A/N: Happy November everyoneee! Here it is! Chapter 13 :)). The reviews I've received thus far are just AMAZING! Still can't thank you all enough for following along and continuing to do so! You readers have been nothing but awesome! Hope you're able to enjoy my gift to you all in the form of this extremely long and drawn out hopefully better than mediocre filler chapter! xoxo

John's face literally felt as though it was melting off with the falling rain. The screams, the yelps, the cries of excitement; each audible assault seemed to take a piece of him with it as it rocketed through the wet air. His ears felt as though they were bleeding and his eyes, blinded by the repetitive flashes of numerous cameras in the foggy atmosphere, could barely even begin to focus on his surroundings. As painful as it was to admit, had he not had George behind him steadily moving him along, he easily could've disappeared into the chaotic sea of turmoil that enclosed them.

Doubts of uncertainty had begun to claim the guitarist recently too and he vaguely felt as though his impulsive decision to go ahead with this show wasn't the brightest move on his behalf, nor the band's behalf, for that matter. He was sick. Bloody hell, he was sick… So what on earth was he doing out here in the pouring rain? Trying to prove a point? Did he wish to endanger himself for the sake of this point, whatever the hell it even was? No of course not… But he had to go on with it now. He couldn't let the band down. Couldn't afford to let Eppy or Mal down… Not now… Not at this point. He'd caused enough chaos and concern on this day alone to last him close to if not all the rest of his life. Been enough of a burden. He would simply have to suck it up and bloody well grin and bear it as fake as it all felt. And while he was at it, he would have to hope that he could muddle through to the end without any additional drawbacks. John wanted desperately to believe that it was only a matter of time before he'd finally begin to feel better. His fever had dropped significantly which meant things had to be getting better. Weren't they, though? Not fast enough, his exhausted mind threatened to reveal… And now he could add exposure to heavy, driving rain to top it all off. Just whose bloody, ingenious idea was it to leave the umbrellas back at the hotel, anyway? Surely whoever it was would be getting an earful from him when he felt clearheaded enough to get around to it…

Though the majority of John's bodily aches and pains had subsided somewhat with the declination of his fever; repetitive waves of heavy exhaustion mixed with wooziness threatened to claim him in its place. In all honesty, if it weren't for willpower alone, he would've succumbed to the overwhelming feeling quite some time ago. However, falling flat on his face upon departing the limo hadn't seemed entirely like good publicity nor did it seem to be in good taste. The press would have a field day coming up with and fabricating all kinds of explanations as to why such a thing had readily occurred. And while John didn't give a fuck what the press went off and did on their spare time, there were others that did. Eppy and Paul, in particular, would be shell-shocked into oblivion if the image of the Beatles were to end up even just a wee bit tainted. It wouldn't matter the circumstances or if they were accidental. Fingers would be pointed, and as usual, he, John Lennon, would be in the line of fire. And why? Because his stupid body had stupidly chosen to betray him… and he let it.

John heaved a sigh. There was so much he was constantly up against. At this rate, he'd be happy just to stick his aching head into a block of ice and leave it there till pain faded to numbness and numbness faded to nothing… He didn't want to feel… He was tired of feeling… He was tired, period. Bloody hell, never mind being a burden in the eyes of everyone else; he was a right burden to himself it seemed… But as they say, the show must go on…

"It's the Beatles! John, George, look at me!" John, in his wearied state, couldn't remotely bring himself to acknowledge the pleas and calls of their many fans. With the way he was feeling both physically and mentally, he didn't have the energy to tap into his lively and animated side for them as he normally would on any given ordinary day. Everything seemed so bloody distant and out of kilter… He was so tired… Utterly knackered beyond belief… Even a bit angry for reasons he couldn't readily fathom. "Marry me, I'd make you so happy, John Lennon!" came another desperate plea.

'Make me happy, will ye'? Well, for starters, ye' could begin by telling all yer friends to quit fucking screaming in me ears… and then follow their lead…' John thought glumly, not even bothering to glance up in her direction. Any last traces of happiness he'd managed to cling to thus far, were rapidly slipping away. He didn't want to do this anymore. He wanted so desperately to be elsewhere, warm and dry, and feeling thousands of miles above the weather. Dare he mention the unraveling feeling to anyone of his band mates; they'd only look him in the eye, laugh in his face, and tell him that they told him so… 'I knew all along that you weren't up to task…' they'd say. 'Poor, stupid sap… thinking you had what it takes… Clearly, you couldn't be more wrong…' And John would be out of his head to argue. He was a poor, stupid sap… A right daft, stubborn, overly zealous, arrogant, burdensome sod of a sap…

The sudden yelp from directly behind him; yanked the ailing Beatle from his prolonged reverie, bringing his onward trek to a dead halt. There was the distinct sound of fabric tearing and as John turned to look behind him, he discovered a visibly shaken George gaping with utmost shock into the mob of particularly rowdy fans to the right of them. At first, John couldn't bring himself to figure out what it was that had happened but after a while of silently searching George for answers, he discovered that an entire sleeve of his coat had been pulled from its hem. What the…

John's gaze moved slowly from the ripped sleeve to George's stunned face to the fan responsible for the incident. She was proudly holding up the sleeve and waving it around like a trophy of some sort. "It's his!" she shouted, "A piece of George Harrison!"

A resulting commotion ensued and it wasn't long before a scuffle broke out as others surrounding her attempted to get at the piece of fabric in a rabid struggle to tear it from her rather strong grip. Bloody hell…

"You all right, Geo?" John asked hoarsely; turning his attention, back to the petrified Beatle.

