A/N: Hello again, everyone! This chapter is a two-parter because I think it's fitting rather than having one giant chapter like the last one :). Also, brace yourselves and try not to be upset, but I've decided to span the contents of this story over a period of two or more days. Everything you've read thus far takes place in 'Day 1', and then there will be a 'Day 2' and possibly a 'Day 3'. Just sayin'. :)) I'm doing this because it better suits my writing style. Continue to bear with me if you can, you guys are INCREDIBLE! Thank you allll :).
Desperate for comfort and warmth, George plastered his towel around his waist and made his way eagerly towards the bathroom exit. Gripping the door handle with a free hand, he opened the door back into the dressing room, flinching almost immediately as an array of unintelligible noise reached his eardrums. Paul and Ringo were bloody at it again. Bloody lovely. It was clear in all the ongoing upheaval that Ringo had beaten Paul yet again in another one of their heated card games. Over the course of his entire bathing experience, repeated sounds of unruly laughter mixed with growls of frustration from the two had somehow managed to creep into the room, assaulting George's ears in unwavering persistence and disrupting any figments of peace he'd managed to latch on to. To his increased annoyance, he'd been able to hear every taunt uttered by Ringo and every responsive swear uttered by Paul, as though they'd been squeezed into the bathtub with him and those stupid cards of theirs. 'Dumb gits,' George thought heatedly, shaking his head.
The only voice George hadn't heard much of at all had been John's, and if that wasn't a complete reversal of reality, he didn't know what was. Allowing his eyes to search out the recently temperamental musician, he found him in a distant corner, curled up in a love seat, completely dead and oblivious to the world. How John, being the light sleeper he normally was, was able to sleep through all the unyielding noise was beyond him and truthfully a bit unsettling. Nonetheless, George couldn't help thinking that for the time being, he was the lucky one.
"Bloody ridiculous…" Paul was busy muttering as George crept further into the room daring to leave the sanctity of the loo behind him, "Clearly I'm off my game or something."
"Or clearly I'm too good fer ye' to beat," Ringo followed up slyly.
Paul responded with a laugh, "That's about as likely as Eppy embracing heterosexuality," he quipped.
Too cold to pay any additional heed to anyone, let alone the two, George took a moment to seek out all the changes that had taken place the entire time he'd been locked away within the confinements of the shower/bathroom. He was pleased to see that his guitar had been set gently on the floor in the middle of the room along with John's rhythm guitar and Paul's bass, courtesy of the staff. Also courtesy of the staff, a whole cheesecake with some freshly made finger sandwiches had been added to the assortment of snacks on what had been deemed the snack table. On a smaller table across the room, sat John's requested aspirin and several lozenges to go along with it. It was all well and good; but most appealing, for the first time, wasn't the pleasant abundance of edible treats, but Mal's wonderful and most convenient contribution to the room. Carefully hung within a clothing rack right outside the bathroom door, were the warm and dry clothes that the band was destined to wear. A suit had never looked so good. George was almost certain they were glowing with a heavenly aura of some sort and if he listened carefully, he was almost sure he could hear the accompanying angelic choir that would often enhance such lovely occasions. Now, he wouldn't have to wait around in nothing but a towel for longer than his modesty would prefer. Now, he wouldn't have to freeze while he did so. Mal certainly knew a thing or two about timing.
Shivering persistently, George crossed over to the clothing rack and proceeded to search out his clothes. Paul and Ringo, still heavily engaged in typical game-related argument, had yet to notice his presence. Perhaps he could grab what he needed and sneak back into the shower unnoticed before he was brought into such shenanigans.
"Blimey! The loo's open!" Ringo exclaimed much too suddenly, shattering George's dreams of remaining hidden in the presence of his friends.
"S'not open yet!" he quickly responded, "I still need to dress meself!"
Traces of relief and excitement melted from Ringo's face, as he rose to his feet, carelessly tossing his cards to the table he and Paul had been playing off of, "Well, what were ye' doing in there that entire time, then, Geo, wanking off? Bloody 'ell, I nearly died waiting or worse, soiled meself! Whatever's left fer ye' t'do will 'ave to wait!"
"But I'm cold!" the young guitarist complained, shivering visibly in the towel that proved barely enough to cover him, "I need to get me clothes on before I bloody freeze into a George Harrisicle!"
"I wonder what flavor you'd be…" Ringo wondered idly as he asserted his way past George into the loo.
