A/N: Had some really LOVELYY reviews for the last chapter! Thank you those who've continued to follow this story and have managed to stay on board for this long! I know it's been a long ride and you're all BEYONDDD AWESOME for coming along and sticking with me! SOOO...here's chapter 12 earlier than originally planned! Hope you enjoy... If not, then just bear with me till things pick up again m'loveesss :))

MUCHHHHH peace and loveee!

The first thing Paul noticed when he emerged through the hotel double doors was how dramatically the outside weather had changed since their initial arrival. The entire atmosphere, saturated with a thick, unbearable humidity, was even heavier now and there was an undeniable feeling of utmost suspense within it. It was as though the entire world was holding its breath in anticipation; awaiting something, larger than life itself, to take place. The calm before the storm, so to speak.

Beautifully dark, ominous clouds held the western sky captive, their towering, turbulent, sun-bathed tops achieving great heights as they reached eagerly for the unsuspecting, descending sun. Paul gazed longingly at them, marveling with awe at the perfect imperfections situated within various shades of blues, purples, and grays. Strained rays of the setting sun illuminated their outer edges, giving them each a majestic appearance. Even the darkest clouds could have a silver lining it seemed… It was incredible how nature could so easily present itself so brilliantly even while at its most intimidating.

"You can cloud watch on yer own time, McCartney!" Mal interrupted hastily; clearly unhappy with the snail's pace both musicians were moving at in the face of rapidly waning time, "We're behind schedule as it is, becoming more so by the minute!"

Speaking of intimidating… Paul's resulting frown found Mal's face who was glaring at both him and John as though willing lightning to strike them down simultaneously. It was blatant that stress had taken hold of him like a heavy, wet veil and with the recent given circumstances, he couldn't be blamed, either. At this point, it was safe to say that everyone was cracking or beginning to crack beneath the pressures beheld by the rapidly approaching evening. Paul sighed. He didn't even want to begin to wonder what Eppy would be like once they entered the limo.

"Paul McCartney, John Lennon, over here!" someone suddenly squealed, abruptly drawing Paul from his thoughts. He turned and grinned politely at the fan responsible, offering a small wave before turning his attention to the limo that loomed in front of them. A strong wind, carrying a hint of moisture with it from the incoming storm, blew rather suddenly tossing his hair about and he glanced with curiosity at John. The ailing guitarist was quietly trudging alongside him, every additional step he took; looking like it was harder than the last. He barely acknowledged the screaming fans around him, barely even seemed aware of his surroundings, for that matter. That in and of itself, blatantly spelled out the fact that the poor bloke was feeling significantly under the weather. Thankfully, they were almost at the limo. He could only hope that John would be able to sleep once they got in. He needed every bit he could get.

The sound of a limo door opening drew Paul from his reverie and he glanced ahead again, noting in surprise the significantly decreased distance between him and the limo. Ira stood beside the open door, gazing expectantly at both him and John, his expression as it often was while in the midst of his job, unreadable. Paul smiled in his direction before turning back again to briefly check on John's status.

The guitarist had emerged from his prolonged daze and was glancing despondently at the limo, his eyes dark like the approaching storm clouds and near equally weighed by feelings of dread. Paul instantly recognized the look on his face, as rare as it was. Desolation. He'd seen it enough over the years to know that it sometimes could take a strong enough hold within the guitarist to concern just about everyone he was in constant contact with. Paul impulsively waved a hand in his face successfully drawing his attention to him, "Hey, you all right?" he mouthed.

John's face reflected all out unease, his frazzled gaze speaking volumes to the bassist as he turned to regard him. He didn't need to speak. Paul already knew. The guitarist was having terrible second thoughts about what he was getting into.

It baffled just about everyone how much the Beatles, Paul and John in particular, could say amongst each other without the actual use of words. It was as though they had developed and mastered a language all their own, capable of rivaling that of fabled telepathy. In a way, they had.