George slowly glanced to him, visibly shaken and rendered speechless by the unexpected occurrence, and after a while nodded. He rather looked like a wet and pale deer caught in headlights.

"Keep it moving, boys," Mal yelled loudly from somewhere behind them, his voice somehow rising above the pandemonium.

After briefly looking George over with tired, barely functioning eyes, John turned and started walking again as though nothing had happened. George wasn't hurt. Shaken but wasn't hurt, nonetheless. As for the sleeve, there wasn't a thing they could do to redeem the situation gone awry, anyway. Things were plenty crazy as they were and considering the number of horrifying things that could easily have occurred in place of the ripped sleeve, there was no choice but to move. No choice but to keep walking like the sheep they were being herded as courtesy of shepherd Mal Evans.

The rain, assassin-like in nature, continued to fall, each individual drop beginning to feel like tiny missiles upon the exposed parts of John's body. He was starting to feel a bit chilled all over again as the rain uninvitingly eased itself into every possible nook and cranny of his coat, soaking him to the very core. Hellish didn't even begin to describe the scene he'd been involuntarily thrust into. To make matters worse, his nose had began to run and had developed, all its own, an annoyingly persistent tickle within it. Sniffling miserably, the guitarist managed a reactive grimace before erupting submissively into a particularly violent and wet sneeze. The pain that proceeded to grip his entire head and neck succeeded in throwing him off balance and before he knew it, he was on his knees, his world spinning aberrantly about him. He managed to stubbornly pull himself back up without help and continued on his way, still sniffling at the ever-present tickle in his nose and still oddly light in the head.

By the time they finally reached the entrance, John's eyes were watering profusely from the persistent will to sneeze and he could barely see the door through the wavering distortion the mist created. Could barely see the security guards as they hurriedly moved to usher him in through the glass double doors, into the shelter the large building provided. The lights were plenty bright too and that combined with the perpetual roar and added commotion about him contributed mercilessly to the continual lightness in his head.

"The Beatles have arrived!" someone loudly announced from right beside him.

Visibly shaken from the resulting unexpected scare, John audibly yelped and looked up in complete surprise directly into the face of a calculating video camera, its large, unseeing, intrusive lens picking up his every floundering move. Bloody fantastic. Unable to contain an uncharacteristic blush in the aftermath of his less-than-smooth blunder, the rhythm guitarist found the energy to display one of his many creatively crafted silly faces in place of the favored finger before forcing himself to move on, following still in Ringo's footsteps.

Cameras lurked everywhere. And everywhere where cameras weren't a gaggle of press reporters were present; shoving microphones in their faces and shouting questions at them, their voices seeming to hold close to megaphone capacity. It took everything in John to keep from lashing out. He was beyond overwhelmed as it was, cold, frazzled, and dangerously close to his breaking point…

"How excited are you to be back in New York a second time?"

"How does the venue differ from where you played last February?"

"Where are you scheduled to go next?"

Who, what, where, when, how… 'Why?' was the only question that John found to have relevant value. Why the hell couldn't these people back off? Why did they find the constant need to hound them continuously? Why. Why. Why. What… What would it take to gain a bit of space? He had some questions all his own to toss back into the works… The press would never see it coming…

"Don't feel obligated to respond," Mal furtively told them as though sensing the scheming frustration-fueled words budding on John's tongue, "All questioning is to be reserved till after the show. There isn't time. Just keep moving."

'Bollocks, Mal…' John thought with a slight pout, 'Now you've gone and spoiled me once chance at any real fu-' The sneeze escaped him finally without warning barely giving him the time to aim into the crook of a wet arm. Clutching his aching head, the Beatle groaned woozily as an immediate chorus of bless-yous and gesundheits radiated out from amongst his unfortunate surveyors. Some handkerchiefs even were thrust at him courtesy of butt-kissing, microphone-wielding reporters. 'Great, Lennon. Sneezing on camera. More excellent footage unintentionally provided for the feeding monster that was the press. Day keeps on getting better and better. What will ye' think of next?'

John hastily declined all handkerchief offers, merely overlooking them all before vulgarly settling on the use of the back of his soaked through sleeve to suit his runny nose. Though the majority wouldn't approve and may even be disgusted by such a shortsighted decision, he couldn't care less of any consequences. The press could think what they want. They would, anyway… 'Take that and run with it to the bank, cameraman,' John thought impishly, reveling in the known fact that both Eppy and Mal would disapprove whenever they managed to catch sight of such actions. Despite growing allover feelings of misery and discomfort along with the accompanying woozy sensation still parading through his mind, he couldn't seem to help the beginnings of a wicked grin as it momentarily spread across his face at the strangely pleasing thought.

"The Beatles will answer all questions following the show at the scheduled press conference like planned!" Mal strained to yell above the onslaught of demanding questions they were being hit with. Surrounding security guards seemed to catch on to the mantra and soon they were relaying forth the message to unruly reporters and to the occasional wayward fan that had somehow managed to leak into the building despite prohibitions.

Ushered from behind by Mal and led forward by Eppy and an additional bodyguard, the Beatles finally reached a narrow corridor and were mercilessly shoved through between two husky security guards that easily could've passed for doors themselves. Waves of persistent press attempted to push through after them but were swiftly rejected at the start of their endeavors. Having reached an impasse, they resorted to shouting after the Beatles, their cries falling on deaf ears for the most part with the exception of Paul who kept looking back at them, trying to look as apologetic as possible. Such a people pleaser, he was.

