A/N: Chapter 8 :)). Nothing to write home about but it sets the tone for chapter 9. Enjoy :)). ALSOO thank you ALL for the loverlyyy positive reviews I've received thus far! You guys are beyond AWEEEsome! Much peaceee and loveee 3
"John…John…" the voice was faint at first…but loud enough to be understood. John shook his head reactively before forcing his eyes open, his tired gaze greeting Mal and George's equally worried eyes. Everything fucking ached…
"Thank goodness!" Mal breathed in relief, "How're you feeling? Are ye' dizzy? How many fingers am I holding up?"
John looked away disregarding the onslaught of questions altogether, coming to the conclusion that he was weirdly on the floor…of the kitchen of all places. "What 'appened? Why am I on the floor?" he asked, feeling vaguely confused and disoriented.
Mal frowned, "Ye' fainted, John. Don't you remember?"
John shifted his tired gaze back to Mal, a puzzled look coming into his eyes, "Yer having me on!" he argued disbelievingly.
"I wish 'e was," George interjected solemnly. Once again he was pale, as if coming off a fright of some sort, "Ye' gave us quite the scare, Johnny! Cor blimey!"
John frowned staring up at him a moment more before glancing tiredly away. So it was true. He'd fainted. Bloody fucking hell. And now everyone was just going to stand over him and gape like he was some kind of undiscovered specimen. He felt suddenly impatient and annoyed despite the nagging fact that he was still feeling absolutely dreadful. "Well I'm conscious now," he snapped with uncontrolled irritably, "Help me up, would ye'?"
"Yer absolutely sure yer all right? Mal demanded sternly, "No dizziness or faintness?"
John weakly shook his head, "No, m'fine…"
Mal remained doubtful. John hadn't entirely been honest in regards to his rapidly declining health when it mattered most. Why should he take his word for it now? "Why didn't you say you weren't feeling well?" he demanded sharply.
John shrugged. "I didn't think-"
"That's right. Y'didn't think!" Mal cut him off, "Christ, John! Don't you realize how much worse this could have panned out fer you? Had you not blatantly fainted, we would've remained oblivious to how poorly ye' were feeling and who knows what could've happened from then on!"
"Yer overreacting…" John responded flippantly.
"Overreacting…" Mal echoed mockingly, "When will ye' bloody learn?" Heaving a sigh, he placed a hand to John's forehead, frowning again at the instant heat that radiated from it. He sighed in relief, nonetheless, coming to terms that the rhythm guitarist didn't seem any hotter than he'd felt last. "No matter…" he sighed compromisingly after a while, "The doctor will be here to 'ave a look at ye'. He can determine yer overall health himself."
Annoyed with the slow pace of things, John started to ease himself off the floor himself, only to be hastily stopped by the manager. "Blimey, relax, will ye', Lennon?" he commanded strictly, "Ye' have a fever, y'know. What just happened could easily happen again!"
"Then I'll risk it. I don't plan on lying 'ere fer the rest of me life, y'know!" John countered petulantly.
George glanced to Mal who nodded, and the two of them helped John up to his feet and over to the nearby kitchen table where he was seated. John instantly laid his head down upon the table top clearly exhausted with the effort and closed his eyes. He opened them again as something was placed in front of him and he saw that it was a freshly refrigerated bottle of water courtesy of George. "Drink up," George advised him, "Might help ye' feel a bit better."
John suspiciously eyed the bottle and its contents, "That's not from the tap is it?" he asked warily.
"It wouldn't be in a bottle if it was," George responded, taking a seat beside him, "The hotel staff left those fer us upon arrival. Nice gesture if ye' ask me."
John nodded tiredly and proceeded to twist the cap off, "Had some tap water back in Colorado, I think…" he revealed indolently, "Felt rather off fer the rest of the day."
George smirked wryly, "Well, ye' can't feel anymore off than yer feeling now, I'm afraid," he responded in a lighthearted attempt at a quip, "How're ye' feeling, anyhow?"
"Like shit…" was John's tired response. He took a small sip from the water bottle and swallowed carefully as though the action was rough on his throat.
Both Mal and George looked on with twin frowns, their worry only increasing.
By the time Ringo and Paul joined them; Mal was seated at the kitchen table alongside George and a rather sleepy John. The first thing both imposing Beatles noticed was the obvious worsening condition of John since they'd seen him last. His face, still dreadfully pale from his ongoing sleep deprivation, had taken on an all but subtle feverish flush that they were certain could rival that of a significant sunburn His head was currently resting on the kitchen table and it seemed he could barely keep his eyes open even long enough to pretend he felt all right.
"What's going on?" Ringo was the first to ask, glancing from John to Mal to George and back. He felt apprehensive as if he'd just missed something big and judging by the worry in George's eyes, he knew that was the case.
"I sent Eppy for a doctor," Mal announced anxiously, "Our boy Johnny 'ere's been running a bit of a temperature it seems…"
Paul perceptively arched an eyebrow in John's direction, "Aye, so ye' were sick all along, were ye'?" he questioned with a hint of mild bitterness and obvious discontent.
John spoke without lifting his head, "Mal thinks I'm hot, y'know…" he stated with utmost cynicism, seemingly oblivious to Paul's words, "Fucking queer…been hangin' 'round Eppy too much it seems…"
Paul frowned; his worried gaze focusing temporarily on John's distantly glazed eyes before moving to Mal, "How bad is it?" he asked.
"Right significant enough that it caused him to faint," Mal stated, grimacing with left over concern, "Thankfully, Eppy'll be along any moment with the doctor."
"He fainted?!" Paul demanded in shock.
Mal nodded solemnly, "Right here by the counter. I had looked over at him, noticing that he wasn't looking right. After realizing that he had a fever, I looked away for a second in search of a telephone. Next thing I know, he's bloody fainted in me arms. Lucky for 'im I was able to catch him before he hit the floor."
"Blimey…" Ringo sighed, displaying his own disbelief, "Let's just hope he's not coming down with the lurgy. Things were tough enough when George had it last."
"Not in favor of being talked about as though I'm not 'ere…" John grumbled suddenly, his voice worn and void of energy as he crossly reminded his band mates of his presence.
"Not in favor, 'ey?" Paul sneered, turning suddenly to eye him in budding anger, "Well, let me include you in the conversation then, Lennon! Why didn't y'bloody tell me you were feeling so bad?"
'Let's not start this again…' John thought with mild annoyance, 'Why must they all bloody overreact?' Despite his rapidly flaring aggravation in regards to everyone and everything, he managed an evanescent grin in response to Paul's obvious anger. "I'm not so bad, really," he muttered nonchalantly, trying his best to uphold a casual facade, "S'not me fault everybody's got nothing better to do than go right barmy over me…" He paused suddenly, narrowing his eyes on George, "S'not me fault Harri can't keep 'is bloody germs to 'imself neither…Bet he got me sick, 'e did! Waited till I was asleep one rare night, snuck in me room and-"
"Shut yer gob, will ye'?" Paul told him, still upset with him for lying to him in the first place, "It's not George's fault anymore than it's yers! Yer gonna use up all the remaining energy y'have left, ye' will, carrying on the way you are!"
John pouted petulantly, "Don't yell at me, y'git…" he muttered, "Can't y'see I'm sick? I didn't ask f'this, y'know…"
"Yes, we know, love," Ringo sighed sympathetically.
John grinned suddenly, "Love," he echoed mockingly, "Queers, the whole lotta ye'." He closed his eyes right then and was asleep in a matter of minutes.
A/N: Rather short, I know :( but the next chapter should make up for it, I promise :))