"Irritated," George muttered sarcastically, "It's a common flavor I'm sure you've been introduced to on more than one occasion."
"Odd, ye' always struck me as a cherry…or maybe an orange," Ringo mused aloud from behind the slightly open bathroom door. It was blatant he had no intentions of hurrying to jump at George's beck and call.
George scowled, clutching his clothes within a strained grip while awkwardly struggling to keep his poor excuse of a towel from dropping from his waist. If there was one thing he hated, it was being cold when he didn't have to be. Just as much of a nuisance, he was way too bloody modest, especially when compared to the likes of his other band mates. "M' about to turn into one giant goosebump…" he grumbled quietly, his irritation continuing to surge.
"Wouldn't 'appen if ye' weren't so scrawny in the first place, Harri," Paul teased offhandedly with a cheeky grin, "Just change out 'ere. I can assure ye' that I've got more interesting things to look at than you in the nude."
"Fine…I'll…change out 'ere, then," George muttered with a slight hint of annoyingly present tentativeness. He dropped his clothes to the floor, taking extra care not to drop his towel, as well, and reached for a pair of underpants in the mess.
Paul allowed a wolf-call to playfully escape his lips, "Take it off, Georgie!" he teased, lightheartedly.
"Git," George mumbled, moving quickly and nimbly to dress himself.
"Our little Georgie's all grown up!" Paul went on with a grin, highly amused at the lead guitarist's expense.
George shook his head, beginning to wonder what had brought on the sudden change in Paul's mood. He and Ringo had probably gotten a head start on some uppers. Go bloody figure. There had better be enough left for him if he was to achieve similar amounts of stamina to get through the remainder of this day without adding to the adamant chaos that held the band captive. Still struggling with the remaining tail end of the flu he'd had, his energy levels were rather quick to drain often leaving him easily knackered and winded on an hourly basis.
The toilet flushed, some water ran, and Ringo finally emerged from the bathroom. "Loo's open for anyone who needs it!" he announced cheerily.
"Don't you want to shower, Ring?" Paul questioned.
"Nope. Don't need to. With me beautifully crafted coat, I've managed to remain mostly dry. Just gonna towel-dry me hair and take it from there. I'll be ready long before all ye' pretty boys!"
"Always thought yer face would take a bit of extra work," Paul quipped, managing to duck out of the way just as Ringo picked up one of George's socks and heaved it at him.
"'Ey, I need that!" George whined.
"Ye' got legs, don't ye'?" Ringo laughed playfully, "Go get it!"
George rolled his eyes, his growing impatience finally managing to get the best of him, "In case ye' idiots 'aven't realized, there isn't time to waste fannying around. Eppy did give us a time limit, y'know."
"Right," Paul stated, grin fading as temporarily forgotten responsibility resurfaced within him once again, "I should wake John and get 'im into the shower next."
"You can get me in the shower any day, James Paul McCartney," Ringo grinned widely at him, eyelashes batting in the bassist's direction in a mock suggestive way.
"Bloody 'ell," George muttered with an additional roll of the eyes, "Paul was right to say this earlier, Ring. Ye' do need a hobby. Just outta curiosity, what exactly is it that goes through yer 'ead every time ye' dare open yer mouth?"
Ringo shrugged, crossing the room towards the vanity table, "Ye' gotta admit, though, Georgie, I do keep things rather interesting, don't I?"
George scoffed as he hurriedly pulled a shirt over his bare upper body, "Interesting is just a nicer alternative to barmy."
Ringo chuckled as he seated himself in front of the large lighted mirror and casually began concentrating on brushing out his hair.
Paul shook his head in slight amusement, choosing to keep his own two-cent's worth to himself. Making his way finally towards the peacefully sleeping rhythm guitarist, he marveled a bit at his still form before bending over slightly to jostle him awake, "C'mon, Johnny, time to wake up," he coaxed soothingly.
The sick guitarist snorted and coughed before coming abruptly to, eyes falling lazily on the bassist's worried face. "George out of the shower, already?" he croaked, struggling to sit up.
Paul nodded, his eyes scanning his friend's abnormally pale face, "Yer kip help ye' any?"
John hesitated, taking a moment to properly assess the condition of his body, "Yeah…" he revealed after a while, "Me 'eadache's even gone away a bit, I think…" he added with a tired, lopsided grin.