"Let's go, boys!" Eppy announced hurriedly as one by one, the Beatles trailed him, leaving the excess noise and chaos behind them. The four of them found instantaneous relief as they were introduced to the quieter and less crowded atmosphere this portion of the building had to offer. They spoke little, not one of them wanting to permanently disturb the newly pristine air that now enveloped them.

Following several twists and turns, the band finally found themselves paused outside a wooden door of what was to be their dressing room. "Wait here," Eppy ordered them, gesturing towards an important looking heavyset blond man a few feet away. The man, deep in conversation with what looked like the building's Head of Security, had his back turned to them, seemingly oblivious to their arrival, "This'll only take a moment."

John smirked hollowly in response, "Why not? Take all the time in the world," he mumbled "Clearly, we've got nothing better t'do than wait around all day…"

Brian wordlessly studied him before heaving a sigh and moving on to speak with the older gentlemen who had finally just begun to notice the Beatles' presence. The two immediately engaged in polite handshake. The building's head security guard, freed from conversation, beckoned for Mal's attention.

"I sure hope this doesn't take long…" Ringo sighed, once their managers were beyond earshot, "I still need to pee!"

"That would be the tiny bladder speaking," John stated, his voice and face void of all traces of humor and emotion, "Try not to think about waterfalls and dripping faucets or the very rain that's falling on the rooftop of this building, as we speak. I find that 'elps me when I find meself in yer predicament."

"Not funny, John!" Ringo countered, but cracked an amused smile, anyway.

"Bloody 'ell, I feel as though I've been dragged through the bloody mill," Paul muttered, looking with disgust at his soaked through clothing. He lifted his gaze and his eyes fell and lingered on his surrounding band mates for what seemed like the first time since leaving the limo. All of them were soaked to the core; all of them looked like hell but it was only Ringo who was harboring an unfazed look of content despite his growing urge to pee. George looked downright shaken and frazzled and John looked blatantly miserable and sick. Paul wasn't entirely sure how he, himself, looked but he was sure he was quite the sight, as well. He shook some excess water from his hair and started unbuttoning his hindrance of a coat, eager to get it off so he could begin to take advantage of the building's warmth.

John lazily watched him for a bit before rapidly losing interest. Succumbing to a mind-disabling yawn, he eased himself up against the wall nearest the left side of the door and closed his eyes. He was fucking zonked now… hazy feeling… And his head… Had Ringo not been standing directly in front of him, he'd of thought that the pint-sized Beatle had somehow managed to squeeze into his skull with his drum set and was loudly banging them about. With a stifled moan, he pressed his hands over his ears and left them there, in a feeble attempt to keep out any additional outside noise…

"All right, John?" George suddenly asked, appearing unexpectedly at his side and glancing at him with concern.

John let his hands fall from his ears and he slid to the floor in a squatting position. "Lovely…" he grumbled, avoiding the younger musician's eyes so as not to be questioned further on the subject.

For once, the rhythm guitar got his wish as Mal made his way back towards the band, the road manager providing the necessary distraction he needed. "I have some business to attend to," he announced, addressing the band as a whole, "I'll be back a bit later with all of your stage clothes."

"All right, Mal," Ringo responded with as cheerful a smile as he could muster.

Glaring at him, John wanted desperately to wipe that smile from his face, once and for all. How was it, the drummer could be so happy when he was so bloody miserable? Bleedin' optimists…

"What 'appened to you, Geo?" Paul suddenly asked; pointing with curiosity at their youngest's missing sleeve.

"Rabid fan got a hold of 'im," John responded hoarsely, rubbing again at his nose with the back of a wet sleeve, "'E's all right."

"They get to ye,' too, Len?" Ringo asked, turning to look John over. He gestured to John's raised knees, revealing some mud plastered thickly to them.

John shook his head but didn't elaborate on the detail, nor did he move to brush the telltale dirt away.

"'E fell before we came in from the rain," George said, speaking up finally to John's dismay.

"Did ye' trip or something, John?" Paul asked with a hint of worry.

"What's it to ye', Macca?" John muttered, clearly not interested in being the source of conversation, as rare an occurrence as it was. His patience was declining still and as a result, so was his mood. He pulled his wet coat tighter around him and hugged himself, sniffling and shivering still.

George's accusing glare openly portrayed his immediate resistance to John's careless dismissal of his fall. He'd seen it happen. The older guitarist had fallen because of a sneeze. A sneeze. He was about to open his mouth to bring the truth forth when Eppy's escalating voice interrupted.

Having recognized the look on George's face, John felt oddly relieved by this.

"Come 'ead, boys," Eppy called, attracting the attention of four wet, tired, and frazzled Beatles, "There's someone I'd like you all to meet. The owner of Forest Hills, Stephen Bailey."

"Now?" John grumbled, his words falling on deaf ears. Traces of relief once brought on by convenient interruption vanished when he realized that he'd have to walk to whatever it was Eppy was cooking up. He glanced to the rather inviting qualities of the linoleum floor. Couldn't he just continue to sit here and wait? Maybe lay back and close his tired, burning, watering eyes? Rest his aching head for a few?

"What's Forest Hills?" Ringo whispered, amongst his band mates.

"Here! Where we're playing, ye' idiot!" George snapped.

"Right," Ringo concluded with a sheepish grin, "Was just testing yer knowledge on the subject, Geo. Keeping ye' on yer toes."