Paul frowned momentarily. Though John was often subject to pre-show jitters and random fits of depression, this seemed entirely different. It went to show just how sick and out of his element he had to be feeling. Nevertheless, Paul flashed John an assuring smile. 'It'll be all right, Johnny…' he projected forth in just the simple gesture, 'It'll all be all right…'

Almost as quickly as it had visibly settled in, all traces of apprehension vanished from view and were hastily replaced with a typical guarded look of wearied cynicism. The guitarist's eyes, increasingly worn from the extreme trials of the day, purged themselves characteristically of all readable emotion and his face relaxed in a trademark careless Lennon-like manner. Just as quickly as they'd been lowered, the infamous Lennon walls were back up and in place.

"Well, what are ye' waiting for, the bloody New Year?" Eppy barked impatiently and hastily from inside the limo succeeding in startling both Beatles, "Come 'ead, would ye'?"

"Here ye' go, lads," Ira stated, gesturing hurriedly towards the open limo door. He gazed at the two remaining members of the band, his eyes lingering anxiously on John before they resiliently resumed their outward portrayal of reserved formality and he slipped back into professional security mode. Somewhere in the distance, thunder could be heard, rumbling its deep low warning that more or less heralded the arrival of the approaching storm.

"Ta, Ira," Mal gratefully stated, thanking the head security guard with an appreciative smile.

Ira momentarily managed a pleased nod of acknowledgement before stepping aside and allowing for both John and Paul to clamber into the limo. Mal, as usual, was the last to file in, shutting the door soundly behind him before hurriedly giving the driver the signal that they could now begin departure.

As expected, Eppy didn't waste a second displaying his displeasure in regards to John and Paul's inconsiderate lack of punctuality. The two were barely seated before he started in on them, his aggravation unleashing like the rain-drenched winds of a hurricane, "Well, it's about bloody time!" he barked in ample frustration. Frantically peeling back a sleeve, he thrust his watch in the faces of both musicians, both of them flinching in startled surprise, "Ten minutes. Ten irreplaceable minutes wasted because of you! That's ten minutes of preparation you won't have once we get to where we're going! Ten minutes of additional rest, Lennon," he shifted his gaze solely to the bleary-eyed guitarist, "you won't have to catch up on, prior to your performance… Should you even be allowed to perform at this bloody rate."

Paul cast a furtive glance beyond Eppy at the remaining lucky half of the band not in the direct line of fire. George and Ringo held their gazes out the window in the complete opposite direction, avoiding eye contact at all costs as if afraid that Eppy would resultantly find a reason to start up with one of them. Paul heaved a sigh and returned his attention back to Eppy. He knew from experience that if both he and John remained quiet and tried to look apologetic in the face of Eppy's wrath, this would all be over soon enough. He aimed a sidelong glance at his partner in crime. 'Please keep quiet, John,' he pleaded inwardly. The guitarist was already getting that restless, heated look in his eye which he proceeded to skillfully mask beneath an outward projection of indifference. Few could readily see it, but to Paul it was as plain as day. John Lennon; feeling clearly knackered, on edge, drugged, and off-color, wasn't about to keep quiet.

"Aren't I being punished enough as it is?" he hoarsely snapped as anticipated, eyeing Eppy back with blatant frustration, "Christ, ye' sound like me bloody father the way yer carryin' on. Just what do ye' think you'll accomplish yelling all the time? I feel like bloody 'ell as it is and yer making it all worse!"

Both Ringo and George jumped simultaneously in their seats and turned to look at John in surprise. Paul probably would've mirrored their startled reactions himself, had he not already been anticipating the outburst. It almost made him want to smile. As lousy as John was feeling, it was good to know that he wasn't feeling too much unlike himself to openly display his anger when he felt it to be necessary.

Eppy fell silent, countering the musician's words with a stern glare. It became obvious after a while of no response that he'd chosen to bite his tongue for the sole purpose of preventing things from escalating beyond control as they would, otherwise. As far as Eppy was concerned, things were chaotic enough as they were, and he wouldn't want to deal with any unnecessary consequences. "Just be quiet and go to sleep, then, will ye', Lennon?" was his aggravated, delayed reply.

John smirked in smug satisfaction thinking he'd won the last word and leaning his head back against his seat, closed his eyes. As had been the case numerous times throughout the day, he fell asleep in what seemed like an unnerving matter of minutes.

