A/N: First off, I want to address the fact that I got some of the most AMAZINGGGG, INSPIRING reviews for the last chapter! I want to take a moment to thank all my readers, reviewers and non-reviewers. You're ALLL incredible and I positively can't begin to show my appreciation enough! Now before I scare you all off, let me get down to business...

I apologize ahead of time for this chapter. I'm not proud of it...in fact I kind of hate it lol... School distractions and distracting life in general plays a huge part in its repulsiveness. But because it feels like its been ages since I last posted, I felt I had to get something up on the screen. Might actually end up tweaking it a bit even though its been posted so yeah...heads up :).

Following a forward rush of time, Paul and John were handed their instruments of choice and ushered out with Ringo and George into the onslaught of stage lights and the deafening roar of the crowd. If any ill-feelings were present over punctuality issues, they were kept to one's self, the utmost importance of the concert claiming full attention and rule of everything. The band was in full-out autopilot mode. No thoughts of anything but what loomed in front of them plagued them. For the time being, they weren't individuals, but four parts of a whole. Four parts of one well-oiled machine known as the Beatles. How well-oiled were they for what laid in store, was something that George was unsure of. It was something that remained to be seen. He could almost see Paul's concern and irritability rising out from within him directed towards John, without a doubt, could almost see John's insecurities and uncertainties in regards to his foolish lack of sureness in himself and his accompanying, fluctuating well-being. He didn't look too great either. Perhaps they'd snap out of whatever it was bothering them and everything as it had been thus far would fall into place.

"Lotta people 'ere…" George found himself muttering aloud as he stared off into the infinite mass of screaming people, "I'd be damned if we're actually able to 'ear ourselves think tonight." He frowned slightly as a slight quaver worked its way into his voice.

"Scared, Georgie?" John taunted while struggling with noticeably clumsy fingers to adjust the height of his microphone.

"Sod off, John!" George retaliated, "'Least I didn't puke out me guts, 'fore I got out 'ere."

John's face fell, the barely present humor having been sucked from him, "You shurrup about that!" he hissed defensively, "Ye' 'ave no fucking clue what it is yer even on about…"

George frowned, feeling immediately taken aback. No way did he expect for John to get so self-protective over something he was normally willing to poke fun at. He started to say more in attempt to redeem the situation but stopped, noting the extreme look of irritation, tiredness, and sickness plastered on John's face. Poor bloke was clearly miserable. Had something happened or was he just not feeling well? He seemed so bloody out of sync today…

"New York always manages to draw in a big crowd," Paul stated indifferently as though he'd been well acquainted with the state his entire life. Adjusting the strap on his bass, he flashed George a wink, and turned towards the audience, avoiding eye contact with John altogether. George was almost sure by now that John had said or done something to piss him off and vice versa.

"Well, what're we waiting for, McCartney, old age?" John snapped, his condescending tone strengthening George's theory, "Ye' gonna introduce us or not?"

"That depends. We're still waiting on you to get yer mic situated," Paul spoke without looking at him.

"Bloody thing…" John grumbled; pronounced aggravation shaking his voice as he continued to work aimlessly at getting the thing to budge let alone do what it was he wanted.

"Need help, Johnny?" George tentatively offered.

"No," John responded dully.

Paul's irritated gaze, for the first time since being on stage, landed on John right then, "Just let 'im help, John. What is it about you being so especially hardheaded today, you can't except help from even those who offer?"

Lennon's responsive glare was a fragile shell of the menace he was normally capable of portraying; pure exhaustion having instantaneously tapped into it and drained it free of its extensive qualities. "Why's it so hard for ye' to just leave well enough alone?" he countered, his tone clearly making up for what his expression lacked.

Paul shook his head, in no mood to fuel whatever it was that was escalating between them. "Help him, Geo," he muttered, turning away again from the both of them.

John was still struggling with his microphone as George dared to approach him, noticing instantly the violent tremors running through the fellow guitarist's fingers. No wonder he couldn't get a proper grip. "Here, John. Let me."

John glanced up suddenly in surprise as though just having noticed George's presence for the first time in years. "I said I got it!" he snapped, that look of surprise melting into none other than exasperation.

