A/N: Happy Labor Day weekend everyone! :)) Hope you're all enjoying it to the fullest that you can! Here's a real big chapter for you all! Decided to crank one out a tad bit early as I'm sadly back to college this week boooo :((. But I will be sure to update as frequently as I'll be able to! It's the least I can do for such dedicated, fantastic readers :)) Muchhh Peace and Loveeeee everyonee
"Room service!" Ringo announced cheerfully as he opened the door, letting in a rather large hotel staff waiter. George was practically on his feet in seconds flat, drooling with desire over the wafting scent that had since filled the room.
"What is it?" he demanded excitedly, eyeing the cart with maximum interest. The food was currently concealed from view and it buggered the hell out of him.
"Good evening, Mr. Harrison," the waiter politely greeted him. He then proceeded to throw smiles at Paul and John who were currently perched on the sofa with the telly on in front of them. "Mr. Lennon, Mr. McCartney," he added. Paul threw back a polite greeting while John just stared with exhaustion-laden disinterest in his glazed eyes.
If there were any traces of enamor within the waiter's antics, it was well hidden in the midst of his professionalism. George liked that. Too many hotels and restaurants consisted of staff that found themselves so star-stuck in their presence; they had no clue what they were doing. George could easily recall a time he had ended up with tea in his lap due to a particular lady who had been staring at him so intently she had missed the cup completely that she'd been attempting to fill. It was an unpleasant memory forever imprinted in his mind mostly because the others, particularly Paul and John, had never allowed him to live it down. The waiter proceeded to push a cart towards the dining table and left it there before turning back to face him. "I can assure you, Mr. Harrison, that you will be eating a highly delectable American favorite known as…" The waiter paused momentarily for dramatic effect.
George's jaw dropped in anticipation. 'C'mon out with it…' he pleaded inwardly as he stared longingly at the dome-shaped covers that kept everything from sight.
"Don't tell him, anymore," Ringo interrupted with a whine, "E'll 'ave the whole thing devoured before ye' even finish talking!"
"I won't!" George argued, "I'm perfectly capable of containing meself, y'know!"
Both Paul and John scoffed from the couch in complete unison but remained separated from the conversation, their gazes fixated on the telly.
The waiter smiled, "I'll let you discover for yourself then. If you have any questions regarding your meal or requests, feel free to phone down to the kitchen."
Ringo nodded appreciatively, "Thank you, sir!"
"Much obliged," the waiter responded before leaving the room.
As soon as the waiter left, George was practically on top of the cart, removing the obstructive covers and revealing four well-crafted hamburgers, along with a large selection of fries. To the left of the main course was some kind of cake of some sort. "'Ello, what's this?" he asked, peering at the meal with curiosity.
"Does it matter?" Paul piped from the couch, "You'll eat it, anyway, y'bleeding gourmand…" He rose from his seat beside John and made his way towards the cart. "It looks like we're 'aving 'amburgers," he stated with piqued interest, "With a side of potato wedges, and fer dessert, New York style cheesecake!"
George smirked mockingly at him, "Well aren't you the expert know-it-all, Paulie."
Paul grinned brightly, "Let's give it a try, lads!"
George glared at Ringo as he reached for a plate, "Yer gonna be sorry y'didn't let the waiter serve us. I may end up taking more than I'm supposed to!"
"Wouldn't be the first time," Ringo responded absently. He gazed over to the sofa where John remained, his attention still seemingly captivated by the telly. "Y'coming for a bite to eat, Johnny?" he called, "Y'need it!"
"Don't feel like it…" John responded tiredly, not even bothering to glance in his direction.
"Would ye' rather pass out on stage?" Paul joined in, "Yer feeling poorly as it is and you've barely eaten."
"Sod off…I'm not hungry…" John irritably insisted, "M'bloody nauseous…"
"At least come see what there is," Paul continued persistently, "Maybe yer stomach will change its mind.
"Or maybe I'll throw up on ye' instead…" John grumbled mockingly with ample cynicism. The rather feverish Beatle rose unsteadily to his feet, nonetheless, and made his way gingerly towards the set up in the dining area. The smell hit him midway and he stopped dead in his tracks, his face taking on a slight greenish tint.