"That's great!" both George and Ringo chorused from distant portions of the room.
Paul looked slightly relieved, as well, "There's aspirin if ye' need it. Susan brought some while you were sleeping."
John arched an eyebrow at him in slight amusement while struggling to see straight, "Susan? You and that bird on a first name basis now?"
"She introduced herself in front of everyone, John," Paul reminded him, meeting him with an arched eyebrow of his own, "Weren't ye' listening?"
John shrugged, "Hard to 'ear anything over yers and Ringo's constant pining fer 'er attention." He pushed himself further up off the couch and swung his legs over the edge, struggling not to sway as faintness quickly enveloped him. Caught off guard by the sudden onset of the unnerving sensation, he drew in a deep breath and let it out ever so slowly. "She was a rather pretty bird though…" he went on casually as though nothing had happened, "Weirdly reminded me of Cyn…"
"How so? They don't even 'ave the same 'air color," Paul smirked, "If anything, she rather reminded me of that up and coming actress… Rachel… Raquel… Raquel Welch, I think's 'er name."
"Pretty birds…" John mumbled, giving his head a slight shake to clear it, "…Cyn and whatsername…"
Paul sighed longingly, oblivious to John's distress, "If only I wasn't with Jane, I would've…" He stopped himself there and allowed his voice to trail off.
"Yeah, too bad…" John commented into the newly emanating silence. He closed his eyes, as faintness proceeded to claim him, "Would've fancied watching her turn ye' down, y'know."
Paul wasn't amused, "Y'would've been disappointed waiting, then, Johnny. I could easily have bedded her if I wanted to… I am the charming one 'ere, after all."
John rubbed at his eyes, still struggling to shake the woozy haze that gripped him, "Not very modest, either… The cocky one is more like it."
"Ye' sure yer feeling all right?" Paul asked, "Ye' look a bit sick."
John opened his eyes rather suddenly to discover Paul's concerned eyes fixated on him. "I am sick, love…" he smirked sarcastically.
"I know, but are ye' all right?" Paul pressed.
"Paul, we went over this. I'm fine… Better than I've felt all day…" John responded. He frowned looking briefly uncertain on the presenting subject before masking his feelings with a small, assuring smirk.
Paul picked up on his hesitation almost immediately, "What's the matter?" he demanded.
"Nothing… just a bit woozy from this bloody flu," John muttered; a hint of despondency present in his voice.
Paul looked at him worriedly, debating whether or not to check the progress of his temperature. Though he was less flushed than he'd been all day, the dark bags beneath his eyes were enduring, still giving him that unrelenting, predominant look of complete exhaustion he'd been sporting for the past week. Even with all the little kips the guitarist had been managing to get in over the course of the day, it was clear it was never enough to completely reverse the lack of sleep he'd been getting for months on end. Never enough to reverse the full effects of this illness threatening to ride him directly into the ground.
Letting nary a second pass in the midst of fleeting indecisiveness, Paul finally pressed a hesitant hand to John's forehead, still able to feel the slight amount of warmth present along with tiny beads of sweat, "You've still got that fever, John…" he quietly pointed out, wiping the back of his hand on his still dampened pant leg, "I'm not sure fever-reducers will be of any more help…"
The misery in John's eyes evaporated and he glared apathetically at Paul, deceptively unfazed by his revelation, "Well, what do ye' want me to do about it?" he snapped, "Had I had control over me bloody body to begin with, I wouldn't be in this stupid predicament feeling like the bloody nancy boy that I've become!"
Both George and Ringo paused in their actions and turned to look at John in startled surprise. Neither dared to speak.
Paul opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say or even how to react for that matter. Lennon was becoming more and more unpredictable by the minute with all these mood swings he was constantly subject to. A part of him couldn't help thinking that maybe this wasn't normal. Moodiness was one thing when it came to John but what he was seeing on this particular day alone seemed always to be a bit too much. A bit over the top, even for the naturally temperamental guitarist.
"I don't think yer a nancy boy at all, John," George said finally, breaking the deeply fallen silence, "Yer just sick… knackered as 'ell. It's not a crime, y'know…"
"Bollocks!" John growled, causing his band mates to jump in startled surprise, "I'm a bloody mess and ye' know it!"
