A/N: Sooooo heeeerrrreeeee's Chapter 9! Hope you likeeee :)

They were chasing him. Large groups of crazed fans. Girls. They wanted him. Wanted a piece of him… Something from him. Wanted anything from him. He was panting…wheezing… his chest was burning. He'd been running for countless seconds, minutes, hours now as though his life depended on it, and as far as he knew, it probably did. There was no telling what these birds wanted from him. No telling what they'd do to him if and when they caught him. All he knew was that he needed to get as far away from them as humanly possible. There'd been something strange about these birds from the minute he'd laid eyes on them. Maybe it was the hungry look in their eyes…maybe it was the razor sharp fangs they'd seemed to have sprouted before his very eyes. Christ, he was only one person for crying out loud. What did they want from him? The hotel came into view and he breathed a sigh of relief as he bolted up the long walkway to get to the door. The barriers were still in place and fans contained behind them clawed at him from either side, venomous looks in their eyes. He reached for the double doors finally and pulled on its handles in a frantic struggle to get them open. They didn't budge.

Glancing fearfully behind him, he saw that the girls were still advancing on him and some were even beginning to jump the barriers to get at him. Pounding desperately at the door now, he yelled as loudly as he could for someone…anyone to let him in. Nothing happened. The crazed fans drew frighteningly closer and his frantic cries became terrified screams as they began to grab at the coattails of his suit. "Please…" he was begging now, "Let me in!"

The doors opened finally and Paul emerged, a displeased look dominating his features as he set eyes on him. "What is it now, Lennon?" he demanded with utter disgust.

"Please, you 'ave to let me in!" John pleaded, "They're gonna tear me to threads!"

Paul gazed beyond John, an oddly complacent look in his eyes as he took in the gathering mob behind him. "Well, good," he stated rather coldly.

"What?" John stared at him in disbelief, "Paul, y'don't understand!"

"I understand all right," Paul responded, "I understand that yer out of the band."

"What?"

"We took a vote…" Paul explained, "You're out, John."

"Who took a vote?"

"The band, of course, along with Eppy, Mal, Neil, and George… everyone, really. Yer assistance is no longer needed. We're already a better band fer it."

"What?"

"We don't want you." Paul's smug gaze lingered on him only a moment more before it drifted beyond him to the rabid fans that now had him fully surrounded from behind. "Have at 'im, girls!" he called out to them before shutting the door in John's face. They grabbed him right then, and before he knew it, he was on the ground; one girl that oddly resembled Cyn, tearing away his clothes. "This is how it has to be, darling," she told him icily, "It's the way of the world!"

John squeezed his eyes shut, unable to properly look her in the eye.

"John…" she began to call, her voice oddly distant now, "John…wake up!"

The voice was changing now. Become increasingly distant as though from a different realm altogether. His heart was thudding in his chest.

"John…John…wake up!" it continued, forcing itself rudely into his mind. Wake up? Was he sleeping?

"His face is soaking wet!" Was that George?

"Blimey, poor bloke's 'aving a nightmare, it seems…"

Nightmare?

"Up and at 'em, Johnny-boy!" A different voice now. What was going on here? He felt a hand press against the side of his face, the mere touch offering with it, a shaky handle on reality. His strange surroundings began to fade. Someone was coughing now…or was it him? Bloody hell, his throat hurt…

"He's really warm, isn't he?" a separate person spoke. He felt someone wiping his face.

"But look at how he shivers."

Remnants of his nightmare continued to slip away as reality took over, asserting itself rather blatantly with a vengeance. A demented nightmare was all it was, stirred up within the twisted confines of his mind. There were no crazed fans trying to eat him…Cyn wasn't stripping him down… He was still a Beatle…and Paul didn't hate him…or did he? Christ, what in bleeding hell was wrong with him?

"Johnny…"

"Mm?" John murmured, his eyes still closed. He felt rather disoriented and sick to his stomach…

"You all right?"

John mumbled something unintelligible, his heavy, sleep-laden Scouse accent pushing his words just shy of comprehension.

"Doctor's here to see you,"

Coughing again, John cracked an eye open in sheer reluctance, realizing that it was Eppy who had spoken. "Bloody sod off, would ye'?" he grumbled hoarsely, before proceeding to bury his face within the comfort of his arms. His head was throbbing beyond belief, the rhythm seemingly in tune with his still pounding heart. Why couldn't they leave him be?

"F'chrissakes, wake up, Lennon, would ye'?!" Eppy growled with much more force than John had ever heard him use on anyone let alone him. For a fairy, he sure had the ability to make one jump to attention when he wanted them to.