"Now, onto the show," Eppy muttered, turning his attention to the three remaining Beatles as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. As Eppy rattled on about the upcoming show's setup and whatnot, Ringo began a game of cards to help pass the time. Paul joined him but George declined, deciding he was more interested in taking in what he could of New York's exterior while he still could. Finally, he'd gotten his window seat…unfortunately; the timing wasn't the best as the sunlight was rapidly fading with the continual approaching of storm clouds.

Time as it normally would before a show, flew by as though someone had manually chosen to turn the hands of every clock forward several minutes at a time. Before the Beatles knew it, they were bearing down on their destination, crowds of people scattering this way and that at the beckoning of security guards everywhere. The setup here was similar as it had been at the hotel. Barriers lined a pathway, each individual segment holding back large masses of people. George drew in a deep breath as he looked on. This was all bound to get very interesting.

The limo pulled up to the curb and within seconds after they'd parked alongside it, it began to pour. Heavy, driving sheets of rain fell to the earth like mini daggers on a mission. The mob of fans took on sudden vibrant splashes of random color like tame fireworks as umbrellas opened up everywhere. These fans were in it for the long haul it seemed.

John jolted awake as a particularly loud rumble of thunder shook the limo and he glanced about him in a fit of disorientation before succumbing into a ragged bout of coughing.

"Oi, that's a nasty cough ye' got there, John," Ringo acknowledged, gazing in his direction from his hand of cards, "Y'sure you'll be all right tonight?"

John nodded groggily; hands scrambling hastily for his temples left throbbing profoundly in the aftermath of his coughing fit. Jesus Christ, what would it take to shake such a stubborn thing? A flicker of pain flashed across his face as he attempted to ease the pressure that seemed to push out from the insides of his head. His neck and upper spine throbbed with the effort, choosing that very moment to simultaneously plead their cases.

"How're ye' doing?" Mal demanded, eyeing him critically with deep concern.

John shrugged, struggling to ignore the new and residual ache in his neck, aggravated by the action. That too was quickly becoming a nuisance. It was as though someone had attempted to strangle him at some point during the day. His neck and even the center of his upper back felt oddly bruised and strained as if he'd managed to sleep on it wrong, "M' all right…" he managed after a while, his voice hoarse with sleep and illness.

"Y'sure?" Mal asked, his stern eyes taking in John's appearance. His flush had lessened dramatically but he still looked unbearably knackered.

John nodded, seemingly trapped in a sluggish haze.

Mal pressed a hand to his forehead to see for himself. The sigh of relief he emitted proved assuring for the limo's inhabitants, "Your temperature's come down even more!" he revealed.

"Is it gone?" George asked with a bit of hope.

"Not quite but I think I can safely say that he's no longer burning up, so to speak."

"Wonderful timing, Johnny!" Eppy stated, flashing a grin, "That's m'boy! Resilient as always!"

A security guard tapped on the window right then to claim both managers' attention and both Mal and Eppy without so much more a word, escaped out the limo door their actions similar to that of that morning.

"Are you really feeling okay?" Paul asked, turning his attention back to John once the door had closed.

"A bit…" John confirmed with a weak, faltering grin, "Me 'ead still hurts but I'm not so bloody hot anymore. Just annoyingly knackered…" He decided not to mention the unrelenting ache in his neck. As far as he was concerned, it was just another stupid symptom destined to make him much more miserable than he already felt.

Paul smiled, "Well, yer not out of the woods yet, Johnny, but it's good to see yer feeling at least a bit better!"

"Welcome back, John!" Ringo gushed, setting his cards down and throwing his arms tightly around the guitarist as though he'd just come back from a long holiday.

"Get off me!" John protested, fighting back only slightly, "Yer trying to get sick or something?"

"It's yer turn as well, Ring," Paul impatiently pointed out, "Y'plan on taking it or would ye' rather have John off?"

Tossing a smirk in Paul's direction, Ringo made a move to retrieve his cards from their temporary resting place, "Y'just want me to forfeit because yer losing!"

"No, I want ye' to shut yer gob and take yer turn like yer bloody well supposed to!"