"Bullshit, Ring," George quickly responded with an amused grin. He shook his head, "And you want t'be called the smart Beatle."

John wondered idly if, in the midst of all the upcoming insanity, there would be time for quick kip number seven-hundred and ninety-six, or wherever he was at this point in time… He'd taken so many bloody naps today; he might as well have been three-years-old all over again. Maybe this time, he could get a cup of warm milk to help ease him into dreamland while he was perpetually stuck in kiddy mode… Maybe he could get a bloody lollipop if he cooperated without throwing a fit…

"Lennon, I believe I addressed you, as well!" Eppy called impatiently.

John glanced up with a bit of surprise, realizing that his three band mates had already moved on to obey Eppy's orders, leaving him in the dust…or more appropriately, mud. With a sigh of defeat, he rose to his feet and followed suit, struggling not to look as bloody lousy as he clearly felt.

"Forgive his reluctance," he heard Eppy saying to this owner as he approached, "'E's a bit below par today."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Stephen Bailey responded, offering a sympathetic smile in John's direction.

"Don't be," was John's bored but snappish response.

With a flash of a disapproving glare aimed in John's direction, Eppy quickly dived into introductions before the sharp-tongued Beatle could readily say anything more, "This is John Lennon, as you already know. And over here of these fine chaps are Paul McCartney, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr," Eppy proudly went on to reveal, mannerisms similar as they would be had he been showing off a display case of trophies, "The Beatles," he summed up.

"It's wonderful to meet you," the man stated kindly, "We've had quite the parade of celebrities come through here but really it's an honor to have the Beatles here live and in person! I'm a very big fan!"

"It's an honor to be here in the presence of a very big fan, Mr. Bailey!" Paul responded with a charming smile.

'Overachieving kiss-arse,' John thought, glaring at him with a sniffle.

The owner reached into his pocket pulling out a key from within it. "Please, call me Steve! How are you all enjoying your stay in New York, so far? I realize it's a long way from what you boys know as home."

"We've been 'ere before," John tiredly reminded him, "There was our first American tour last February or whenever it was…"

"New York is fantastic still, nonetheless!" Ringo cut in before the short-tempered guitarist could finish with something they'd all easily regret, "We only wish we had more time to really take it in."

Steve chuckled, "One day you will. If only it weren't so rainy this time around. This weather's only fit for the ducks I always say."

"We're used to it," Ringo responded cheerily, "Rain's all we get back in England."

Key still in hand, Steve quickly glanced at his watch and then at Eppy and the band, "Well, I'll let you all get down to business, then. I realize we unfortunately don't have all day." He proceeded to make his way past them to get to the door.

The last of optimism in John vanished completely by this point and illness-fueled negativity continued to bubble up to the surface within his mind at an uncontrollable rate. He wanted so desperately to come off as the mischievous, witty personality that he was known to be but he couldn't seem to control himself or the morose feelings that had recently taken him over. "'Bout time someone realizes that we don't 'ave all day…" he muttered sharply in response to the older man's words, tired eyes surveying Eppy in anger, "At the rate we were going, I thought we'd soon 'ave to get up on stage looking like we've been dragged from the bottom of the ocean!"

"Fer chrissakes, belt up, would ye', Lennon?" Paul harshly whispered, furtively elbowing his friend sharply in the side.

Taken aback by the bassist's bold actions, John sucked in a deep breath and choked on it, ending up in a rather violent sounding coughing fit.

"John?" Eppy questioned, laying a supportive hand on his shoulder, "You all right?"

John shook away his touch in an air of frustration, "M'fine!" he snapped roughly between coughs, frantically waving him and everyone else off.

Eppy sighed, beginning to piece together now, the fact that the guitarist was in the middle of yet another severe mood swing. With a shake of the head, he turned his attention back to the building owner, "He's all right," he assured him with a small smile in attempt to cover up his own embarrassment.

Steven was most unfazed by the manifestation of John's harsh words. "You should find most of what you need inside your dressing room," he professionally stated over the rhythm guitarist's hoarse coughs as he slid the key into the lock, "Snacks, bottled water, items of the like… It's all very fresh!"

George grinned, "No explanations needed. Ye' 'ad me at snacks!"

"Big surprise, Harri," Ringo smirked with a roll of the eyes.

John groaned weakly as his coughing fit finally came to an end, his eyes watering immensely and his head screaming bloody murder.

"You all right?" Paul tentatively whispered to him, finally feeling guilty for causing such a harsh fit in the first place.

"Peachy." John snapped, his voice straining to form the simple single-syllable word.

"I didn't mean-"

"Christ, I'm fine, Paul!" John barked drawing all eyes on him, "Just stop talking!"

Paul's eyes widened in shock and confusion but he said nothing in response to the rhythm guitarist's unexpected outburst.

Key situated and turned to the fullest within the lock of the dressing room door, the owner swung it open, and stepped aside, "Here you go," he concluded, clearing his throat nervously in reaction to the tension that suddenly seemed to cling to the atmosphere. "Is there anything else you may require?"

Wet, cold, and growing increasingly annoyed, none of the Beatles were up to making any requests. Glancing in Eppy's direction, George saw that the owner was waiting with bated breath as though willing one of them to say something…anything… So the quiet Beatle broke the silence, "A small regional dessert, perhaps?" he suggested with a hint of uncertainty, "If it's not too much to ask?" Somehow, he couldn't stop thinking about the creamy cheesecake splendor his taste buds had earlier relished in.