With a frustrated grunt, John lifted his head with great effort and after rubbing the sleep from his eyes, glared suspiciously in the direction of an older bespectacled man. He was equipped with a white lab coat and thinning hair to match and what looked like a medicine bag full of god knows what. Without so much a word exchange, the man moved towards him and began checking him over starting with a quick glance into the eyes and a hand to the forehead. John was beyond annoyed at this point and moved to slap the man's hand away. The alleged attempt, quick as it was, proved unsuccessful as Paul, seemingly one step ahead, reached out to grab his arm. "Play nice, Johnny!" he growled in his ear.

"Intruding clod, didn't even introduce himself, firstly…" John grumbled offhandedly, undoubtedly looking for a reason to display his present anger. He was so fucking exhausted. Really he just wanted to sleep, no hallucinations or nightmares attached…

"Beside the point!" Paul told him, his voice taking on a gentler tone, "Just go along and you'll be done with this in no time."

John wasn't sure why but he felt oddly eased by this bit of information. "Fine…" he muttered compromisingly, "Let's just get this over with, then…"

The doctor, having been paying no attention to his patient or his negative complaints, was well onto other things, proceeding to check the rest of John's vitals, and in between, scribbling something onto a clipboard. After a while, an eternity in John's eyes, the doctor stepped back and took a good look at him, his scrutinizing eyes analyzing him in every way. Feeling a bit uncomfortable, John looked away, finding interest in a small imperfection on the table he was seated at.

"If, you don't mind my asking, Mr. Lennon," the doctor spoke finally, his words eloquent and distinguished, "When exactly did you start to realize that you were indeed feeling ill?"

John shrugged, "How should I know?"

"John," Eppy scolded.

With a roll of the eyes, John reluctantly fixated his gaze on the doctor, "It became obvious today…or rather yesterday…I'd been feeling a bit knackered fer a while, really…"

"What were the initial symptoms that led you to realize that you might not be well?"

John sighed in utter annoyance, "Like I said, I was feeling knackered fer a while..."

"He's had a headache all day today," Paul supplied, earning a glare from John.

"And it began today?" the doctor asked, arching a skeptical eyebrow at his patient.

John shrugged again, "I guess…I've actually been getting them quite frequently over the past several weeks…I uh…haven't exactly been sleeping well…"

"Any other sources of discomfort?"

John's gaze fell tiredly to the floor, "Eyes ache a bit…" he admitted.

"No appetite," Ringo added, "so he's probably been a bit nauseous…"

"Kinda been a bit dizzy…I suppose," John added unwillingly, "Achy…chilled…"

"Been looking a bit ashen of late," George contributed quietly from the other side of the table, "and he's developed a bit of a cough." He avoided John's gaze, instead exchanging eye-contact with Paul.

"Have you vomited at all?" the doctor asked.

John shook his head, immediately regretting the action as his head was suddenly engulfed in an array of sharp pain, "Felt like it…but no… 'aven't…" He glanced around in sudden unease, "We done 'ere?" he asked hopefully, his tired eyes blinking blearily. He could barely keep them open as it was.

"How's your throat?" the doctor continued to pry, ignoring the latter part of John's sentence.

"Fi-" John started to lie, but thought better of it. If he admitted it was bothering him, maybe he'd be given some kind of relief for it. He didn't feel like thinking about it but he still had a show to put on later. Still had to sing. Currently, he had no idea how he would even be able to pull off such a feat. "S'bit sore…" he sighed heavily.

The doctor nodded as if knowing this would be the case, "Open your mouth and allow me to take a look at it."

John's continuously growing exhaustion proceeded to catch up with him right then, and he found he wanted nothing more than to just get this over with. Even if it meant being cooperative John Lennon and led to him portraying the side of him, rarely seen. Without much hesitation, he opened his mouth and the doctor glanced in, shining a light down the back of his throat. "Okay," he said after awhile, "Go ahead and close it."

Eppy had been standing off to the side, wringing his hands repetitively in mounting apprehension, "How's 'e look, doctor?"

"His throat's showing some minor irritation," the doctor relayed without sympathy, "But it's nothing that a few lozenges can't help to soothe." He reached into his medicine bag and pulled out a thermometer, "Hold this under your tongue, Mr. Lennon, if you will."

Reluctance slowing the effort, John obeyed and submissively held the object in place while the doctor waited. Several minutes or so passed before he removed the slender object and gazed at it. "101.7," he reported more to himself than to anyone else.

Eppy gasped, "Almost 102 degrees! That sounds bloody high!"

"I'd like to prescribe some fever-reducers," the doctor stated, turning to look from John to Eppy, "If he starts taking them now, he should be okay by tonight."

"That's it?" Paul asked unable to contain his amazement.

