghost. Bloody hell…of all the bloody things to be witnessed. Now George would never leave him alone. Bloody fucking hell…
"What the 'ell was that, John?" George demanded, his voice all but keeping steady in the aftermath of what he'd just perceived.
"Got up too fast…" John mumbled, "M'fine."
"Fine. Me arse yer fine." George scoffed. He frowned, coming to terms with the increased flushed appearance situated in the cheeks of his band mate's face. The rhythm guitarist certainly didn't look fine.
"I think I should know what I'm talking about, Harrison," John snapped, successfully rising finally from his seat, "Fuck, I think I bloody like y'better when ye' don't 'ave much t'say…" George…the quiet Beatle… They might as well label Ringo the tall Beatle…or Paul the rude one. The press had no idea what they were bloody talking about…
Before George could respond, a series of knocks sounded at the door and both Beatles turned to look at each other with slightly piqued curiosity. "Who's gonna get that?" John asked, his own curiosity dissolving into a condescending glare which he lethargically aimed at George.
"Well, yer feeling so wonderfully fine, Lennon. I don't see why you can't," George countered slyly, returning the glare, "And yer so eagerly on yer feet already so go right ahead!" He added a smirk, sealing his statement like the cherry on top of a sundae.
John scowled at him, but said nothing as he gingerly dragged his alarmingly chilled body towards the door. Repetitive waves of pain, having been annulled in the act of sitting, were now beginning to pour from his lower back area, down to his calves to his very feet. On occasion, the annoying twinges worked its way up into his shoulders where they would then rocket down his arms in a merciless manner. He was even a bit lightheaded still, the nagging woozy sensation recently seeming to become a bit permanent in nature. Truth be told, it wasn't helping with the nauseating aspect of things at all… Maybe they should send for a doctor, he thought dejectedly as the suite's doorway suddenly manifested in front of him.
Frowning, John wearily laid a hand on the handle and paused, leaving it there as if bracing himself for what lay in store behind it. Could be a crazed fan for all he knew. Maybe they had a knife…to put him out of his misery with… He felt bloody…awful…
"Who is it?" George asked from the kitchen table.
"If I knew that, I'd be bloody psychic…" John muttered without looking at him.
"Try the peephole," George reminded him, offhandedly.
John blinked blearily. "The what?"
"The peephole," George repeated, "Look through it. That's what it's there for, y'know."
"Right…" The little hole at eye-level that was bloody winking him in the face. How'd he miss it? Why should he want to look through the tiny thing, anyhow? It was so small…too small for his aching, gritty eyes. John shook his head slightly struggling to resist the urge to just lean his alarmingly heavy head against the door. The stubborn pain that gripped it, once soothed by the effects of a hot shower, was ever-present now, extending its reach even further in a way he hadn't been sure was even possible. His hair hurt, his ears throbbed. He was sure that even his eyelashes ached…or were beginning to…
Another series of knocks sounded, this time followed by a muffled cry through the soundproof door. "F'chrissakes, open the bloody door!"
At that point, John didn't need a visual. "It's Mal," he reported without enthusiasm.
George grinned, "That means he's arrived with our grub!" he announced, a little too excitedly for John's liking.
John finally moved to open the door and Mal practically fell into the room, his arms burdened by groceries, "Here, take this," he ordered exasperatedly, shoving a bag at John. Taken by surprise, John weakly stumbled back beneath the sudden weight added to him before managing to steady himself as his world startlingly took on an aberrant spin, "Christ, how'd ye' even get these 'ere all at once?" he murmured with faint surprise after his poise finally fell into place.
"I had to take multiple trips," Mal explained, wearily. He started towards the kitchen counter with John trailing behind, "This should last us well into New Jersey."
"Whadidye' buy?" George asked; his face lit up like a child's on Christmas morning.
Setting a bag on the counter, John shot him a frazzled glare, "How about ye' get off yer arse and bloody give us a hand, ye' lazy sod?" he snapped.
