A/N: Sorry to keep you all waiting for SOOO long but here's Chapter 11, jammed packed with words and waiting to be read! FINALLY! I apologize for the long wait, classes are kicking my butt this semesterr... BUT I will try to update periodically over the next several months! Please bear with me if ya can :)).
Following the periodic application of several makeshift icepacks to his feverish face and neck courtesy of Ringo, John was fully comatose. Finally sleeping soundly and completely oblivious to the frenetic world around him as a full forty-five minutes later Paul knelt beside him and proceeded to shake him in attempt to bring him smoothly back to reality. It seemed like countless hours rather than minutes since the guitarist's initial fall through into his fit of delirium and Paul was still beside himself in the aftermath. He was shaken, near traumatized in a way and suspense played a large part of it. The disadvantage of not knowing what to expect in regards to his normally boisterous friend intimidated him beyond belief. "Up and at 'em, Johnny-boy," he gently cajoled him; managing to keep his voice level despite his troubled mindset, "It's almost time to leave!"
When John didn't readily respond, Paul heaved a heavy sigh and glanced around the room, Ringo falling into his line of vision. As if sensing Paul's distress from a distance, the drummer quickly hurried over, frowning instantly at the appearance of John's still flushed cheeks and sweat-ridden hair plastered thickly to his forehead. "He all right?" he asked nervously, "He doesn't look much better if at all…"
"No, he doesn't…" Paul agreed with growing worry and slight anger towards the quack of a doctor that had looked John over earlier, not once but twice. A million things began to race through his head right then as he gazed at the guitarist's much too soundly sleeping form. What if they couldn't properly rouse him? Eppy and Mal most definitely wouldn't waste time pulling the plug on John's performance. Even worse, what if John was still delirious when they were finally able to wake him? Whether or not he performed in the upcoming show would then be the least of their problems. "Look at 'im…Clearly he's burning up, still…" he added with ample aggravation.
"The doctor did say it could take a few hours…two at the most…" Ringo responded searching his mind for a way to calm the bass player down. He glanced to his watch, "It 'asn't even been a full hour yet."
"I don't care what the quack said," was Paul's snappy, stubborn response, "And you shouldn't either. He's a blinkered sod that somehow by bloody miracle got a degree to practice in medicine and that's all there is to it!"
Ringo's eyes widened as they fell on Paul's abnormally flustered facial features, "Relax, Paulie!" he pleaded, "Ye' could kill someone with that look y'got on yer face! Let's just try and wake him up and see where to go from there."
Paul sighed heavily with an unnerved shudder, "Okay, then…" he relented. He watched as Ringo proceeded to shake John's shoulder and held his breath in increased anticipation. That frighteningly vacant look John had thrown about in the midst of his feverish daze beforehand; he wasn't sure he could handle seeing such a thing if it were to occur again… That lifeless being hadn't resembled John in the least bit. It was as though something had dared to take over him for that long, drawn out moment in time. Those empty eyes were what affected him the most. More so, the lack of recognition and perception within them. It was something Paul was sure would be with him forever. Imprinted within his memory bank for all eternity regardless of how hard he would try to forget it… Imprinted like the caring and searching gaze of his beloved mother that he'd never again be able to capture within his eyesight no matter how much he longed to do so. Life was funny like that. Only, Paul had yet to see the humor… "I don't care," he muttered suddenly, tapping into his still present anger, "if he wakes up looking worse fer wear, I'm calling the paramedics. I'm not letting something 'appen to John because that bloody doctor was too much of a blinkered prat to see past the tip of his own stupid nose!"
"I'd be right behind ye'," Ringo responded with calm loyalty, "I'd called it earlier, didn't I? Stated that John needed to be in a bloody hospital. He shot me down. Made me feel right daft, 'e did!"
Paul started to reply but the sudden rough cough that escaped John cast any additional comments out the window.
Ringo turned to him. The guitarist had rolled over on his back and was regarding them with a sleepy but slightly amused look on his face. "What's this about a hospital?" he rasped tiredly. His flushed face took on a grimace at the sound of his own voice and he coughed again before attempting to clear his throat.
"John!" both Beatles chorused in simultaneous astonishment, "Yer awake!"
John rubbed tiredly at his eyes and blinked up at them in surprise, "'Course I am…" he murmured matter-of-factly, "Why shouldn't I be?" He rubbed at his throat and attempted to clear it again, "Bloody 'ell, 'as me voice always been this bloody annoying?"
"About time ye' realized it," Ringo quipped.
John started to respond but Paul quickly interrupted him. "Are ye' gonna be able to sing tonight?" he demanded, getting immediately down to business, "How do ye' feel?"