Paul shook his head, "That's enough, John. I'm not gon' sit 'ere and listen to yer co-"
"Shurrup…" John interjected almost beseechingly, roughly raking his hands through his hair in a fit of rising agitation. Shaking uncontrollably, he drew in a deep quavering breath and held it as though trying to keep his emotions from spilling out any further. His expression softened after a while as feelings of guilt in regards to the sudden escalation of his temper rushed to overtake him. "M'sorry…" he croaked finally, his eyes averting the worried gazes of his friends, "I'm just tired… More tired than anything. I just need a shower to wake me up and calm me down a bit… I'll be hale and hearty 'fore ye' know it…" He rose from his seat, still fighting with the ongoing faintness and cheerlessly staggered off for a much needed shower.
"Yer stage clothes are out here for when ye' get out," Ringo called after him. "Mal brought them in not that long ago. When yer out, we've got some uppers with yer name on them."
John's response, if there was one, was muffled by the sound of a closing door.
"Christ, Lennon… what's on with ye', mate?" Paul muttered futilely as he stared off in the direction of the newly closed bathroom door, fresh worry coursing through him.
"He'll be fine, Paul," Ringo called in his direction as though reading into the contents of his mind.
Turning to glance in his direction, Paul couldn't find it within himself to respond. Despite the confidence embedded within the drummer's words, he was still very much able to come to terms with the present uncertainty that was otherwise hidden behind his band mate's blue eyes. Impending disaster was in the making and for some reason entirely unknown; the bassist couldn't even begin to shake the foreboding feeling. Did his present band mates feel the same way? Of course. It didn't take a psychiatrist to be able to see the spiraling nerves building within them.
Nearly thirty minutes later found the Beatles backstage applying the final finishing touches to stage setup. Paul had since gone over possible song listings with Eppy and Mal, while the three remaining Beatles had assisted each other and staff as best they could in setting up the microphones, positioning the drum set, and everything else in between, all in a less-than-orderly but effective manner.
John still wasn't sure how anything had even managed to come together thus far. His attention span, currently proving less in tune than a hyperactive gerbil made things near impossible, and he couldn't seem to focus on even the simplest tasks at hand. The band was getting quite annoyed with him, by this point, and he could feel it. He could sense the eye rolls behind his back every time he had to be reminded more than once to do something. Could hear the resulting whispers that emanated amongst everyone when they assumed he was out of earshot. Frankly, he was sick of it. Sick of himself and more determined than ever to prove that he was, in fact, up to task. He wasn't the child everyone seemed to want to coddle him as. He was John Lennon, for crying out loud. Strong, abrasive, ever-present John Lennon. It was who he was yesterday and every day before that, and it wasn't about to change. The real John Lennon would never allow himself to show weakness in spite of all going on. The real John Lennon was a true master of disguise… A far cry from the master of disgrace he'd recently mysteriously transformed into…
Truly, John felt like an imposter. An imposter in his own body. He'd become so transparent recently, it buggered the living hell out of him. No matter what bullshit he tried to feed anybody, they always seemed to know better. Both Paul and Ringo, to his dismay, had found reason to continue watching him nonstop like a hawk. And George never seemed to be too far away from view with that look of concern he'd only seemed to harbor for the sole purpose of throwing in his face when he least expected. He was sick of that, too. Didn't they know who he was by now? Didn't they know he could look after himself? Hell, he'd been doing so for as long as he could remember. He wasn't in favor of being mothered. The one mother he'd had his entire life hadn't wanted the task, so why should anyone else want it? He'd barely even let his aunt take on the roll when he needed it most. Flat-out refused guidance when it was everything he ever needed. Maybe it was foolish pride. Regardless, he wasn't sure how to cope with it. All John knew how to do was further up the ante. Strengthen his so-called façade as tiresome as it all was. Even if he couldn't fool Paul, which he never seemed able to, he could hope to keep George, Ringo, and the others at least partially in the dark. He would need to gather the remainder of his wit, his strength, his mentality and pull it together to form the best façade he had ever constructed. Easier done if he wasn't bloody feeling so much like bloody road kill.
Since being backstage, his headache had increased slightly from almost nonexistent to the dull ache similar to what he'd been harboring earlier in the day. If history were to repeat itself, he'd suspected that it was only a matter of time before unbearable levels were reached once again. As a result, he'd drowned himself in pain meds in hopes of avoiding such a flare up while in the midst of performing. While that seemed to hold his building headache in submission, the rhythm guitarist couldn't help wishing he had a bit more for his tumultuous stomach or even the slight fluctuating oddly worsening dizzy haze that escorted it. If only he'd allowed himself to harass someone to get him pot. He always felt good when he was high. Well above the constraints of his body…
"Twenty minutes till show time!" someone called above the backstage chaos that had been unraveling for the past half hour.