Ringo rolled his eyes, "Nothing's small with ye' when it comes to grub, Geo…" He turned to Steve, "Might as well 'ave 'em bring up a whole smorgasbord."

"Very funny…" George muttered, unimpressed by Ringo's humor.

"Anything else?" Steve pressed eagerly.

"A bottle of Scotch," John stated hoarsely, "And some-"

"Ignore that absurd request," Eppy quickly stepped in.

John pouted, looking at this point like a distraught child, "But-"

"Yer not supposed to be drinking!" Eppy furtively hissed at him, "Doctor's orders! Now do ye' ave a proper request or not?"

"…Aspirin…" John mumbled with bitterness, "And some water…"

"Some lozenges, as well, for John…" Ringo added, glancing to his younger band mate. "It'll help your throat," he explained in the face of the rhythm guitarist's resulting glare, "Make ye' sound less like a bullfrog with a head cold."

"Paul?" Eppy verbally prodded the bassist for his request.

"No, I'm all set, thank you," Paul stated politely.

"Ring?"

"Think I'm all set, as well…"

Steve smiled, "I'll see to it that the rest of your requests are fulfilled." With that said, he scurried away like a man on a mission.

"Thank you," Eppy called after him, before following the rest of the Beatles into the dressing room. Shutting the door behind him, he deliberately avoided eye contact with any of them, conflicting emotions threatening to explode out from him. The boys knew of Eppy's surfacing irritation long before he showed it. His demeanor had changed entirely and they could feel it.

John couldn't care less. He was beyond disillusioned with the way things had been unraveling thus far. Eppy could take whatever petty little problem he was dealing with and stuff it somewhere. Christ, he was infuriated. Why? He just was. All he knew was that the feeling wasn't going away and it was becoming harder to dismiss and get a handle on. "What's the matter, Eppy?" he dared to taunt, looking down his nose in that renowned condescending way at the silently fuming manager, "Arse over elbows for another bloke ye' can't 'ave? Fancy a go at, Steve, do ye'?"

Ringo would've kicked John if he was close enough to do so. Clearly, the guitarist was out of his head to be looking for a fight when now was as wrong a time as any. Shaking his head in growing disbelief, Ringo turned to take in Eppy's reaction to John's biting words. Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Eppy's eyes had fallen closed and he appeared to be taking in deep breaths, counting down silently. John, as he would with that mood of his, had managed to push him to the breaking point. It was only a matter of time before the manager gave in to it. The Beatles could almost count down to it. Five, four, three, two… one…

Three Beatles watched as Eppy's furious gaze finally landed on John. Here goes…

"You!" Eppy snapped, his outburst right on cue, "I've about 'ad it with that attitude of yours!"

John scoffed and smirked defiantly in the face of Eppy's anger, "Well, what're ye' gonna do, Eppy, stick me in bloody timeout? I'm a little old fer that, don'tcha think?"

"A little old? Who'd a known just by listening to ye' whine and snivel this entire time!" Eppy shouted, "I realize that ye' don't feel the greatest but bloody 'ell, John!"

'Please, just shut it, John!' Ringo pleaded inwardly. Sure, the unpredictable Beatle had done some crazy things in his time, uttered quite the shocking string of words on occasion with that tongue of his but normally he possessed some form of good judgment when it came to knowing when to shut his mouth… or didn't he?

"Well, what're ye' gonna do, Eppy!" John challenged coldly.

'Perhaps he doesn't know any better, then…'Ringo concluded inwardly. Certainly his younger band mate wasn't entirely in his head…

"I could go 'ead and remove ye' from the show," Eppy responded, threateningly, "It's not too late."

There was silence as Ringo, Paul, and George found themselves stepping back away from what could easily escalate.

John's eyes locked dangerously on Eppy's as though daring him to carry on with his threat. Ringo thought they looked a bit wild and unfocused…"Y'would like that, wouldn't ye'?" the guitarist sneered after a while.

"Don't tempt me, Lennon!" Eppy growled.

"…You'd like to see me gone from the show…" John went on, his eyes growing wilder as he continued to pour salt onto his manager's wounds, "…Wouldn't ye'? Wouldn't ye'? Go 'ead then, Eppy, get in line. Remove me from the show. Eliminate the bur-" He faltered, immediately biting down on his own tongue. He wasn't pouring salt on anyone's wounds but his own. 'Eliminate the burden…' his mind went on to scorn mockingly, 'Burden… Nobody wants to deal with a burden…and that is exactly what you are, John Lennon.' John closed his eyes, trying desperately to keep his frustrations under control. After a while of prolonged silence, he tiredly shook his head in conceded defeat, in no mood to continue fueling whatever the hell it was he was fueling, "Just forget it."

"What?"

"Just come off it, already," John murmured, his voice shaking, "I'm sick of everyone constantly getting their knickers twisted over everything I do or say…"

"John-" Eppy sighed.

"No…" the guitarist sharply interrupted, "I said forget it. I'm done…" Before anything more could be said, he plastered on a weak smile in a struggle to recover a bit of his lost joking persona, "Could really use that Scotch right about now…" he quipped halfheartedly before dismissing himself from Eppy's line of vision.

Eppy could only stare after John as he voluntarily separated himself from everyone. He knew from experience that if he dared address the musician now, he'd only be shut out. Bloody hell, what a trying day this was shaping up to be. Setting aside the happening and any more thoughts on John, Eppy turned his attention back to the remainder of the band who'd been quietly looking on.