John smirked, his gaze settling back on Paul, "Well…I'm not dead…and the day I'm not up to performing is the day they might as well bury me…"
"Keep on like that and I may end up burying you, meself," Paul grumbled, glaring down at him, "How…do…you…feel, Lennon?" he repeated, pronouncing each word more slowly and forcefully as if to successfully drive the question finally into John's head.
"Christ…I'm fine…Relax, would ye'?" John mumbled; traces of his amusement vanishing as Paul proceeded to turn away from him in a huff. Puzzled, John turned to Ringo, "What's 'is problem?" he muttered.
Ringo didn't answer. He just shook his head as he disapprovingly gazed in Paul's direction. The bassist was likely to end up with a hernia with the way he was carrying on today.
"Macca…seriously…I feel all right…" John sighed in attempt to reach out to his irritated band mate, "A bit sick still…but as I've said several times, I don't think I'm about t'die."
Paul turned back to John and after thoroughly studying his face a bit, placed a hand to his forehead without warning, "Well, y'do feel a bit cooler," he affirmed without even a trace of relief, "Yer still hot though, John…"
A smirk found its way back to John's face, "Still hot, 'ey? …Jealous?"
"Not in the least bit," Paul responded coolly, "If ye' remotely experienced what I've seen out of ye', ye' wouldn't be, either."
John's smirk faded once again, "What?" Did he miss something?
"Never mind, John…" Paul sighed with a small smile, "Glad you're up." He glanced up, noting the rapid advancing of Eppy and Mal in their direction and without another word; he walked away, leaving John speechless.
"Christ, what did I do, now?" John asked, glancing to Ringo again in confusion.
"Don't let it trouble ye', Johnny. I'm gon' go talk to him," Ringo stated with a bit of feigned brightness, hurrying off just as the two managers reached John's side.
John frowned in growing disconcertion before turning with reluctance to face the onslaught of Eppy and Mal. How long had he been asleep, anyway? Everyone was much too concerned over his well-being. As much as he loved to be the center of attention at times, he truthfully just wanted to crawl into a dark ditch and lay there permanently at this point. He felt that emotionally tormented and physically awful.
"You're up, Johnny!" Eppy was the first to speak, his tone much too cheerful for John's liking. He subsequently placed a hand atop John's head, "How're ye' feeling? Any better?"
John glared up at him wondering vaguely what it would take to eliminate the unwanted touch. His head was rather heavy with pain and the pressure of Eppy's hand, as slight as it was, wasn't helping in the least bit. "Bloody lovely, really…" he muttered absently without much in the way of emotion. After taking a moment to look off in Paul and Ringo's direction, he glanced distractedly away and began idly examining the palm of his hand devoid of interest.
Mal frowned, "You all right?"
The guitarist shrugged indifferently, realizing he wanted nothing more than to be left alone, "I'm fine…" he stated quietly without looking at him.
Still frowning, Mal settled a hand against John's forehead taking extra care to get beneath his damp hair, "Well, you don't feel fine, Lennon…"
"Well, I am," John snapped forcefully, not caring that he was coming off a bit like an insolent child.
"Listen, are ye' up fer tonight?" Eppy demanded, dropping down to his knees in front of John so that he was at eye-level.
"Mmhm…"
It was Eppy's turn to frown, "Yer still feeling rather lousy, aren't you?" he stated perceptively.
"I feel like bloody crap…" John muttered mockingly, his eyes narrowing condemningly on Eppy, "Yer not disappointed are ye'?" He shifted his accusing glare to their road manager, "How about you, Mal? Disappointed? No one could blame ye', really. Seems to be the common theme around 'ere. John Lennon's fallen ill and there's an important show coming up! Bloody 'ell, how inconsiderate of 'im! Everybody break out the bloody, fucking torches and pitchforks…"
"Christ John, is that how you think we all feel?" Mal asked incredulously.
"I don't know what to think, anymore…" John sighed dejectedly, breaking eye contact with both his companions.
Eppy shook his head, solely convinced that it was John's ever-present fever doing all the talking. "Please, just take it easy from here on out, John," he responded, his face still twisted worriedly into a frown, "We're concerned about you, y'know. I don't want to have to pull you from tonight's show."
"I gotta pee…" was John's disinterested response.
"Clean up while yer at it. Y'look like you've been dragged through 'ell," Eppy told him, "If yer clothes are wet, I suggest you throw on something dryer before ye' even think about setting foot outside. Dry your hair too. The last thing y'need is bloody pneumonia on top of whatever it is yer already carrying…"
Before Eppy could finish verbalizing his concerns, the guitarist was stubbornly up on unstable legs and headed for the loo.