John didn't bother add a comment. Instead, he found himself shutting his eyes against the nagging dizziness in his dully aching head. About that pot. He might need some before the night was up. If worse came to worse, he'd have to rely solely on ignorance. Ignorance was bliss. With a bit of work, he'd train his body to pay scant attention to its petty aches and ailments. Every urge he had to just collapse and fall into a blissful sleep would be forced to be put on hold. He could sleep later. He could sleep when he was dead.
Heaving a sigh, John made his way to a backstage cooler situated on the floor out of the way and off to the side, "I need some water, I think…" he mumbled to himself, "I'm fine…really I am…"
He retrieved a bottle, opened it and took a gulp as though his life depended on it. When the dizziness didn't show any immediate signs of abating, he took a few more minor sips and restlessly looked on as everything continued to fall into place without his help. The sick feeling stubbornly prevailed, increasing steadily all the while. Christ. John held his breath and tried to keep motionless in fear that the slightest movement would cause him to heave. After a while, his eyes fell closed and pending faintness moved in to rattle him. Bloody nerves, was it? Fuck…
"'Ey, John, got a moment?"
Startled, the guitarist threw his eyes back open; his less-than-thrilled, exhausted gaze meeting up with Paul's. John almost couldn't help the resulting scowl that temporarily enveloped his face in regards to the new distraction that now presented itself before him. Couldn't he have even a second to himself? Would that be too much to ask?
"John!" Paul repeated when the rhythm guitarist didn't immediately respond.
"What, Paul?" John grumbled through gritted teeth.
Paul frowned, concern evident in his eyes, "You all right? Still woozy or something? Ye' look it…"
"Well, aren't ye' the perceptive one," John muttered impatiently, hints of sarcasm dripping from his voice. His eyes closed, against the commanding dizziness and newly accompanying nausea continuing to surge within him, "Ye' gonna tell me what it is ye' want or am I gonna 'ave to tune into me psychic abilities?"
"I wanted to run the list of songs by you that I came up with," Paul responded, ever so slowly, sensing John's rising irritation, "We don't 'ave much time and ye' need to 'ear it so we're on the same page."
John forced his eyes back open, his wooziness increasing with the action. He sucked in a deep breath and swallowed hard at the sudden existence of bile clawing at his insides, "Well, what is it, then?" he snapped rather brusquely.
Paul found himself hesitating as he took in John's deteriorating outward appearance, "Not feeling the greatest then, are ye'?" he accused knowingly with a smirk, "The greenish tint to yer face clashes something awful with the auburn in yer hair."
"Just when I thought ye' couldn't sound any more queer," John responded with a short-lived smirk, the lighthearted comment breaking down the wall of mounting tension. His eyes fell closed again in his fight to overcome his strengthening symptoms, "On with it, Macca… I'll be fine. Jus' a bit of nerves…"
After staring at him a moment longer, Paul sighed and reentered business-mode, "The songs are as follows, in this exact order," he reported, nervously trying to hold John's distracted gaze, "We start off with 'She Loves You', then 'Please Please Me', 'Chains', 'Can't Buy Me Love', 'No Reply', and 'And I Love Her'. Following a brief intermission we return with 'Eight Days a Week', 'Rock and Roll Music', 'Love Me Do', 'Everybody's Trying to Be My Baby', 'Follow the Sun', 'Words of Love', and last but not least 'A Hard Day's Night'. Got it?"
No answer. Studying him again, Paul noticed that the guitarist's already fleeting lack of focus had fallen to the floor, his breathing rather ragged and shallow and his face terribly pale and beaded with sweat.
"John?"
The guitarist brought a hand to his face and scrubbed at his eyes, seemingly oblivious to Paul's concerns.
"John!"
John jumped; his hand coming away from his face, and tired, watery eyes rushed to make contact with the particular worried pair staring back at him. "What?"
"Did you 'ear me?"
"Yeah… yeah got it," John responded distractedly.
Paul skeptically raised an eyebrow, signaling the doubt flowing through him, "John, this is serious. You're going to need to know what you're doing when you get out there!" he sternly reprimanded, "Ye' can't be iffy or even the slightest bit shaky on our routine once the curtains go up."