"He'll be all right…" Eppy muttered as though for the sole purpose of convincing himself and only himself. It was then when he suddenly came to terms with George and his blatant missing sleeve. "What 'appened 'ere?" he demanded in sudden concern.

"Fan got to me," George explained, "Frightened the bleeding 'ell out of me."

"Well, are ye' okay?" Eppy asked, "Yer not hurt, are ye'?"

"'Course 'e's not hurt," Ringo put in, eager to help along the subject change, "Do ye' see tears streaming down his face?" He managed a cheeky grin in the face of George's resulting glare.

Eppy shook his head incredulously, "Were there any other mishaps I should know about?"

"None significant," Paul stated seriously, "Just Geo."

Epstein nodded with a wilted smile before allowing his gaze to drift again in John's direction. The Beatle had carelessly dropped himself into a chair several feet away and was sitting with his head in his hands. He hadn't noticed it before but he was shivering now, rather violently at that. Eppy frowned; no wonder the guitarist was being such an impatient, bloody bastard at the moment. As sick as he'd been, he had to be feeling god-awful and in all those wet clothes too. With his frown growing, he made his way over and knelt beside the haggard guitarist. "How are ye' feeling, John?" he addressed him worriedly.

John glared up at him and shrugged, his jaw quivering ever so slightly from the persistent shivers coursing through him, "Wet and cold… How's it look like I'm feeling? Is there something else yer seeing?"

Frowning still, Eppy brought a hand to John's forehead, "Well, yer temperature continues to decline," he announced, with a bit of minor relief present, "Maybe that's why yer so cold. Let's hope it only continues to do so as the night progresses." He leaned back slightly and proceeded to cross-examine the guitarist with scrutinizing eyes, "I'm going to ask you this one last time, John. Are y'sure yer up fer everything that's lying in store?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" John sighed with an annoyed roll of the eyes, "My temperature's down, isn't it? Ye' said so yerself."

"That's beside the point. Regardless, yer still not yerself."

"And how would ye' even know that I'm not meself?" John snapped, his anger beginning to escalate all over again, "Ye' think yer me? Think yer John Lennon, do ye'?"

Eppy drew back in slight surprise, and John deflated, realizing he wasn't helping his case any, "M'fine, Brian…" he stated stubbornly after a while, a look of utmost sincerity and determination present in his adamant light brown eyes, "Really."

Eppy sighed and stood up. Before any more pensive thoughts could continue to rule him, he stepped back to address the band as a whole. "The next several hours will be grueling at the least," he stated, "But I 'ave no doubts that you'll each be able to push through it in spite of what obstacles may lay in the way. Just keep that in mind."

Four Beatles stared back at him unsure of what to say.

"What's this about, Eppy?" Paul spoke finally, breaking the resulting silence, "Yer acting like we're marching to our deaths or something."

"Just trying to instill a bit of optimism, is all," Eppy explained, nonchalantly throwing a lighthearted smile back at him.

"Well go instill it elsewhere. We 'ave enough 'ere in case ye' didn't realize," John muttered without looking at him, "We're the bloody Beatles fer chrissakes."

"That ye' are, Johnny," Eppy replied, "But one can never 'ave too much optimism."

John rolled his eyes, "He's like a bloody fortune cookie."

The laughter that followed was unexpected. Feeling slightly amused and a bit startled, John sat back and looked on as tension seemed to lift from the atmosphere with each elated chuckle brought on at his expense. The laughter continued on and on… and on… until John was almost certain they'd all forgotten why they were even laughing in the first place. All he knew was that none of it was helping his headache any…

A series of muffled knocks from behind the door resonated above the laughter and John found himself loudly clearing his throat above the seemingly undying noise to gain his mates' attention.

"What is it, John?" Paul responded after a while, frantically wiping at teary doe-eyes.

"Shurrup a minute and listen!" John snapped, "Someone's at the door!"

Laughter ceased and another group of knocks filled up the newfound silence.

"I'll get it!" Ringo announced.

"Let me, Ritch," Brian ordered, asserting himself in the direction of the door, "Who knows what rubbish lies behind doors these days."

Ringo shrugged and relented.

"Mr. Epstein?" an attractive brunette bird politely spoke as Eppy opened the door revealing her slender form to them.

"Yes?" Eppy responded, eyeing her with a hint of suspicion.

"Hi, my name is Susan Baker, full-time staff here at Forest Hills." the woman went on with a polite smile, taking care to show her nametag and title, "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No, not at all," Eppy replied, offering her a smile, "What can I do for you?"

"First, I apologize for the wait," Susan quickly went on to explain, "I'm sure you're not used to the sort of thing, being the Beatles, and all."

"It's no bother, really," Paul assured her, proceeding to turn on his charm as he came up behind Eppy out of piqued curiosity.

"Yeah, really. No bother!" Ringo quickly put in, easing himself into view and conversation, trying clearly to overshadow Paul, "Me name's Ringo, by the way!"

"I'm sure she knows yer name already, ye' idiot!" Paul hissed, sharply in his ear.

Susan turned to offer them both smiles of amusement, "I'm glad to know that I'm no bother to either of you," she stated, "I've been told to inform you that your belongings and music equipment will be brought here shortly, with the exception of Ringo's drums which are currently situated backstage of where you will be playing."

"We greatly appreciate the notification," Eppy told her, graciously, "Don't we boys?"

"Thank you," four Beatles chorused, Ringo seemingly the loudest as he even went out of his way to add Susan's name to the end of his verbal display of gratitude. John rose to his feet and made his way slowly towards the group that had gathered around Susan. Eppy and George seemed to be the only ones genuinely interested in what the bird had to say, he realized with growing amusement. Paul and Ringo were practically drooling in her presence as they endlessly competed to get her attention.