Ringo and a much calmer Paul came back just as a blatantly agitated John disappeared from the room. "Where's 'e off to?" Paul asked.
"The loo, to clean up," Eppy responded, staring with a bit of concern in the direction John had previously stalked off in. As though realizing he had unwittingly allowed a bit of apprehension to creep into his being, he quickly turned back to his boys and hastily put on a smile, "How's my favorite drummer and bassist?" he asked, "Ready for tonight, I hope?"
"I am…" Ringo responded, "And Paul is…but ye' think John's gon' be able t'make it through to the end?"
Eppy's smile faded, "I should hope so…" He shifted his glance from Ringo, to Paul, to Mal and a smile, almost too wide in nature, found his face again, "No need to worry!" he attempted to optimistically assure them, "Everything's bound to turn out for the best!"
"I don't know, Eppy…" Ringo objected, "He's…"
"Give 'im time, Ring!" Epstein interrupted with a dismissive wave of the hand, "The prescription meds 'ave yet to show their full strength! It'll kick in by show time, and if not, then he won't perform. Either way, things should be all right."
"Are ye' sure that's all it'll take?" Paul asked; ever the doubtful one.
Eppy gazed at him in disbelief, "Paul, where is this coming from?" he asked, "Have ye' lost your ability to trust that things will in fact pan out for the best?"
"It's just…" Paul frowned and shook his head. Maybe he was overreacting a bit. John did seem better than he did over an hour ago… But…who was to say that what happened already couldn't happen again? John was clearly still suffering beneath the weight of his illness and his current temperature though seemingly lower than before wasn't entirely comforting.
"I don't suppose ye' feel the same way, Ritch?" Eppy asked, turning to Ringo who seemed beside himself in the impending situation.
"I-"
"Relax!" Eppy interrupted with jovial conviction, "Johnny's a tough lad. 'E'll be all right. You'll all be all right. Are you not the Beatles?"
"What?"
"Are you not the Beatles?" Eppy repeated.
"I don't see what this has to do with anything," Paul muttered, fixing Eppy with an irritated glare.
"We're not the Beatles, anyhow," Ringo responded, "We're 'alf of them."
Eppy gazed at the shortest member of the band with only slight amusement, "A rather cheeky bunch ye' are, as well," he muttered, "All I'm saying is you've all beaten the odds before, 'ave you not? It's no accident that you've all reached the top. A little faith goes a long way, y'know."
He motioned for Mal to follow him and proceeded to walk away right then as if his little speech was more than enough to convince both Beatles that they were overreacting.
"Keep an eye on John tonight," Mal sternly advised both of them before taking off after Eppy.
"We will, Mal," Ringo responded, more to himself.
"What a load of bollocks…" Paul muttered, staring with annoyance after Eppy, "Talk about not wanting to come to terms with reality."
Ringo sighed for what seemed like the hundredth time within the very hour, "Well if Eppy's not concerned then maybe we shouldn-"
"Eppy's not a bloody doctor!" Paul broke in with adamant frustration.
"Just listen fer a moment!" Ringo counteracted brusquely, "Bloody 'ell, Paul, what's come over you?"
"Just talk, would ye'?" Paul snapped.
"All I'm saying is, if the man who's blatantly arse over fucking elbows fer John doesn't see this as a risk, then…maybe we shouldn't be so concerned."
"Don't let 'im pull the wool over yer eyes," Paul muttered flatly, "It's blatant he's concerned. He'd just rather let on to the deceiving impression that everything's okay and will continue to be okay. Moreover, he's still not a doctor…and in my eyes, neither is that stupid sod of a quack that supposedly gave John a once-over. If something 'appens to John tonight, it's on him and I'll make sure he knows it!"
Ringo drew back, once again startled by the sudden escalation of Paul's anger, "Well, let's hope it doesn't come down to that," he whispered. That doctor wouldn't have a chance in the face of Hurricane Paul. He took in a deep breath. This un-Paul-like behavior had gone on long enough, "What's the matter with ye', Macca?" he demanded suddenly.
"What do ye' mean?"
"Where's that positive outlook we're so used to seeing from ye' at times like this?" Ringo thoroughly explained, "You've been so uptight lately, it can't be healthy. You've turned into a bit of a git, really."
Paul began to cook up a sharp response in his head to throw back but his attempt was besieged by the sudden weight of the world, "I don't know…" he muttered his tired gaze finding Ringo's concerned blue eyes, "M'just stressed out I guess…and worried about John…"
"Well take it easy, mate. You'll only end up ill, as well, and that won't help a thing in the least bit. Yer not alone 'ere in yer troubles, y'know."