John rolled his eyes, nearly losing his balance in the process, "Relax, it's not like the fans'll take notice or anything," was his indifferent response.
"That's no excuse!" Paul snapped, "Are you certain you've got a handle on this or am I going to 'ave to repeat the song listing?"
John managed a smug smirk, the characteristic expression paving its way over the obvious discomfort he'd been displaying beforehand, "First song's 'She Loves You', followed by 'Please, Please Me'. Last two songs are 'Words of Love' and 'A Hard Day's Night'. I've got this, love. No worries."
"And you're feeling all right?" Paul further inquired, "Aside from yer nerves,that is?"
"Macca, I'm fine …" John sighed, his mate's adamant persistence beginning to annoy him beyond belief, "I said I've got this. What more do ye' want? A bloody book? A doctor's note?" Discomfort resurfaced within him again and he was quickly finding that he could hardly contain nor keep the intensifying queasiness from chipping away at his deceitful mask. He was dizzy still. Why was he so dizzy? "I have to go…tune me guitar…" he blurted out, after hastily searching his mind for any suitable excuse to disappear from view.
Paul took the bait and nodded, "Go 'ead, John," he relented finally, "I just hope yer being completely honest. It's less than a half hour till we go on and there's no time for maybes or uncertainties of the like. Just make sure yer as close to par as can be before we begin." With that said, he stalked away; leaving the guilty guitarist to cling to his critically weaved lies.
John didn't have time to dwell on Paul's words. His churning insides weren't giving him a break. He was almost certain he was about to throw up. Almost certain that he needed to get the hell out of sight before he did so. Struggling to come off as nonchalant as possible, he made his way across the floor towards the backstage exit. He'd be safe in the dressing room. Safe to heave and then get back to business as though nothing had happened. Piece of cake. Very similar to his common bouts with nerves without the recurrent dizziness, that was. Perhaps, this wasn't so different after all. Perhaps, everything would be fine…
"Ten minutes to show time!" Eppy announced animatedly, shooting each of the present Beatles assuring smiles. The hype getting the best of him, the antsy manager could barely sit still in all his excitement.
Huffing, Paul glanced at his watch. Where the fuck was John? Nearly ten minutes ago, the guitarist had dismissed himself from conversation to tune his guitar. Here was his guitar still hidden away from the world in its case and John was nowhere to be seen. Worse, the case clearly hadn't been opened since stage preparations had begun. Hadn't even been touched for that matter, it seemed. John was cutting it close tonight… Dangerously close. Paul frowned as numerous possibilities began to run through his mind right then. Maybe John was having one of his passing bouts with stage fright. He did mention nerves earlier and clearly he didn't look to be feeling all that well. Maybe as a result, he had to take one of his dreaded trips to the loo. Maybe something had happened while he was in there. Maybe something was wrong. Maybe he fainted again or worse…his feverish haze was back. No…no…don't be ridiculous, Paul. There's nothing wrong… Aren't ye' supposed to be the positive one here? Christ, what good are ye' if ye can't be bloody positive every once in a while?It was easy to be positive when situations allowed such feelings to suffice… But this particular situation involved one particular John Lennon, however. John, whose middle name might as well have been 'unpredictable' rather than Winston. John Unpredictable Lennon. Paul sighed, enough with the daft guesses and the bloody over-analyzing. He'd better go check and see for himself. Put an end to the overbearing madness that was his mind.
Paul found the dressing room to be carelessly left unlocked. 'If there's anyone around capable of such a mistake, it's probably John,' Paul readily concluded inwardly with a bit of amusement present. The musician had the tendency to be forgetful at times…and other times, he simply didn't care enough to abide by the rules. 'Let in a crazed fan, ye' will, Lennon,' Paul thought with a disapproving shake of the head as he took care to lock the door behind him as he entered the room.
He stopped, just inside the door and glanced about the room, ears straining to listen. He could see that the bathroom door was open a crack but no sounds radiated out from its vicinity. No sounds radiated from anywhere, in fact. The room was unnervingly quiet. A bad feeling thrived within the back of Paul's mind. He brushed it away without thinking, flinching slightly as it resurfaced without hesitation.
"John?" Paul called out before finally getting his feet to move in the direction of the open bathroom door.