"Christ, somebody oughta put a leash on 'em," John mumbled to George, gesturing towards Paul and Ringo.

"Or spray them, at least," George responded with a quiet chuckle. He looked suddenly serious, "Why aren't ye' in on their shenanigans? Don't ye' find 'er attractive?"

John shrugged, "Don't feel like it, I guess, though she is rather pretty…" He coughed and quietly cleared his throat, "Can't imagine I look very attractive meself… Rather feel like a drowned rodent, hit by a train…"

"Y'look it, as well, Lennon," George quipped.

"Shut it," John retaliated, "Ye' ain't much better, y'know. Ye' rather look like a…a…" He paused, clearly unable to come up with anything; his well of creativity having run dry, "Bloody 'ell…I wish I could shake this stupid flu, already…" he muttered quietly in frustration.

George frowned in growing worry towards his older friend's decrease in characteristic mentality and wit, "I'm really not so sure the flu is what ye' 'ave, anymore," he admitted bluntly.

"What're ye' on about, Harrison?" John asked, turning to look at him.

"You've been sick fer less than a day and look what it's already done to ye'," George explained, "The entire time I was sick, I didn't go through 'alf the crap you 'ave on this day alone! No feverish deliriums, no decrease in mentality…"

"It's been more than a day," John corrected him, "Was feeling a bit off yesterday, too… but unlike you, I didn't feel the need to milk it from day one."

"Still!"

"I wouldn't worry about it," John responded simply with a carefree shrug. He struggled to mask a wince as a resulting pain shot through the base of his neck, courtesy of his action, "S'not like I 'ave the bloody plague or anything…"

"I can't right 'elp it, John," George snapped.

"Seriously. Leave it alone," John stated firmly, his voice quavering ever so slightly.

"Last chance to make requests!" Eppy interrupted before George could say anything more on the subject.

"Any word on that aspirin I was promised?" John asked beseechingly, tired gaze moving from George towards Susan, "Me 'ead hurts like bloody 'ell…"

"I'll see that you're brought some, John," Susan responded with an assuring and sympathetic smile directed at him. She turned to the others, "Is that all?"

Ringo started to open his mouth but Paul elbowed him, "Nope that's all," he filled in for the drummer, "Unless you 'ave more to offer us that is," he added, flashing his most charming grin.

"Wouldn't ye' like to know, Macca," John sneered rather loudly.

Paul waited until no one else was looking before showing his best mate the finger to which John responded with a rather animated, silly facial expression. He watched, mildly amused as Paul struggled to keep a straight face but found that he couldn't and burst out into a laugh. "Fuck you, Lennon," he whispered, once he'd managed to regain his composure.

"Well, this is it," Eppy announced, as Susan disappeared from the doorframe, "Do what needs to be done and be ready to go on in forty-five minutes. I'm sorry time is limited, but as you already know, we're rather pressed for time."

"I get the shower!" George called out suddenly before making a beeline for the portion of the room that concealed the bathroom, "I need it!"

"What? No fair!" Ringo protested, "I still 'ave to pee, y'know!"

"Well, ye' should've thought about that sooner!" George responded. Before any more could be said in contradiction, he escaped out of view into the bathroom.

"I don't care what ye' do. Just don't use up all the hot water," John snapped irritably after him. He was met by a closed door.

"What now?" Paul muttered, "There isn't much we can do till Mal's brought our change of clothes. We're bloody soaked through!"

"Ta, for that wonderfully blatant statement," John mumbled sarcastically, "Still, there's no bloody way I'm waiting for 'im to take his sweet arse time getting back. Unlike ye' unprepared gits, I brought me an extra shirt to change into for this very reason exactly."

"No, ye' brought an extra shirt in case ye' continued to sweat like a pig," Paul countered, knowingly.

John shrugged and started to strip himself down of his wet clothes, tossing his wet coat carelessly to the floor. Following the discarding of his coat, he went to immediate work, peeling off the wet layers of formal attire he'd left the hotel in, all of which clinging stubbornly to his upper body.

"This some kind of striptease?" Ringo asked, in mock amazement as John removed his innermost shirt.

"Why, does it turn ye' on?" John found the energy to quip. He now stood topless in the midst of the dressing room, an exhausted smirk on his pale face. Twin looks of ridicule aimed at him, slowly dissolved into resulting frowns of surprise and then concern. "Doesn't turn ye' on, 'ey?" John went on with a careless shrug, "No matter, I'm no fairy, anyhow." He nonchalantly made his way over to his belongings and searched for his source of temporary dry warmth within them.

"John," Ringo found his tongue finally, "What's all over yer chest?"

"Hm?" The guitarist followed Ringo's gaze to his chest, noting instantly an array of purplish rash-like dots speckled across it, "I'm not sure…" he responded hesitantly, after a while.

"'Aven't ye' 'ad the chicken pox, already?" Ringo asked.

"Of course!" John stated, offhandedly.

"Well, what is that, then?" Ringo pressed, squinting at the peculiar dappled rash.

"I don't bloody know, Ritch. I look like a doctor to ye'?" John grumbled, irritably.

"…Maybe yer allergic to something…" the drummer went on to suggest.

"Like what?" Paul asked, turning to him.

Ringo shrugged. "Any allergies, John?" he inquired.