"That and some meds to help alleviate his symptoms. There's not much I can do for the cold he's developing as we haven't the technology to properly eliminate viruses. He'll simply have to consume plenty of fluids, rest when he can, and let the illness run its course. Lucky for him, the strain seems a bit mild in my eyes."

"A cold?" Paul echoed, disbelievingly, "Just a cold?"

"A cold can be hard on the body when the patient is suffering the effects of prolonged exhaustion," the doctor explained mockingly, his tone riddled with supreme snide arrogance.

"But how can ye' be sure a cold is all it is?" Paul demanded persistently, "Haven't you any tests to run? He's got a 102 degree fever fer crying out loud!"

"I'm one physician, not a full hospital," the doctor condescendingly spat at him, clearly disliking the negatively insinuating tone locked within the bassist's words, "This is my diagnosis to give! I'm not sure how things work in so-called Great Britain but last I checked; here in America, physicians, not musicians are allowed to diagnose."

John's worn, feverish eyes locked on the doctor in a rather sluggish but menacing way. "I don't think I care fer yer tone!" he growled indignantly, rising unsteadily from his seat in a heated manner.

"John," Eppy sharply warned, recognizing the look in his eye, "Not now!"

John slid lethargically back into his seat more so from the unrelenting dizziness that had proceeded to grip him.

"Listen to your manager," the doctor told him, regarding him calmly, "I'm in charge of everything you currently need to feel better."

"Well, y'didn't have to get yer bloody bloomers in a bunch. Paul was just asking a question, y'know," John muttered resignedly, momentarily closing his eyes against the stubborn wooziness in his head. He sat up after a while despite its rather persistent grip that was ever paired with constant ache in his body, "So when can I get in on these meds y'speak of?"

"As soon as one of you takes a trip to the local pharmacy," the doctor responded apathetically, "Here's a written prescription for everything you are to indulge in. Follow the directions on each bottle, and don't mix anything that you shouldn't."

"No alcohol then," Ringo stated knowingly.

"Correct," the doctor responded, tossing the prescription on the table, "Now if you don't mind, I have another house call I must attend to." He turned to leave without so much a glance at any of the faces that surrounded him.

"Always a pleasure." John muttered derisively, "Do us all a bloody favor and stock up on some compassion next time. Goes a long way, y'know."

Eppy met him with a sharp glare before hurrying to catch up with the boorish doctor who now stood a ways off, a condescending look aimed at John. "Sorry about that," he stated regretfully, "John's well…John…"

"Just be thankful I haven't decided to charge you extra for my troubles, Brit!" the doctor hissed at him, his pale blue eyes shifting icily towards him, through thick-rimmed glasses.

Eppy emitted a nervous laugh, ending it abruptly as he caught John's indignant fever-fed expression out of the corner of his eye. He cast a briefly assuring smile in the guitarist's direction and John relaxed slightly though his eyes remained heated as he warily eyed the doctor.

"You ought to put a muzzle on that one," the doctor scoffed, gesturing towards John.

Eppy laughed again, struggling to remain courteous in the face of the ill-mannered man, "Right…well…thank you for your time, sir! Sorry to be a bother."

"You'll be sorry all right…" the doctor muttered under his breath, his barely uttered words falling mute to everyone in the room. He grunted audibly and made his way hastily towards the door, escaping mercifully into the hallway as though he couldn't get away soon enough.

"Gerrout of 'ere, y'blinkered sod!" John grumbled after him, not seeming to care that the doctor wasn't quite out of earshot.

"I don't think e's a fan of ours," Ringo casually concluded as he watched the door shut.

"Or our homeland," George supplied quietly, "Fucking bigot if I ever saw one…"

"Well, the feelings are bloody mutual." Paul muttered flatly, "For his sake and John's as well, I hope he at least knew what he was talking about."

Ringo smirked, "We should've let John knock some sense into 'im," he quipped only half-jokingly, "Right, Johnny?"

Having been staring absently at the closed door the doctor had escaped through moments ago, John jolted at the mention of his name. "Huh?" he murmured, distractedly.

That doctor," Ringo emphasized, "We should've let you knock some sense into 'im."

John stared blankly at him a moment before finally managing to take hold of his words, "Right, y'should've…" he muttered with delayed bitterness.

Ringo blinked at him, taking slightly aback by the uncharacteristic reaction on John's behalf, "You all right? Can't imagine you feel too well with that fever yer running…"

John gave his head a shake as though to clear it, "I'm all right…" With a forced smile, he attempted to bring forth his expected Lennon persona as for the sole purpose of instilling a bit of normalcy on his part, "Fucking sod… The nerve of 'im talkin' to Macca and Eppy that way… Last I checked, only I had that privilege…" His words lacked the fire he had meant for them to portray but he found he was too drained to really care. Energy was almost nonexistent…

Eppy shook his head with an air of enthusiasm mixed with impatience, "Well, sod or not, he's gonna get ye' back up to par for the show tonight, Johnny!" he announced gleefully. "Now, I'm gonna have Mal fill these prescription for you."