Paul frowned, "Ye' all right?"
John didn't readily respond, instead wrapped an arm around his stomach in a nauseated manner. "I feel…bloody…sick…" he murmured shakily after a while, swallowing hard. Resulting beads of sweat broke out on his face and he absently ran a hand through his hair in a struggle to get it away from his forehead as though feeling undeniably uncomfortable, "Don't think I'd better come any closer…"
Ringo's eyes widened, "Christ, John, y'look like yer gon'-" The rest of his statement was lost as John's stomach chose that very moment to shift into sudden reverse. Emitting a horrible retching sound, he took off desperately for the nearest bathroom, hand over mouth.
"Well that's that," Paul stated with an air of finality.
"Is 'e throwing up?" George asked; staring off in the direction John had disappeared in.
"No, he's doing bloody cartwheels in the loo," Paul muttered with Lennon-like sarcasm, "I'm going to go check on him. You lads can eat or bugger off…"
Ringo frowned as Paul left the room, "Wonder where Mal is with that medication…" he mused aloud.
George shrugged, "I don't know, but if John's not eating, maybe he won't mind if I 'ave his share…"
Ringo failed to respond to him directly. "Let's get everything on the table," he said softly, "That way it's all ready fer Paul at least, when 'e returns."
"And John?"
"We may 'ave to whip up something special fer him," Ringo revealed, placing the large plates of food in the center of the table.
George grinned in an air of amusement mixed with awe, "Yer quite the mama bear today, Rings!" he stated appreciatively, "Y'were like that with me too when I got sick last…Why is that?"
Ringo smiled, as he moved on to set a place at the table for Paul, "I spent a lot of time in a hospital as a child. I know what it's like to be sick…" With that said; he made his way back to where he had set a place for himself and took a seat. George did the same and the two began eating in silence, taking time in between to taste and savor every bite.
"This is bloody fantastic!" George broke out after a while, his mouth full of food, "Makes me wonder why we weren't eating more of these while we were stayin' in 'Amburg!"
Ringo nodded in agreement, "We'll definitely 'ave to send our compliments to the chef and the staff!" He started to say more but his voice trailed off as noticed John's wan, worn out form entering the room. Paul trailed in behind him, a concerned look plaguing his face. He whispered something to John and pointed over to the sofa. John nodded in what looked like immense effort and made his way in the direction Paul had pointed.
"How're ye' doing, Johnny?" Ringo called to him.
John just grunted in his direction and flopped down on the sofa away from them.
"Did he throw up?" George quietly asked as Paul made his way over towards them for his share of the meal.
"Poor bloke just dry heaved…" Paul sighed, "Really didn't 'ave much in 'im t'begin with," He paused to think, "Colds don't generally make people throw up, y'know…that I know of…Come to think of it, I've never really heard of anyone passing out from one either…"
George nodded solemnly, "He's prolly comin' down with the flu…like I 'ad before…"
"And if he is," Paul added, "that would make the doctor wrong…wouldn't it…?"
"Easy, Sherlock Holmes," Ringo put in, desperate to keep an optimistic outlook on things, "Let's not jump to conclusions, 'ere."
"But it is a possibility, Rings," George sighed, bringing the likelihood to light. He'd been under the initial impression all along.
"How lovely…" Paul muttered with a heavy sigh, "Flu or not, just how're we supposed to get through tonight? It's too late to cancel…Eppy and Mal would never be on board. But at the same time, we can't 'ave John on stage gagging in between songs while we perform either. A right recipe fer disaster that would be…"
George shrugged, "They might go as far as to remove John from the show," he stated quietly, "though I hope it won't come to it…"
"Then we wouldn't be able to play any of the songs that portray John as lead singer…" Ringo sighed dejectedly, "New York would be disappointed! They expect to see the Beatles as a whole…not 3/4ths of 'em…" He frowned, rising from his seat, "I'm gon' make 'im some tea and toast… See if he can at least keep that down." George hungrily eyed his leftover fries. "You can 'ave 'im, Geo," Ringo sighed, knowing fully what the guitarist was insinuating with his body language.
Paul shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.