Paul managed a thin smile, "Where'd you pick up such words of wisdom, Rings?" he asked with a hint of amazement.
Ringo returned his smile, "I learned from the best, Macca. Promise you'll keep a level 'ead?"
Paul eased into a genuine nod, "Yeah, I promise I'll do the best that I can."
It was several drawn out additional minutes before John finally reemerged from his suite in an entirely different set of clothing. His hair, much dryer now, was less disheveled and his face lacked the intense flush it had first portrayed upon his waking up. Staring at him with a bit of increased skepticism, Paul had to wonder how long the guitarist had stood over the bathroom sink, splashing his cheeks with cold water to successfully bring down the hue to the gentle pink it currently displayed. He wasn't fooling anyone with the façade he was bringing forth. Paul was sure of it. Even Eppy couldn't pretend to be this oblivious.
"How's John feeling, mates?" George asked, coming up suddenly behind Paul and Ringo.
Startled, the both musicians turned to face him, "What ditch did ye' drag yerself from, Geo?" Paul demanded bluntly, "Where've ye' been?"
"Decided to give Pattie a ring," George shrugged, "Took longer than I thought it would."
"Been meaning to give Mo a bel,l meself…" Ringo realized, feeling slightly ashamed that he'd been too distracted to do so by this hour. He glanced to Paul, "Have you talked to Jane yet this week?"
"We talked two days ago," Paul replied after thinking back a moment.
Ringo nodded, "Well, that's better than me…it's been at least a week since I've talked to M-"
George rolled his eyes looking suddenly as impatient as he was beginning to feel, "Could ye' idiots discuss yer woman problems on yer own time? I asked how John was!"
A troubled look, halted by Ringo's provided distraction, proceeded to grace Paul's delicate features once again, "You'd have to ask Lennon, himself," he muttered, "I can only hope that he has enough sense not to go on tonight if he doesn't feel he can handle it."
"Fer starters, he looked like complete shite when I saw 'im emerge from his room just now," George revealed worriedly, "Did he still seem out of it when he awoke?"
Ringo shrugged, "No more than usual, but he's bloody burning up still…I doubt he even knows what he's recently been through…"
"Are either of ye' gon' tell him?" George questioned, brown eyes shifting between band mates.
"Not right away…" was Paul's thoughtful response, "I'd rather not spring it on him either, should it…cause a relapse or something…"
Ringo nodded in agreement.
A blatant thought crossed Paul's mind right then and he turned immediately to face George, "Ye' didn't let onto Pattie that John's sick, did ye'?"
"I uh…might've said something…" George stated slowly, the idea that might've been the wrong thing to do surfacing within this mind, "But I didn't go into detail! Only mentioned that he might've caught the flu from me."
"Ye' didn't mention the high fever?"
George shook his head.
"Good…" Paul sagged slightly in relief, "I'm sure she'd waste no time letting Cyn know…and I'd rather her not 'ave to worry about John just yet."
"Cyn would probably tell Mimi, as well," Ringo sighed, "And y'know how that goes. She'd probably walk to New York just to demand what's going on."
"'Asn't his fever come down any?" George frowned, his eyes growing darker with utmost worry. Looking into them, Paul could easily make out his growing concerns for the impending show.
"A tad, maybe…" Paul muttered without conviction. He looked away before George could readily read his expression.
"Tonight should be bloody interesting, then," George mumbled, heaving a sigh.
"Yer not telling us anything new, mate. Trust me," Paul responded sullenly, "On top of everything, the stupid, stubborn git seems to think he's capable of tricking everyone into believing he's fine."
"Typical manipulative John Lennon," Ringo added with a bit of a chuckle in regards to the situation. Things were glum enough. He honestly didn't know how else to react.
George shook his head, "John being John, 'ey? Y'know this means we'll 'ave to watch 'im more than ever now, right?"
Ringo nodded, still chuckling, "Don't we know it."
After regarding John with a bit of doubt mixed with concern in his eyes, Eppy resorted to a business-like frontage and gave the official order that it was time to leave. As the others started to obey, Paul defiantly ignored him and saddled up to John, a frown on his face. "Y'feeling all right?" he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine…" John assured him, seemingly even more coherent now than upon his initial revival, "Feel a bit queasy but…it wouldn't be right if I didn't before a big show, would it?"
His attempt at a quip made Paul smile and brought a bit of ease to his entire being. "How're ye' feeling, otherwise, Johnny?"