"Sounds jealous," George stated with a wry smirk, his gaze moving finally from the window to Ringo, "Think Paulie 'ere, wants ye' all to his lonesome, Rings."

"Well, that's a right shame, although I am rather irresistible," Ringo quipped slyly, "However, I specifically told 'im to wait till we got back to the hotel before we engaged in any slap and tickle!"

George laughed, "Paul never could take instruction, well," he teased, "Although he thinks he is, he not quite the sharpest knife in the drawer,"

It was Ringo's turn to laugh, "Not by a long shot, son! John isn't even the sharpest knife in this drawer so how the bloody 'ell could it be Paul?"

"Would ye' play, already?" Paul snapped, growing more irritable by the moment.

Ringo ignored him, waist-deep in the midst of his usual shenanigans, "I keep me smarts hidden, I do! And then when ye' least expect it, I spring it on ye'!" He jumped animatedly at George as the latter of his words tumbled from his mouth.

George raised an eyebrow, "So hidden, ye' can't even see 'em anymore, in fact," he smirked smoothly.

"Y'blokes need hobbies," Paul muttered, "Can someone play for chrissakes?!"

"Don't get yer knickers twisted," Ringo laughed, "I'm going, Macca! You'll be right sorry too once I take me turn. They don't call me the smart Beatle fer nothing, y'know!

"They don't call ye' the smart Beatle at all!" Paul and George chorused in unison.

"Not yet!" Ringo quipped, "Once the press is done being captivated by Lennon's supposed wit, they will. Johnny'll tell ye' just the same. Right John?"

Having been staring out the window in a concentrated effort to drown out the increasingly annoying chatter of his band mates, John found himself nearly jumping from his skin as Ringo's incessant prodding finally managed to reach his throbbing eardrums, "What?" he snapped.

"Just say right!"

"Right sorry sap, ye' are if ye' think I'm about to conform to whatever load of bollocks yer weaving up," John responded tiredly before taking his eyes away from him and refocusing them back out the window. Groaning quietly, he rubbed absently at the back of his neck and closed his eyes allowing his head to rest upon the cool glass of the window.

Ringo frowned, "Sure y'feel all right enough fer tonight, Lennon?"

John nodded, eyes still closed.

"Play!" Paul barked.

John spoke without opening his eyes, "Ye' can always tell when Paulie's losing. 'E get's all huffy…" he stated offhandedly.

"I do not!" Paul growled, glaring at John.

"And whad'ye call this behavior, then?" George teased.

"Bloody sod off!"

"Someone's got their knickers on too tight," Ringo sang playfully, allowing his eyes off John finally.

"I've got a fist 'ere with yer name on it, Starr," Paul threatened.

"Go easy on 'im, Macca, ye' could break 'im with yer pinky alone," John quipped, sitting up finally with an exaggerated stretch. After grimacing in an instance of pain, he allowed a lazy smirk in Ringo's direction.

"Yer lucky I'm in too good a mood to be bothered by yer attacks on me size, Lennon…" Ringo retaliated, "I've beaten Paul twice already and I'm about to wrap up a third win!"

"Well, I don't feel very lucky…" John sighed, rubbing again at the back of his neck with a frown. It was possible he might have to ice the pain. Maybe ice his head while he was at it.

"Quite the bug you've managed to pick up, John," George commented unexpectedly, eyeing him with slight concern, "I've always known that when ye' get sick, ye' get sick but…I've never seen anyone fall so ill so fast…Even I didn't fall so hard. The whole thing's a bit eerie…"

"Such words of comfort, Geo," John muttered flatly, "Remind me never to come to ye' when I'm feeling particularly down."

George shrugged, "You of all people should be able to take in utmost honesty seeing as ye' dish it out so much."

John's eyes widened in fleeting surprise before his tongue redeveloped its ability to make words, "Bloody 'ell, it seems I've taught ye' well!"

"That rhymed!" Ringo pointed out without looking up from his and Paul's card game.

"Ringo, ever the bringer of useless information," John muttered. Leaning his head back again, he ground the palms of his hands into his eyes and blinked several times. The nonstop burning and aching within them was more than beginning to drive him mad by this point.