Other than the thick sound of silence, not a sound resembling a response in the slightest could be heard.
"Maybe he's not here, then…" Paul murmured aloud as he steadily advanced on the bathroom door. One hand on the doorknob, he jerked his arm back and the door swung open soundlessly, revealing to him the shower, the toilet, and something huddled on the floor beside the toilet. "What…" Paul couldn't bring himself to finish his initial thought, "John?"
Fuck…the thing was John. John was huddled on the floor at the base of the toilet… John was… Heart pounding, Paul sprung into action and crouched down beside his fallen friend, hurriedly assessing his condition. He was still… Much too still. Paul rolled the guitarist's face ever so slightly into the light for a closer examination. Eyes were closed; face was pale and drenched in sweat, mouth unnervingly void of the slight mocking smirk it always seemed to hold. A trickle of fresh vomit dribbled from the corner of his mouth and Paul moved to clear it away with a nearby towel that had been draped over the edge of the bathtub behind him. Bloody hell… John… Bloody fucking hell… Finally, his voice erupted into sound and he found himself nearly shouting his friend's name, his tone fueled by tremendous fear and worry, "John… John… wake up!" he pleaded.
Nothing. He was unconscious. John was unconscious… and show time was bearing down on them. "Johnny!" he continued on frantically, his voice quavering like mad. He reached over to jostle his shoulder in as gentle a manner as he could muster in the face of his growing panic. "John… John… c'mon, love… Bloody wake up!"
John groaned responsively all at once and tired eyes fluttered open. "Wha…" he croaked weakly, the remainder of his words eaten by a hoarse cough.
"Thank goodness!" Paul breathed, every sense of relief known to his body escaping out at that very moment, "Thought I'd…thought I'd…" he couldn't bring himself to finish, "Are ye' all right? Yer not hurt are ye'?"
"No…" Head still flat on the tiled floor, John glanced around him ever so slightly, taking in the toilet and the bathtub, all of which severely squeezed into his personal space, "What the bloody 'ell is this?!" he demanded in ample confusion.
"You passed out," Paul informed him, concern growing, "What 'appened, John?"
"M'not sure…" John murmured, glazed eyes struggling to meet his, "Me nerves were getting' to me and then…" He tiredly lifted an arm gesturing to the presenting situation, "…this 'appened…" he concluded hesitantly, raised hand collapsing against his forehead, "Christ, me bloody 'ead hurts all over again…" he murmured, dispirited by the revelation.
"Did ye' hit it? Tell me how many fingers ye' see," Paul stated, raising three above John's face.
John rolled his eyes, "Let's not go through this, Macca. I'm fine…"
"What're ye' mad? Ye' fainted, John! Twice now! I'm not sure how things work in yer twisted mind but…to me, that doesn't qualify as being okay. I'm getting Mal…"
"I'm fine…" John insisted, "This may sound a bit strange but…I think I needed to faint… or had to… Cleared me 'ead a bit…"
Paul continued to glare at him, "Well, clearly that's a matter of opinion. Ye' don't sound too clearheaded with all that rubbish yer out yer gob with! We go on in five minutes, John! And so far yer assumptions in regards to yerself 'aven't been all that reliable!"
"Please, just take me word for it…" John pleaded, moving to sit up, "…other than the fact that me mouth tastes of…" He paused, making a face, "…vomit… I feel world's better."
Something in John's insistent voice made Paul stop and consider the insanity his friend was shoving in his face. Was it sincerity? Stubborn persistence? The bassist frowned, and brought a hand to John's forehead to further explore the possibility. All instances of hope collapsed in seconds. "Y'feel clammy, John, like yer fever's starting to rise again… I don't think-"
"Help me up," John stubbornly interrupted, "I'll take some more uppers, some meds, and be good to go."
"John-" Paul began again, hesitantly.
"I said help me up, y'sod!" John growled in sudden, surfacing frustration. He broke into a minor coughing fit, his throat not taking too kindly to his raised voice.
Unwillingly, Paul obeyed and assisted his weakened band mate in getting to his feet.
"Find me the uppers…" John ordered after taking a moment to fight off a bout of oncoming dizziness. He made his way to the sink, using it to help steady himself, and proceeded to rinse his mouth out as best he could beneath running tap water. Afterwards, he plopped a bit of toothpaste on his tongue and swished it around trying to get the awful, penetrating taste of sick from his mouth. "Hate throwing up…" he muttered to no one in particular after spitting into the sink, "Remind me never to 'ave to do it again…"
"Not sure ye' 'ave a say in that," was Paul's absentminded response from outside the door where he continued to rummage for the evasive bottle of uppers.