John shrugged, his sleepy gaze drifting beyond Paul at George and Ringo as they exited the suite, jumping forth at Eppy's beck and call like good little Beatles.
"Not great, huh?" Paul translated, "Ye' sure you'll be all right fer tonight?"
"I think so…" John responded quietly, reaching into his coat pocket for some aspirin. The bottle rattled at the mercy of what sounded like one single pill.
Judging by how uncharacteristically subdued the guitarist remained in his presence; Paul could easily tell that his head was still hurting. "You don't sound too convincing, Lennon…" he countered; his worry increasing at the revelation.
John unscrewed the cap from the bottle of aspirin and, as expected, one lone pill tumbled into the palm of his hand. He hastily dry-swallowed it and winced coughing slightly at the persistent irritation in his throat.
"Did ye' finish that whole bottle?" Paul demanded in disbelief.
John nodded, pain gripping his face in the aftermath of the barely completed action.
Bloody hell. Did he now have to keep an eye on John for reasons entirely different in addition to everything else? Paul's eyes were subject to utmost seriousness as he eyed his best friend, "Y' should be careful ye' don't overdo it, John. You've taken a lot of other meds, as well and some of them don't mix."
John looked at him, his frown lengthening, "What difference does it make?" he mumbled miserably, "None of it's done a thing t'help…"
"Maybe ye' shouldn't force yerself into performing tonight, then…" Paul stated with a bit of worry.
"I'll be all right, Macca…" John sighed tiredly.
"Again, ye' don't sound convincing."
"Well, what is it ye' want from me then, Paul?" John snapped, his mounting frustrations finally breaking free, "Y'get upset when I tell ye' what y'want t'hear, y'get upset when I don't…"
Paul thought a bit before replying, "I want you to tell me the whole truth from here on out," he stated calmly and carefully.
John's tired eyes narrowed in ample suspicion, "Bloody 'ell, stop with the riddles…What the hell are ye' on about, Macca?" he demanded irritably.
Growing increasingly serious, Paul proceeded to look his friend sternly in the eye, "From this moment on, Lennon, I want ye' to tell me straight up if ye' start to feel badly, understand? No more of this 'I'm fine' rubbish. I know yer not fine. You haven't been fine all day."
John held his gaze, his previous irritation subsiding to fleeting half-amusement, "Yer not still on about when I fainted earlier, are ye'? Ye' weren't even there t'see it 'appen!"
Paul didn't soften his expression, "This isn't a joke, John," he chided harshly, "Do I 'ave yer word or not?"
John briefly considered the brunt of his friend's words before collapsing into a tired nod. "Scout's honor," he added, managing a somewhat genuine smile.
"Good." Paul stated; finally feeling able to take the guitarist's word for it, at least for as far as this portion of the night was concerned. "You've done enough scaring us for one day. Believe me."
John frowned, his growing apprehension showing visibly on his face, "What's this about then, Paul?" he asked tentatively, slight, hesitant curiosity taking hold.
'Oh nothing out of the ordinary…Just the fact that you unknowingly spent the last hour mumbling deliriously at a dangerously high temperature of 104… Nothing serious, really…' Christ…how was he supposed to reveal such a serious and unnerving happening to someone so oblivious? Could John even handle it? Of course he could… He was John Lennon. In all truth and honesty though, Paul just wanted to block the whole thing out… maybe convince himself that the scary occurrence had just been a dream… a rather realistic dream but still a dream, nonetheless. Wishful thinking…
"Well, what is it, then?" John continued to press; his voice rasping in persistent hoarseness, "Yer not exactly the most graceful liar, so don't try any tricks."
It wouldn't be right to keep such a thing hidden, would it? Paul realized. It would be downright immoral on his part. It was every bit John's business to know what was going on with him and he should be the one to tell him while the opportunity presented itself…even if it meant having to relive the frightening turn of events himself. "I-" he began, faltering almost immediately. Why was this so bleeding hard?
"Bloody 'ell, out with it, Macca!" John grumbled with rising impatience, "I'll find out anyway, so ye' might as well do yerself a favor and tell me."
It was John. That's why. Strong, ever-present, untamed, brazen John Lennon. None of this seemed remotely real. 'Bloody hell, get on with it, McCartney! You're acting like John's dying or something!' Paul heaved a sigh. "Y-you were really out of it for a bit…" he reluctantly spilled, the dam holding back his fears giving way, "Delirious…You bloody scared us, John! We had to bring that doctor around again and he injected you with something that he said would bring yer temperature down which at that point was practically at 104! I for one thought you'd end up in the hospital. Had it been up to Ringo, ye' would've!"