"I like to think of meself as a bit more than that, Lennon," Ringo scoffed as Paul in a fit of frustration and defeat threw his cards down to the portion of the seat they'd been using as a table, "Currently, I'm also the conqueror of Paul's pathetic arse!"

"You forgot to mention gloating bastard," Paul added petulantly.

"Another game, Paulie?" Ringo questioned, eyeing the bassist with dancing eyes.

"Clear off it, y'bloody git!" Paul snarled childishly, "And quit yer gloating. It's unbecoming."

"I'll quit me gloating when y'quit yer losing, McCartney!"

John arched an eyebrow in mild interest, "Ye' both should be thankful I'm not feeling well. Had I been playing, neither of y'sods would be gloating."

"Oh really, is that right?" Paul grumbled, "And I don't suppose y'believe you'd be the one t'beat us? Care t'put yer money where yer mouth is?"

John regarded him with utmost cynicism present behind faded eyes, "What part of 'I'm not feeling well' don't ye' understand, Einstein?"

"As soon as ye' start feeling better, I'm challenging you to a game of poker!" Paul stated confidently, "You too, Rings! What do ye' say?"

"I'm in," Ringo stated automatically.

The boredom present in John's face prevailed, "That's big talk from a bloke who just saw himself through three straight losses courtesy of Ringo!"

"Are ye' in or not?" Paul challenged.

John brought a hand to his forehead and pressed down in a failed attempt to keep the seemingly still intensifying ache at bay. "If ye' fancy another loss, love, then, yes," he responded, grinning in slight amusement at Paul's indignant reaction.

"The only thing I fancy is watching ye' cry when-"

"I hope we can go in soon," Ringo interrupted loudly getting annoyed with the typical argument that would only continue to escalate between his two band mates, "If I don't shake me snake soon, I'm gonna burst! First place I'm off to is the loo."

"What snake?" John questioned wryly, turning to him with a slight wince, "I think ye' rather mean worm…No way yer big enough to be hiding a snake in those trousers of yers…"

George laughed, "M'thoughts exactly!"

Ringo pouted, "Well in case ye' bloody sods 'aven't yet heard me latest motto, it's as follows. 'Big things often come in small packages!"

John arched an eyebrow, a flicker of pain fleetingly overtaking him, "Where'd ye' dig that up?"

"Me mind," Ringo recited proudly, "Yer not the only one with smarts now, are ye'? Pretty soon they'll be calling me the smart Beatle!"

"Or the annoying Beatle if they don't already…" John muttered jadedly, "Christ, sod the 'ell off, would ye'?" He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, draping an arm across his aching forehead. Bloody headache/neckache whatever the hell it was just wouldn't leave him alone. With the way the thing was currently throbbing sharply, it was no wonder he still felt off despite the declination of his fever… He might have to request an ice pack later…and some more aspirin. "Anyone know the record fer the world's longest ongoing 'eadache?" he wondered aloud after a while of prolonged silence.

"Nope," George responded after only a small moment of thought, "Why?"

"M'just wondering…" John murmured absentmindedly.

Paul allowed his eyes to sweep his friend's abnormally submissive face. His jaw was set, quivering ever so slightly in a controlled effort to deal with the pain he was clearly trying to hide. Blimey, could his head still be bothering him that badly? It just didn't seem normal. "You all right?" he asked worriedly.

"Fucking 'ead…" John sighed glumly, "Think it's set on a bloody record or something to that effect…"

"I'm not so sure you should go on tonight, John," Paul stated with sudden adamancy, "Yer fever may be down but it's not gone and clearly you're not feeling much better, worse even…I don't think-"

"Come off it, McCartney…I'll be fine…"

Paul opened his mouth in surefire retaliation, but was abruptly interrupted as the command to exit beat him to the punch. John pushed past him and followed Ringo out the limo door, George behind him. Paul was the last to exit and did so, grumbling to himself in frustration over Lennon and his persistently maddening antics. Bloody hell, it was bound to be a long night.

A/N: So...that was it for nowwww... REVIEWS would be most EXCELLENTTT not to pressure you or anything! Hahaaa thanks for reading!