As Ringo moved to fill a kettle, the door to their suite opened right and Eppy entered the room with Mal behind him. "'Ello lads," he greeted them cheerfully, "I see you've all settled down for a bite to eat! Y'must've been starving!"
"If ye' only knew!" George stated midway into Ringo's fries.
Eppy frowned as the realization that John wasn't eating with the others dawned on him. "Where's John?" he asked, "I 'ave his medication."
Ringo pointed over to the couch and Eppy went over to talk with him.
"Did he eat any?" Mal asked.
"Not a bite…" Ringo muttered, "I'm working to change that as we speak."
"Good. He can't right take anything on an empty stomach," Mal sighed, tiredly.
"Y'blokes hungry?" Paul asked both Eppy and Mal, "There's some fries and cheesecake still left, y'know…Whatever George 'asn't already consumed, that is…" he added flatly.
"We ate already, Paul," Mal replied with a smile, "Y'lads 'ave yer fill. You'll need it."
Following a span of thirty minutes, John was eventually given a cup of mint tea to help settle his stomach along with a bite of toast to eat, courtesy of Ringo, followed by a rather large dose of various meds in a specific order, courtesy of Eppy. "Among these are some uppers," Eppy explained as he handed John bottle after bottle verbalizing the alleged dose in between, "Should be enough to get you through the night. How're ye' feeling?"
"Tired…" John muttered, simultaneously raking a hand crudely through his hair.
"Y'might want to get started on those uppers then," Eppy advised him, "It's a long night ahead of us and there won't be time to rest in between events." He then added hopefully, "You don't suppose yer feeling a bit better as well?"
John started to shrug his indifference but after catching the concerned look Eppy chose to shoot him with right then, he quickly forced a Lennon trademark grin, "…A bit better," he confirmed though at the moment it was the furthest statement from the truth. He could only hope all these drugs would kick in soon. Currently, he didn't feel he could even make it to the limo without creating a situation.
"That's m'boy!" Eppy grinned, permanently convinced, much to John's relief.
John watched for a bit as his satisfied manager rose from his seat beside him before leaning his head back and taking in a deep breath. So much chatter had filled their hotel suite over the course of the past half hour or so. Things were being said…plans were being made. He couldn't bring himself to remotely tune in, let alone join in. Christ. All he wanted was some peace and quiet so he could bloody think for a change. 'Is that so much to ask?' he wondered wearily as he allowed his eyes to close.
It was a known fact that once they arrived at the destination of their show, thinking would become something of the past. They'd slip into autopilot mode and everything that followed would take care of itself and fall into place. The fans would be right barmy…they always were. In their presence, no one would be able to hear… no one would be able to think… not for a minute, not even for a second. 'Banshees, the lot of 'em…' John mused tiredly. That was what they all sounded like on a regular basis. It rather seemed the vocal chords of their fans were constantly regenerating or were maybe incapable of fizzling out to begin with. Maybe they weren't fans at all, but partial robots programmed as fans to trick them into believing they had had a real taste of success; that the Beatles were someone important. Maybe they had no fans… This touring business would all be a waste then, wouldn't it? John smirked in spite of himself. How was that for a twist to the plot? Right certain no one would grow to expect it, least of all, the Beatles.
Truthfully, John dreaded the thought of performing that night. His bloody head would not stop hurting…his ears had been ringing nonstop all day…and he was still ridiculously nauseous. He just couldn't get a break for chrissakes. Now he had to add millions of screaming fans to the mix. It was possible he might die tonight. He rubbed a hand over his forehead and emitted a low groan, wondering how his head could still be bothering him so much after all these endless hours. Surely, his body was going for some kind of record…or maybe it was going on bloody strike. 'You chose to run me into the ground, you suffer the consequences,' he could almost hear his stupid body gleefully tell him. 'You dug your grave, Johnny, you lay in it.'…or however that stupid saying went. Bloody hell, if it meant he could sleep, he'd lay anywhere… Preferably somewhere cold and laced with ice…like Greenland…or maybe Antarctica. He was so bloody fucking hot all of a sudden… 'Greenland', he mused feverishly, 'That was the place with all the ice…yet Iceland was the place that was green and ice free… Funny how that worked.'He absently fanned at his face. 'England…what was up with that name, anyhow? How did most countries even get their names?' John frowned at the abundance of erratic thoughts that were parading wildly through his dilapidated mind. Why was he even thinking about such things, anyway? '…What are ye' even on about, Lennon?' His brain seemed to be working involuntarily…like a malfunctioning machine of some sort. A bit of unease proceeded to grip him as he vaguely began to realize that he was starting to feel considerably out of it… detached… Not quite in tune with reality… 'More importantly what are ye' bloody on?' Christ, it was so bloody hot now. Why was it so hot?