John shook his head in disbelief, wincing a bit at the amount of pain the action stirred up within it, "I'm sure I'd remember seeing that loony git again," he stated seriously, "Yer having me on, Paul…" He frowned, feeling suddenly unsure of himself, "…aren't ye'?"
"You didn't even recognize him you were so out of it," Paul revealed, the repressed memory threatening further to uncover his concealed emotions, "God, you were scary. You looked at him but right through him it seemed. And you didn't even acknowledge the rest of us."
"104, huh?" John mused aloud, "…Bloody 'ell…" What the fuck had he gone off and caught then? Certainly not a cold… A flu then? This didn't seem like any flu he had ever had…
Paul eased into a nod, "You were rightly burning up, John!"
John blinked, unsure of how to handle the unnerving revelation Paul was choosing to unload upon him. It didn't seem right…didn't seem real in the least bit… "How long was I out?" he dared to ask, his voice coming out oddly feeble like a child's. He mind held no concept of time whatsoever in regards to this foreign situation… He somehow feared the answer he'd receive…
"Long enough…" Paul mumbled, his gaze skirting evasively away from John's, "Over an hour, really…though there's no telling how long you had begun to deteriorate beforehand."
John scrubbed absently at his forehead, "…It's no wonder I bloody feel like shit, then…" he croaked halfheartedly. He coughed hoarsely and a hand scrambled for his throat which he proceeded to rub in a soothing manner. His eyes watered immensely all the while as his body attempted to handle the amount of pain it was suddenly presented with. He grimaced, feeling lightheaded all of a sudden. Stumbling somewhat clumsily, he found the nearest wall and eased up against it for much needed support.
"You all right?" Paul frowned, worriedly.
Wiping a bit at his eyes, John nodded, "S'bit woozy, really…" Long top eyelashes joined bottom eyelashes as he attempted to fend off the annoying, recurring feeling. Bloody hell, if this kept up, he'd soon be known as John Lennon the drunken Beatle…
Frowning still, Paul placed a hand again to John's forehead right then, leaving it for a few seconds before removing it at the disclosure that he felt thankfully slightly cooler than even the last time he'd checked. He was still very warm but nothing compared to how hot he'd felt earlier. "Yer still running a bit of a fever but yer nowhere near where you were," he revealed with a bit of relief present.
John was at a loss, "Christ…I don't…I don't remember anything after taking me meds," he concluded, his eyes widening in growing trepidation, "Eppy, I think was handing them to me…"
Paul nodded, "You gave us quite the scare, Johnny."
John frowned. If all that Paul had said had been true, then why couldn't he bloody well remember any of it? Should he be able to remember such a thing? It frightened him beyond belief that something so serious had overcome him without his knowing. What if he hadn't been able to overcome this delirium? What if it happened again? Would he have any way of knowing about it ahead of time? Would he die then? 'No, no, shut up with that, y'stupid sod… Christ, it's no wonder yer bloody off yer rocker…' Don't think about it…Ignore it… Forget drunken Beatle. Barmy Beatle was more like it…
"You just about made Eppy cry with worry!" Paul went on in the absence of John's response, his words nearly disappearing completely in the midst of jumbled up thoughts.
With a slight, painful shake of the head, John forcefully barricaded his mind in attempt to keep it from drowning him in the midst of any more worrisome thoughts. The irrepressible look of unease he'd unwittingly allowed to grace his face was quickly masked with one of his classic John Lennon smirks, "Somehow I'm not surprised…" he murmured finally, turning away to avoid his friend's gaze. He could sense Paul looking at him through the corner of his eye and was under the immediate impression that the bassist had, in his annoyingly perceptive ways, managed to catch him in the formation of yet another one of his defensive walls. What the hell else was new? Nevertheless, it was time for a subject change. "What about you, Macca?" he stated without warning in attempt to distract him from whatever doubts he was clinging to, "Did I get ye' to cry?" A familiar twinkle of mischief was present in his eye as he turned again to face the musician.
Paul blinked in utter surprise before narrowing his eyes on the guitarist in escalating confusion, "What?"
"Did ye' cry?" John repeated lightly, "Simple question."
"No!" Paul snapped, "Why would I?"