Making his way towards the bathroom doorway, John leaned himself up against its inner frame and closed his eyes. Bloody hell, he felt awful. Entirely drained of energy. Once adrenaline kicked in along with the uplifting effect of uppers, however, he'd be fine. He almost knew this for a fact as it was often always the case. In the days of Hamburg, it had been that exact combination that had gotten him through many a night. Gotten them all through many a night. This wasn't to be any different. So his temperature had skyrocketed a few times without warning… So he'd slipped into delirium without knowing… So he'd fainted… Big deal… It was no excuse for the doubts that were being thrust in his face. He'd be fine. He was always fine. John Winston Lennon was always fine. Even when he wasn't fine, he was fine… If the others were too daft to know that by now, they'd know soon enough.
"Found 'em…" came Paul's reluctant announcement, after a while.
John jolted to, having almost been asleep standing up by that point. Paul was standing a few feet away, a pill bottle in hand, face twisted in utmost worry for him. All at once, a striking grin found John's tired, wan face, like a lone, bright flame in the darkest night, and he eased himself spiritedly off from the support of the door frame ignoring the temporary dizziness that claimed him. "Ta, Pauliee, now let's chivy along and get this show on the road, 'ey? We got some pleasing to do…"
"Just try not to overdo it," Paul demanded sharply, "There's a press conference afterwards and if you're to insist on going ahead with that, as well, you'd better be prepared for what may lay in store."
The grin left John's face as the implied meaning of Paul's words managed to sink into his sluggish brain. "I'm more than prepared," he stated arrogantly with a bit of a cold smirk as he snatched the bottle of uppers from Paul's grip. He went at them, dumping several into the palm of his hand.
"What are ye' doing?!" Paul snapped, launching himself at John and grabbing the bottle from his hand, knocking the exposed pills to the floor, "Ye' trying to kill yerself? One pill's all ye' need, especially with all that you've taken today!"
John's initial look of alarm held temporarily steady before melting away into that of sudden malevolence. His eyes finding Paul's, he narrowed them in complete malice, "Bloody do that again, McCartney, and watch what 'appens!" he growled threateningly; his voice dangerously low.
Paul shook his head in astonishment, daring to hold the guitarist's heated gaze. "The fuck is wrong with you, Lennon?" he countered, his words more fueled by concern than anger. Sure he was sick, more than likely a little fried from his fever combined with persistent illness and exhaustion, but… this didn't seem right…
"I can 'andle meself," John went on finally, as though those very words had what it took to justify his extreme overreaction.
Paul shook his head again, this time in disagreement, "I'm gonna talk to Eppy…" he stated resignedly, "I'm not sure what's on with ye' but I don't think I want ye' anywhere near the stage tonight. Yer not yerself…"
"Don't you say one word to 'im, McCartney," John interjected, "Just do me a favor and mind yer bloody business fer once!"
"John, this isn't right. Yer not right…"
"I'll tell ye' what's not right. You standing in me way!" John snapped offhandedly, pushing him off to the side, "Just back the 'ell off!"
"John…"
"I mean it, Paul. Back off!"
Paul heaved a sigh. No sense in even trying to talk to John when he up in arms like he was. He'd get nowhere with the stubborn git and as usual, things would only worsen. Considering the time, it was best they do what needed doing. Let him cool down some in the meantime. Time. They still had time…right? Did he dare look at his watch? Knowing he'd regret it, the bassist cast a minor glance to the contraption hugging his wrist. It was past time. They'd been due on stage nearly four minutes ago. "Look at that, we're bloody late again," he muttered bitterly, "Eppy's gon' love this."
"If ye' know what's good fer ye', ye' won't say a word t'him about anything, Macca," John warned, his demeanor much more subdued than seconds before, "Last thing I need is everyone fussing over me all over again. Puts me a bit out of me element, ye' know."
Paul gripped the handle of the door leading out into the hall and roughly pulled it open before glancing over his shoulder, once more, at his irritated band mate. "I'm about to put ye' out of yer element, y'git…" he threatened sharply, "Just shut up and let's go."
A/N: As usual, reviews are welcome :))