At some point, someone else sat beside him and John forced himself to reopen his heavy eyes, realizing with reluctance that any chance of additional sleep was increasingly becoming unlikely. Though he was grateful for the bit of a kip he'd managed to get in earlier, the amount of exhaustion that continued to plague him only seemed to be growing. If the meds would just hurry up and kick in, he might feel better… Better. What did that feel like again?
John allowed his bleary eyes to focus on the figure that sat beside him. For a split, extraordinary second, he could've sworn he had come face to face with his own self. A separate John Winston Lennon staring back at him with every bit the mocking, cynical expression he was immaculately capable of throwing about. "Aren't you a sorry sight for sore eyes," his mirror image spoke condescendingly, those eyes gleaming in utter ridicule. In a disoriented panic, John literally had to close and reopen his eyes to justify that he was, in fact, seeing things. The sigh of relief eased out of him as his second glance proved to be less frightening as the false reflection, ever so evasive, danced away leaving Paul in its wake. The way Paul was frowning worriedly at him, John had to wonder if he'd managed to catch the look of fear he'd thoughtlessly portrayed in the face of…himself…
"You all right, John?" Paul spoke finally, giving him a complete once-over with his eyes.
John faked a smile for the sake of his sanity or at this point, what was left of it, "Yeah…why wouldn't I be…"
"You looked as though you didn't recognize me fer a second…It was a bit frightening, really…"
"What do you want?" John sighed, unable to keep his exhaustion from ruling his emotions in the most negative of ways.
Paul didn't reply. His brown eyes locked instantly with John's and he wordlessly proceeded to study him as if searching frantically for any flaws that may have been hidden from the gazes of others. John was good at that sort of thing; hiding how he truly felt and Paul knew it. For John, it was an art, practiced to the point of mere perfection; and truthfully, Paul was the only one capable of seeing through any wall he'd readily project around himself. Needless to say, John already knew what the bassist was getting at; knew what he was trying to gain…knew what he was trying to figure out for himself.
Perhaps he'd save him the trouble and just tell him what he wanted to hear…the truth so to speak. How he wanted nothing more than to cancel the show despite the fact that they couldn't on such short notice. How utterly hot, zonked and sick he was feeling. How he wanted nothing more than to just put this all behind him. How desperate he was to just feel better. He was terribly homesick too and a bit depressed… He wanted to be home. Wanted…Wanted his mother… His mother…what an uncharacteristic nancy boy thought he had resorted to. Well, she wouldn't want him now, anyway… After the way he had acted in her presence, not many people would…
Paul's frown lengthened, outwardly portraying the fact that he didn't like what he was seeing in regards to his friend's appearance. John suddenly felt overly self-conscious. Perhaps Paul didn't wish to know him either… Perhaps he wanted him out of the band…like in that nightmare he had…. That was a nightmare, wasn't it? He was a right burden, really… Sick in the face of an upcoming show with no way to back out…What rubbish… Perhaps the entire band wanted nothing to do with him at this point. Right certain, they didn't…who would? They all left in the end…
John turned away from Paul and struggling to gather his toughest façade yet, spoke in as convincing a voice as he could muster for his own sake. "I'm fine, Macca…" he tried to assure him, his voice quavering only slightly.
Paul resultantly tilted his head to the side as if he knew far better than what John was telling him. "You can't lie to me, Lennon," he stated calmly, "Never could, ye' know."
John shrugged, "It was worth a shot."
"Feeling any better?" Paul asked, though John somehow had the feeling he already knew the answer.