"I…I…uh…" John faltered and frowned, unable to promptly weave up something clever or remember what he was even getting at in the first place, "I…don't rightly know…" he admitted gracelessly. His brain, seemingly gift wrapped in endless layers of cotton, wasn't anywhere near its usual level of wit. Christ, it was as though he was unbecoming who he was supposed to be. Was that possible? Could one just one day cease to be one's self? Was he no longer John Lennon, the smart and witty Beatle? John Lennon without wit was like Paul McCartney without charm…what was he if he wasn't witty? Stupid? Barmy? Bloody hell, it was only a matter of time before he'd find himself labeled one or the other or…both. The mere thought along with the forced attempt to make sense of it all made his head hurt worse than it already was…or maybe it was his stupid illness that was doing so…
He just wanted to stop being sick already…especially after learning what a bleeding hassle he'd been to everyone as of late. If he'd thought he'd been under everyone's insufferable microscope to begin with, it was all bound to worsen tenfold now. As far as he knew, everyone's perception of him was the same. John Winston Lennon was a downright barmy, feverish, fainting mess that needed special care. Bloody hell things couldn't get any worse, could they? Could they?
Paul shot John finally with a questioning look in regard to his recent out of character slip-up. He'd been half-expecting to be faced abruptly with some witty, over extravagant, Lennon-like creation of words. The fact that John had failed at his own game astounded him. Concerned him even, "You sure you'll be all right tonight?" he asked; anxiously drawing in John's resigned appearance with worried eyes.
John nodded distractedly, eager once again to change the subject. "Let's just go before Eppy decides to find replacements fer both our arses… He would, y'know…"
"Mine, more likely…" Paul mused aloud, glancing to his watch, "He loves ye' too much, Johnny-boy!"
John smirked, but said nothing, his brain failing yet again to form wit…
Paul frowned. There were hundreds of smug and arrogant comments that John could easily have come up with. The guitarist wasn't acting like himself one bit, he realized; feeling a bit unnerved at the revelation. He was alarmingly out of it and he was being too bloody quiet for his liking. If something aside from his ailment was bothering him, Paul would have no real way of drawing it from him. John had his walls up and in place and there was no way into that complex mind of his without any additional prying. It was possible John was just feeling poorly and the bassist was jumping to conclusions as usual. But as good as he was at conclusion jumping; he couldn't convince himself that such a title readily applied here. There was something else bothering Lennon and whatever it was, was as a result successfully depressing and frightening the hell out of the guitarist… He could see the resulting apprehension so clearly within his tired eyes…and what concerned him, overall, was that John, as fearless as he often portrayed himself, wasn't easily ever visibly frightened…not in the many years that he'd known him.
"Well, 'ere ye' two are!" Mal abruptly appeared at the doorway, a disapproving look on his face as he reproachfully regarded both straggling Beatles, "I thought something 'ad 'appened!"
John scoffed bitterly in the face of Mal's concerns, "I don't suppose ye' assumed I went all barmy again, did ye'? Or maybe ye' thought I fainted…"
Mal's gaze found John and he narrowed his eyes on him in scrutiny, "I should hope you've regained some of yer strength," he stated quickly, not giving in to whatever it was the guitarist was readily getting at, "The fans are right cracked tonight it seems and I don't want them overwhelming ye'."
Everything's hunky-bloody-dory, love…" John smirked, "I feel fan-fucking-tastic…rather brilliant, really. Christ, I'm not gonna shatter, y'know…"
Mal arched an eyebrow at him in slight amusement, "Is that so?"
"His fever's coming down, I think," Paul told Mal who proceeded to check for himself.
"He is a bit cooler," Mal confirmed, "Eppy'll be glad to know. Maybe he'll be able to perform after all!"
"Of course I'll be able to perform!" John stated with an outward portrayal of unconcern, "I'm fine now, aren't I? Did I not just confirm that?" There was a slight quaver of uncertainty present in his voice that Mal didn't seem to catch. Paul did, however, and the bassist had to wonder if John was just saying such things in desperate attempt to convince not just everyone else that everything was all right, but himself as well. He'd have to call John out on it a bit later if he remembered to do so, preferably at a time when no one else was around. Moreover, with the way the guitarist was beginning to look, it was probably best not to do so right then. Alarmingly, he still looked as though he could keel over at any given moment.
"Stop fannying around then and come 'ead, would ye'?" Mal sighed, his impatience overriding the majority of his still present concern, "There's no time to waste! Ira's waiting in the elevator to escort you to the limo." He filed further into the room and hurriedly ushered the two musicians towards the doorway.
John swayed as the hallway air hit them and Mal, grabbing him with lightning-like reflexes, held him up, "Feeling fan-fucking-tastic, are ye'?" he muttered mockingly in the guitarist's ear.
"Tired…" John muttered with a sheepish laugh. A hoarse string of dizzying coughs proceeded to escape him and he sagged even more beneath his own weight.