John nodded sleepily and folded his arms on the table. No sooner did he have his head resting in the crook of his arm, his eyes falling closed.

"Ey, Johnny…" Paul spoke, his voice full of remorse as he carefully eyed the fading guitarist, "Sorry fer getting mad at ye' earlier. I know y'couldn't help yerself, lying and all. You are who you are; even if yer the most stubborn, hard-headed bastard I know…"

John cracked an eye open and gazed lazily at him, "I'm sorry, love…but I couldn't 'ear ye' over all that extra stuff ye' said at the end."

Paul grinned in spite of himself, "Ye' heard me, Lennon."

John managed a tired smile, "Well…if anyone should be apologizin' it's me…" He sat up, rubbing roughly at his eyes and glanced wearily in George's direction catching his fleeting gaze. "I'm uh…sorry fer…being such a git t'ye', Geo. I didn't mean anything I said…I was just annoyed and whatnot…Took it out on ye' without meaning to…"

George cracked a smile, noting the sincerity in his friend's wording, "S'okay, mate…" he responded good-naturedly, "Fer the record, ye' weren't entirely in yer head."

Ringo arched an eyebrow at the played out scenario, "Blimey, a genuine Lennon apology!" he gasped in mock amazement, "He must be sick!"

"Not too sick t'make ye' bleed, Starr!" John countered sharply, a transitory glare finding the drummer.

Ringo danced out of reach. "You'd 'ave to catch me first!"

John glared at him a moment more before allowing his eyes to fall closed in complete disregard. "Can't be arsed to deal with this bloody rubbish…" he muttered thickly.

George's eyes widened, "Y'must be dying then, John!" he breathed incredulously.

"Poor baby," Ringo cooed, furtively re-approaching John. He proceeded to playfully stroke his hair in a rather affectionate manner, "Where's it hurt, love? I'll kiss it better!" He looked up, receiving amused glances from Paul and George. "A kiss from Ringo goes a long way, y'know!" he told them defensively.

"Says who?" George challenged.

"Everyone!" Ringo shrugged, as though the revelation was something that the whole world unquestionably knew.

"Everyone? And just who are all these people yer kissing so freely behind Mo's back, Rings?" Paul wanted to know.

"Just mummy and daddy, I bet," George quipped teasingly, earning a heated glare from Ringo, "That's everyone in 'is world, y'know. No one else would dare go near that nose of 'is in fear they might get an eye poked out!"

Ringo smirked, "I think they'd be more afraid of being smothered by those monstrous eyebrows of yers, really!"

"You dream every night of 'aving me eyebrows in place of that oversized beak. Admit it, Rings!" George countered.

Knowing from experience how such a duel would normally pan out, Paul forcibly inserted himself into the conversation before Ringo could readily respond with a quip of his own, "Geo, you have wonderful, soft, lustrous eyebrows. Rings, yer nose is pleasantly enlarged and pleasing to the eyes of others, all right? Now both of ye' come off it."

"But I don't-" Ringo started.

"But, nothing! Be quiet, will ye'?" Paul interjected, gesturing frantically towards John. The worn out Beatle, in the midst of all the goading banter, had somehow managed to fall back to sleep with Ringo still absently stroking his head. Ringo temporarily frowned, finding it slightly unusual that John hadn't uttered even one homosexual joke beforehand.

George arched an eyebrow in mild amusement as he gazed at John, "Now the poor bloke's bound to 'ave nightmares again…" he stated seriously, "Last thing he was aware of before he dropped off was Ringo of all people caressing him ever so gently…" A resulting grin broke out as he lifted his eyes to Ringo's face, "Take advantage of Johnny while 'e's sick, will ye'?"

"I can't help it," Ringo responded softly with a playful grin of his own as he marveled momentarily at his band mate's sleeping form, "Johnny looks right adorable when 'e sleeps… like an innocent child, really."

George smirked, "Goes to show how looks can be deceiving! It should be illegal to use innocent and John in the same sentence."

Paul remained serious, "He'll need a lot more energy if he's going to make it through the night…" he sighed with an air of apprehension, "That git of a doctor had better 'ave done a thorough job when looking him over…"

"His people skills weren't the best but I'm sure 'e did, Paul," Ringo made an effort to assure him, "It's the least he could do, really."

The attempt, however, was to no avail. John was rapidly deteriorating in front of them in the face of an upcoming show and Paul was troubled.

A/N: Hope the chapter was all right! Don't be afraid to leave a review if you so desire. The positive feedback continues to be make me happy :))))