"Meds could take a while to work or so I've 'eard," John responded wearily, "They might make me tired when they do…but then there's those uppers Eppy gave me…" he managed an amused grin, "I'm gonna be all kinds of messed up tonight…" If he wasn't already…
"Let's hope you'll still know what yer doing," Paul responded, with a small equally amused laugh, "Something tells me Eppy won't take too kindly to a drugged Lennon parading around on stage like a mad man."
John mock pouted, "Mad's me middle name, y'know."
Paul smirked, "John Mad Lennon. Has a nice sound to it, really. Rolls right off the tongue."
John's fevered eyes lit up, "It does, doesn't it?" he responded with utmost seriousness. He started to laugh but midway into it fell serious again. He had such a massive headache. Why couldn't he just shake the bloody thing already?
Paul frowned, traces of amusement leaving his face, "You all right, love?"
"I feel bloody…sick…" John murmured semi-coherently, his own words seeming to fade in and out of earshot. The odd sensation of unreality continued to grip him, seeming to drive a wedge between what was happening and what was exaggerated. He felt as though he was entering a permanent dreamlike state of some sort one in which everything had a delayed reaction including himself… He swallowed hard, feeling like he might throw up and decided it was best to maybe close his eyes in desperate attempt to rid himself of the god-awful feeling.
"I know you do…" Paul responded finally, his voice sounding strangely far-off, "I think those meds should start to kick in soon if they 'aven't already," he added.
"I hope so …" John murmured, daring to reopen his eyes despite the increased nausea stirring up within him, "Hate this feeling ill crap… Makes me feel like a bit of a…nancy boy, really." He paused swallowing hard, his glassy eyes taking on a newly distant look, "Saw me mum today, y'know," he said suddenly, his tone taking on a casual aspect in spite of what he was affirming.
Paul knitted his brows together as he regarded John with sudden confusion, "What?" he questioned.
"Me mum," John repeated nonchalantly, "She came to visit me while I was catching a kip."
"You sure yer all right, Johnny?" Paul asked, frowning at him now. He started to reach for John's forehead but John swatted him away.
"Took me by surprise too…" he went on, "At first, I didn't recognize her but then…I did…and…" He paused, taking in a sudden quavering breath and swallowing painfully, "I got upset with her…yelled at 'er and everything…" He could feel tears coming into his eyes and he wiped frantically at them, "I told 'er to go away…"
"John," Paul interjected, worriedly, "I think you-"
"Really yelled at her, Paulie. I made it seem like I didn't care she had come to see me when I did. I really did. I scared her off…" John could feel his own body shaking as he attempted to fight back tears, "I made 'er disappear…" The strong, wet, racking, sobbing spasms that plagued him were starting to become a bit more persistent now to the point that he couldn't even begin to control them. The tears had ceased to fall but…he couldn't stop shaking…couldn't stop gasping and hiccuping. Had he cracked? Gone mad? Great… Now he could add barmy to the long list of crap that was wrong with him. Hiccups…Did he have those now too? A strange dreamlike haze continued to fill his mind…
Paul frowned apprehensively before hastily bringing himself to get a trembling hand to John's forehead. He could feel the present fever radiating from it long before actual contact was made and the discovery frightened him. John was fucking burning up.
"I'm going to go get you some water okay, mate?"
John didn't answer, lost in the midst of his own misery.
"It'll be okay, Johnny…" Paul whispered. He glanced frantically around the room. Out of their entire entourage, no one seemed aware of their ordeal. He didn't know whether to be thankful or angered with their lack of perception. He knew John wouldn't want anyone to see him as he was but at the same time, he was coming off a bit delirious…or maybe it was the excessive amount of drugs kicking in? Paul frowned, his worry increasing. If he could help it, John Lennon wasn't leaving his sight tonight.
Paul made his way into the kitchen and headed for the fridge. The rest was a bit of blur. Next thing he knew, he was handing John a water bottle and watching with slight concern as the rhythm guitarist tore the cap off and began to mercifully gulp it down, barely taking time to breathe in between. "Fer chrissakes, Johnny…" he exclaimed, "Yer gonna make yerself sick! Slow down!"