Mal frowned down at him, "Ye' sure yer up fer this, John? Because if yer not, I suggest ye' say so now. I'm not about t'carry ye' out of 'ere."
"Y'could ye' know," John quipped gazing up at him with a tired lopsided smirk, "What're ye'? Ten feet tall?"
"More like meters," Paul added teasingly with a laugh.
Mal heaved an exasperated sigh.
John's grin faded. "M'fine…I'm all right, Mal…" he stubbornly assured their road manager. Gathering up what was left of his strength; he eased out of Mal's supportive grip and attempted to stand on his own, his face paling dramatically with the effort, "See?" he flashed a weak grin.
Paul shook his head in disapproval but said nothing.
"Yer rather drugged, aren't ye', Lennon?" Mal realized, allowing his apprehension to show in the form of a frown, "Very well, Lennon. Russian roulette it is. For your sake, ye' better 'ave a clue of what yer getting yerself into."
John started to nod, but dizziness gripped him at the wrong time and he stumbled over the bottom door-frame. "Bloody 'ell, Lennon!" Mal growled before reaching out to grab his arm to keep him from falling, "I think we should all be grey at your expense before the night is up!"
John frowned in embarrassment coming to the realization that if he was to be of any use that night, he'd best settle for a kip before the show. "Will I be able t'sleep on the way?" he asked faintly, gazing up with hope at Mal as they exited the suite, "I feel rather off-color… still…"
"I think ye' feel more than off-color, at any rate," Mal commented, glaring sharply at him.
Under regular circumstances, a typical ride to a particular performance destination would consist of additional planning in regards to the band's upcoming show routine. Eppy and Mal would require each Beatle's full and undivided attention as they repetitively went over everything that was to be expected of them.
"I'm sure Eppy'll allow it just this once, Johnny." Mal quickly responded as the elevator loomed into view, "In fact, I'd rather you did try and get some sleep. You're still rather feverish. A bit too feverish still for me liking."
A heavy shadow crept into John's wearied eyes and he frowned, unhappy with the revelation.
"But, we 'ave until the curtains go up to pass the final judgment." Mal added immediately after witnessing the guitarist's resulting look of dejectedness in reaction to his words.
John wasn't eased by Mal's attempt of reassurance. Nonetheless, he nodded, knowing full well, there was nothing else he could do.
"Let's chivy along then, ye' two," Mal continued, guiding them urgently from behind, "It looks like rain out there and I'm not in favor of either of ye' getting wet."
"I think I should want to get wet, y'know…" John murmured sullenly, "I'm so bloody hot, I feel it would do me good…"
"Being out in the rain is the last thing either of ye' need, Lennon," Mal gravely advised as he channeled the remaining half of the Beatles into the awaiting elevator, "With the condition you're already in, I fear you'd easily catch yer death! Your temperature is very capable of skyrocketing without warning as it is. And the last thing we need in addition to that is for Paul to catch a chill as well."
"Great…" John mumbled miserably, "Let's all hide our 'eads from a bit of rain. England would be right proud…"
Paul smirked, "C'mon, Lennon," he soothed, placing an arm affectionately around his shoulder as the elevator doors closed sealing them off from the hotel hallway of their floor, "Let's just try to get ye' through this night in one piece."
As Ira moved to press the correct buttons to bring them to the lowest level, the despondent guitarist found himself in the midst of a husky rendition of his own tune, "If the rain comes, they run and hide their heads. They might as well be dead. If the rain comes…. If the raaiiiiiiiin comes…"
The elevator began its descent, and John resultantly groaned, closing his eyes against the persistent surge of nausea churning within his stomach. "Can't wait fer this bloody thing to end," he muttered wearily, leaning slightly against Paul, "Feel like fucking crap…"
"Yeah well, if it's any comfort to ye', y'don't look so good either," Paul frowned, "Don't worry though, Johnny. If ye' feel the need to throw up, I'll gladly guide you to a corner of the elevator and hold yer hair back fer ye'." It was meant as a slight tease but there was every bit as much truth embedded within the statement as John did look decidedly green at the moment.
"Raaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiinnn, I don't mind…. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneee, the weather's fine…" John murmured somewhat melodically; his voice barely above a whisper. He grew gradually heavier against Paul's shoulder, and he began to realize right then that the lethargic guitarist was beginning to fall asleep leaning against him. Caught in the conflict of whether to wake him abruptly or let him rest a moment, Paul decided with the latter. With the show looming around the corner, every bit of shuteye counted...even if it was achieved...standing up...
A/N: Hope it's all right! Let me know! I'm open to opinions :)).