"Don't worry about it, John," Mal sighed, "There's only one more bag in the hall. I'll get it."
George grinned gratefully and returned John's glare with a smug look.
"Unbelievable…" John muttered. He wasn't in the mood to fight though. His dizziness had increased with a vengeance and he was pretty sure he was starting to have a bit of trouble catching his breath. Without really thinking, he leaned forward against the counter and dropped his head into his hands in a concealed struggle to control his breathing. He wasn't feeling well… really wasn't feeling well at all…
"I'm going to see what we 'ave," George announced somewhere in the background. John had to lift his head to see if he was still right beside him as he had been. He sounded suddenly so distant. So far away… There was a sudden crinkling of paper bags and before John could come to terms with what was happening, the younger guitarist was waist deep in their groceries, quickly rifling through items.
His hampered mind unable to fully process the situation, John turned away, his grainy, unfocused eyes falling on Mal who was making his way slowly towards them, one more bag in his arms. As he approached, he beamed an amused smile in George's direction. "You can always tell when 'e's feeling better," he commented with a laugh, "Food becomes his number one priority all over again."
"It never stopped being…" John muttered with ample indifference. His own voice sounded distant to him…Frighteningly distant…with a hint of an echo of some sort…
Mal chuckled, failing to notice the younger man's distress, "Well, just wait till ye' boys learn of what I've ordered ye' for room service!"
The crinkling of bags stopped abruptly and George glanced to Mal with a frenzied look of interest, claiming him, "What?" he asked, his word barely audible though he was right beside John.
Mal murmured something of a reply and George reacted in a way that seemed almost too animated for John's deteriorating mindset. He turned away, struggling not to sway beneath the weight of his own body and closed his eyes. He felt horribly sick… Why couldn't he just make it all go away?
"John? John! Ye' all right?" Mal was suddenly right beside him, gazing at him with obvious worry. John tried to grin at him, but the action didn't readily make it to his face. "Did ye' buy tea?" he asked woozily, unaware that the question was insignificant to what Mal was observing.
Mal frowned at him suddenly, infinite amounts of concern radiating out from the simple gesture, "You all right, Johnny?" he repeated, sharply.
"…Yeah…I think," John hesitated a bit before answering. Wasn't he? Was he? Why was he slurring? Was he slurring?
"I don't think you are. How's that headache of yers? Still there?"
John nodded tiredly, his eyes falling closed once again as the subtle action consequently jumbled his brain.
Mal's frown deepened, "I can tell…You look right knackered, as well. Ye' sure yer feeling all right?"
"Maybe not…" A hard shiver took that very moment to course through John's aching body and Mal's frown continued to deepen into a grimace as he eyed him. Without a word, he reached up a hand and placed it to John's forehead leaving it there a few seconds before John hastily pulled away.
"You're very warm, hot even," Mal sighed heavily. He'd been afraid of this. He pointed to the kitchen table, "Go 'ave a seat over there before ye' fall down."
"I'm fine…" John stubbornly started to argue. His words felt strangely ineffective. He could barely hear them…
"NOW!" Mal growled, raising his voice several octaves at once.
With a defeated sigh, John saw he had no choice but to obey. An angry Mal wasn't one to mess with…However, the kitchen table looked so far away. Too far away. Reluctantly, he took one step towards it, the simple action proving to be near impossible. His entire body felt weighed down…and he couldn't really focus.
He vaguely saw as Mal turned to George who had paused mid-grocery-investigation to look on at the happenings unraveling before him. "Put away the perishable items if ye' will, Geo," he ordered, "I'm afraid I'm sending Eppy fer a doctor."
"Look out!" George suddenly cried out, "Johnny's gonna faint!"
Before John could properly grasp the meaning of the situation, his world faded into nothingness…
A/N: SOOOOOO whatcha think?! I realize that John didn't come up with 'Julia' until later in the Beatles' career BUT...I thought it was fitting for the current situation :)) Hope you liked the chapter! You all have been GREAT!