Taking in one last gulp, John recapped the water bottle and glanced up at him. Tears were in his eyes once again. Christ, what is going on with him? Paul wondered worriedly as he took a momentary seat beside his friend. That did it. He was getting a doctor back there, even if it meant he had to make the call himself and bring that stupid bigoted git back into the mix.
"I think you need to lie down fer a bit before we go," Paul told John apprehensively, unsure really of how to take his best mate's sudden vulnerability, "You'll be all right. Yer just a bit feverish and sick…and that mixed with whatever it was that doctor's prescribed for you; it's making you a bit emotional is all. Lay here." Paul commanded. Rising from his seat, he helped him to stretch out lengthwise upon the sofa. "Trust me, you'll feel worlds better once ye' do. Close yer eyes and go to sleep. I'll wake you when it's time."
"Ye' thinnk I'm barrmy…" John pouted, glaring up accusingly at him, "Ye' want me out of th'band…don't yerrr."
"What? John-"
"Well, I won't let yerrr…tthroww me out…" John whispered, "Won't let yerr take a vote…voote mee out…"
Paul frowned. John was slurring and stumbling over his words in his feverish attempt to make sense…or rather what he thought passed for sense.
"John-love, I don't…" Paul allowed his words to trail off as they'd be ineffective anyway, "Just go to sleep, will ye'?" he pleaded.
John obediently allowed his eyes to close and within seconds it seemed, was out like a faulty light bulb.
Spotting Eppy a ways a way, speaking with Mal, Paul made his way over towards him and inserted himself into the conversation, not caring how rudely he was coming off.
"Paul, what's the matter?" Mal asked, seeing the immediate concern in his eyes.
"We need to get that doctor back here," Paul stated firmly, "The way John's carrying on right now, there's no way he can go on with the show."
"What do ye' mean?" Eppy asked.
"He's…I can't explain it. Just take my word for it, all right? He's a bloody feverish mess!"
Mal frowned, "He's not delirious is he?"
"He seems it…I don't know…"
Mal nodded, "I'll make the call," he responded seriously.
"I don't understand!" Eppy frowned, "The meds…aren't they…?" He didn't bother finish his statement, making his way across the room towards the sofa where John restlessly slept. Paul followed closely behind. The furious red that gripped John's entire face said it all. He was on fire. Eppy looked ready to cry. "Bloody 'ell…the show…we can't…"
Paul remained calm, "Easy, Eppy," he consoled their manager, "Let's see what the doctor has to say before we make any assumptions," Paul was never sure how he could manage to remain so upbeat on the outside at times like this. Inside, he was a right bundle of nerves.
Eppy heaved a sigh and managed a weak appreciative smile in Paul's direction, "Yer right…Worse comes to worse, you'll just have to go on without him."
Paul bristled at the thought. Go on…without John? Christ, they hadn't been faced with such a scenario since before the height of supposed Beatlemania… Go on without John? Was it even possible to use those words together to form a sentence? Sure he had been openly discussing it as a possibility with George and Ringo not that long ago, but… hearing it come out now from Eppy's mouth just made it seemed so…bloody final…
"Doctor's here!" Mal announced, showing up at their side rather suddenly with Ringo and George on his wings.
"That was quick!" Eppy commented, half incredulously, half thankfully.
Paul frowned, as he gazed behind Mal and his band mates, recognizing once again, the quack that had dared to set foot within their suite earlier. The so-called doctor was already eyeing him disdainfully.
"He was in the building already," Mal explained, failing to notice the hostile exchanges, "Someone had a seizure a few rooms over."
"And he's their source of relief?" Ringo muttered under his breath, coming up beside Paul.
"Tell me about it," Paul muttered unhappily.
"Well," the doctor spoke, daring to glare now at Mal, "What's the problem here? I'm a busy man. I'd love to sit here and bask all day in the presence of such big rock stars but, I have a life and a family to tend to."
"John. Look him over." Mal stated, keeping his words minimal.
"Didn't he take the meds I prescribed?" the doctor asked, glancing briefly to John.
"Well yeah…" Eppy inserted himself the conversation, "but-"
"Have you given the meds enough time to kick in?" the doctor interrupted brusquely.
"Does that matter?" Paul demanded, "I don't believe we're dealing with a cold here! Look at him. He's blatantly on fire!"