It was John's turn to shrug, "How should I know and why should ye' care? It's probably nothing…"

"I don't know…" Ringo argued, his tone of voice revealing his lack of belief, "I've never seen anything of the like."

"Me neither," Paul added, worriedly.

"First time for everything now, isn't there," John growled unexpectedly, causing both his present band mates to jump, "Quit staring at me. Yer making me feel bloody self-conscious."

"Put on a shirt, then!" Paul retaliated.

"Gladly. It's bloody cold in 'ere," John muttered, tearing again through his belongings. He settled on a long-sleeved shirt and pulled it over his head. "George better hurry up," he added, turning to face his band mates once again.

"Yer telling me. I still 'ave to pee," Ringo muttered, reaching into his coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes.

Paul shifted his gaze to him, "Aren't ye' bloody cold in that wet and heavy thing yer draped in?" he asked.

"It's dry on the inside," Ringo responded, aiming a grin at him, "Had it layered a month ago."

"Sure, rub it in," Paul muttered. He went to work, removing his own wet layers that clung to his upper body. "I don't care if I 'ave to remain topless. Anything's better than wearing all those wet clothes."

"Do us all a favor, then," John tossed an extra dry shirt at Paul, miscalculating his throw and hitting the bassist in the face. He grinned, satisfied with the result.

"Ta!" Paul looked grateful, "Guess yer good fer something, after all, Lennon!" he teased, fumbling to pull the shirt over his head, "Though aiming isn't yer strong suit."

"Sod off, I'm sick…" John muttered, "And maybe I meant to hit that pretty face of yers. Could stand to rough it up a bit…"

"Whatever boosts yer pride, Johnny…" Paul laughed.

John started to respond but a hoarse cough beat him to the punch. He grimaced, bringing both his hands to his face, "Fuck…" he groaned, paling resultantly from the amount of pain that proceeded to parade through his head.

"Maybe ye' should sit before ye' fall down," Paul advised him.

John ignored the bassist. "Can I bum a fag off ye'?" he asked, turning his attention to Ringo just as he was lighting up, "It seems I've forgotten me pack back at the hotel."

"You shouldn't be smoking, anyhow," Ringo made the mistake of telling him.

John glared heavily at him, "I can't smoke, I can't drink, bloody 'ell, what is it I'm even able to do? Ye' wanna take away me right to walk and talk while yer at it?"

"Well, yer sick, John," Ringo calmly explained, "I just don't think-"

"It's my body, I'll do what I wish to it. Ye' just concentrate on looking after yerself."

Ringo shook his head, "Suit yerself, Johnny…" He thrust his pack of cigarettes at John, "Here."

John stared at him and then at the cigarettes before shaking his head, "Never mind…" he mumbled tiredly; looking suddenly drained of any energy he'd been able to harvest, "I change me mind."

"As ye' should," Ringo responded matter-of-factly, withdrawing his offer.

"It 'as nothing to do with yer input, so don't get a swelled 'ead," John mumbled, glancing wearily about the room. His eyes settled on a loveseat situated in a far corner and he expelled a small sigh of relief as he proceeded to advance towards it, "Y'gits can do what ye' will. I'm gon' lay down fer a bit."

John didn't notice the resulting looks of relief on Ringo's or Paul's face. All he was suddenly aware of was that he'd been on his feet for far too long now and that his body was starting to feel the strained effects of it. With the way every muscle was beginning to ache and beg for mercy once more, he wondered vaguely if his fever wasn't starting to fight its way back up again. Maybe it was time, he take it easy while he still could.

With a defeated sigh, John made his way gingerly towards an elongated couch situated at the edge of the room opposite the vanity table and lowered himself onto it, stretching out across it as much as he could. Sleep claimed him much too quickly.

"Oi," Paul muttered, eyeing their sleeping band mate, "'E sure is a handful when he's sick, isn't he?"

"A regular git," Ringo sighed, "I'm starting to think that he can't well 'elp it…"

"He is quite off today…" Paul emphasized with a frown.

Ringo nodded, "I wonder if we've got anymore uppers left. I've a strong feeling John's gon' need some when he awakens."

"We do, I believe. We'll 'ave to dig it up, wherever it is." Paul responded quietly. He sighed heavily, glancing impatiently at his watch, "George needs to hurry up," he grumbled, "He's not the only one who needs a shower!"

"I still 'ave to pee too!" Ringo complained, "Stop reminding me that we're waiting for the bloody loo!"

Paul sighed, "I suppose we just need something to pass the time."

A mischievous glint suddenly crept into Ringo's eyes, "Game of cards, perhaps?" he suggested animatedly.

"Again, Ritch?"

"Rematch," Ringo suggested calculatingly, blue eyes wide, "Ye' know ye' want to, Paulieee!"

"Fine…suit yerself," Paul relented unenthusiastically, still gazing with a bit of renewed concern in John's direction.

A/N: Hope this wasn't too lousy...

Haha I bet you're all possibly wondering if and when I'm ever going to get to the heart of this story! I KNOW I'd be wondering such things by this point. After all, there are 13 chapters and still not a whole lot going on here. WTF is this author doing to us, you may wonder... WELLL, all I can tell you is that I PROMISE I'm not taking you along on a pointless ride! This will all come together eventually and will hopefully be worthwhile when it does :)). Just continue to bear with meeee if you can! AGAIN, you guys are INCREDIBLEEEE!

ALSOOO get at me with reviews! Chapter 14 may be right around the corner... IF I can begin to untangle the current messed up state that it's in. :)) Peacee out!