"That shouldn't stop the fever meds from kicking in," the doctor informed him, approaching and kneeling beside John's still sleeping form, "Lucky for you, I know just what to do."
"Do you, now?" Paul warily arched an eyebrow in obvious distrust.
"Paul, let him work his magic," Eppy sharply advised, "I'm willing to take anything we can get right now."
"He's treating him fer a cold!" Paul hissed at him, "How in bloody hell's it going to work if he's sick with something else?"
"Just trust that he knows what he's doing!" Eppy sighed, "We don't have a lot of time to spare here, and its best we take what we're offered."
"Someone, wake him up," the doctor ordered insensitively, "He needs to be awake if I'm to give him something to bring down that nasty fever of his."
Being the closest, Mal took the matter into his own hands. John fought him feverishly for several seconds before finally obeying and sitting up slightly. After a while, his unfocused gaze fell on the doctor, but there was no trace of recognition in his dull eyes as he eyed the man.
God, Paul thought worriedly…he's so out of it…
The doctor frowned, seeing this and instantly pressed a hand against John's forehead, his brow furrowing as he concluded the presence of a high fever. He then reached quickly into his bag for a thermometer. Finding one, he shoved it under John's tongue without hesitation.
"Just hold it, for a minute," he ordered John who remained eerily quiet, as he stared straight ahead, his lethargic gaze focused on nothing in particular.
Several long seconds passed, each one seeming like an hour before the doctor finally removed the long slender tube from John's mouth.
"103.9…" he frowned.
"Bloody 'ell…" Ringo exclaimed, "Shouldn't he be in a hospital?!"
"Not a cold…" the doctor mused aloud, ignoring Ringo. He reached again into his bag pulling out a syringe of some sort and without so much a word of explanation, proceeded to inject John with something.
"What's that?" Mal demanded.
"Let him sleep a few hours and he should regain coherence as his fever drops."
"What?" both George and Paul chorused in disbelief.
"No…" Ringo shook his head adamantly, "I've spent enough time in a hospital as a child to know that John needs to be in one!"
"Boys…" Eppy sighed defeatedly, "Please…"
The doctor scoffed, "Have you now, Mr. Starr…is it? And I'm sure there are thousands out there like you who have done exactly the same. Grown up in hospitals, so to speak. Doesn't make them all doctors now, however, does it?"
Ringo's blue eyes narrowed at him, but he said nothing more, managing to keep his emotions in check.
"What did you give him?" Paul demanded, taking up where Mal had left off.
"A fever reducer. That is the issue here, is it not?" the doctor remarked snidely.
"He needs a proper diagnosis…" Paul protested, "You said so yerself that it wasn't a cold, so what is it?"
"A particularly bad case of the flu, if I'm not mistaken, which I don't believe that I am," the doctor responded, "Rarely am I mistaken," he added arrogantly.
"Well, you were mistaken once already today," George mused aloud, his voice laden with sarcasm, "so, it must be our lucky day then, to catch you in the aftermath of such a rare occurrence!"
The doctor met him with a hostile look.
Eppy looked embarrassed, "I'm sorry doctor. I'm not sure what's come over everyone but I promise none of it is intentional."
The doctor ignored his apology. "Just follow my orders and he'll be coherent for tonight. What I've done for him won't repair him, but it should help to ease things a bit. Make sure he consumes plenty of fluids. If he feels faint, rest him. If his symptoms worsen, call me. But don't expect it to be a free offer." With that said, the doctor turned to leave.
"How much time do we have?" Eppy asked nervously, glancing about the room.
"It's five o'clock now…we have to be at Forest Hills by seven…seven-fifteen the latest," Mal responded, glancing uneasily to his watch, "It's a half-hour drive plus traffic so…"
Eppy sighed, "Well, we'll wake John at quarter to six. That leaves him with forty-five minutes of sleep uninterrupted plus he can sleep on the way there. And if by the time we get there, he still doesn't seem right, we'll have no choice but to excuse him from the show. The boys won't be happy but there's not much else we can do on such short notice."
A/N: Hope you guys liked it! Chapter 11 will be around when I can get to it :)).