"Clearly, ye' don't," was George's calm reply. Years ago, he wouldn't have dared approach Lennon in such a way but he liked to think that their friendship had since evolved past such trivial matters.

"Christ… fine…take over everything why don't ye'?" John tiredly relented, allowing his fluctuating mask of cynicism to take him over. Why doesn't everyone just take over everything while they're at it? …Backing away with almost too much force, he stumbled painfully; the weight of his rhythm guitar nearly bringing him to the ground. With a weakened growl of frustration, he steadied himself, closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists as if trying to calm himself down.

Blind to his struggles, George adjusted the microphone in one swift motion and stepped aside, "All done!" he announced.

"Ta…" John snapped, his startlingly irritated voice shaking as much now as his fingers had been moments ago.

George turned to look at him in surprise, noting the extent of the tremors coursing through his body, "Ye' all right, John?" he asked.

"Yeah… fine…" he responded indifferently, avoiding eye contact as he crossed the stage towards his microphone.

George started to question him some more but was interrupted by Paul. "All set?" the bassist presently asked; oblivious to all previous happenings.

"Yeah. Just get on with it already, Macca…" John impatiently sighed, directing his attention to the escalating chaos of their audience, "In case ye' already forgot, I'm not exactly feeling me best… Standing 'ere all bloody night is the last thing I need."

Glancing skeptically at John for a moment, Paul finally stepped up to his microphone and threw out an extravagant greeting barely audible in the enthused roar that threatened to engulf his very being. Every word that followed was lost in infinite amounts of radiating excitement.

"What's he saying?" George whispered to John.

"Beats me," John shrugged, failing to look all that interested to begin with. He glanced down at his rhythm guitar and seemed to be wondering something in relation to it.

"Settle down, please!" Paul pleaded, his imploring words immediately eaten alive by rambunctious fans just as soon as they were uttered, "I know you're excited but…"

"I love you, Paul McCartney!" someone screamed out, bringing about an onslaught of unbelievably loud, shrill, ecstatic cries of exhilaration.

"Bloody 'ell…" John murmured, hands scrambling for his reactively, painfully throbbing ears. His eyes fluttered slightly as a wave of faintness coursed through his body like water cascading from a shower-head.

George noticed his slight waver in stance coupled with the pained look on his face. "All right?" he asked, turning his attention away from Paul momentarily.

"Bloody, fucking headache…"

"I know you're excited," Paul repeated into the mic, straining to be heard above the growing madness, "But, ye' really need to quiet down so I can-"

"PAaaauuuuullll!" someone found the need to assertively announce at a frequency barely perceptible to the human ear. Squeals galore immediately followed suit.

"Oh, fer chrissakes!" John grumbled to himself; his impatience, as it normally would in similar situations, proceeding to get the best of him. He eased his way towards the front of the stage and nudged Paul slightly aside so he could have full control of the mic, "Shurrrup already so Paul can get past the intro, would ye'?! We don't 'ave all bloody night!"

George couldn't keep a resulting smile at bay. It was always only a matter of time before Lennon would resort to such measures. No matter what, he never ceased to have Paul's back.

"I love you, John Lennon!" someone else screamed out, and squeals of excitement rushed to fill up the silence that had since followed John's irritated words of aggravation.

"Hard of 'earing, are ye'? …Shurrup, I said!"

Both George and Paul gazed at John. As playfully mocking as the guitarist normally was on stage, they found him to be completely serious this time around, a look of tired displeasure concealed behind gaunt eyes. More thrilled squeals followed but they were much quieter than before, the audience sensing that the normally cheeky John Lennon wasn't playing games.

Paul flashed John a fleeting look of gratitude to which John acknowledged with a wearied nod before making his way back towards his own mic. It was clear in an instance that whatever the initial cause of their row had been about was resolved in just the simple silent exchange of facial expressions. The wonders of the Lennon/McCartney friendship never ceased to amaze. In George's opinion, it near bordered being the eighth wonder of the world.

"As I was saying," Paul went on, finally able to get his point across and into the ears of the majority of their audience, "We're honored to be here tonight in the wonderful state of New York, once again… You guys are just fantastic and…"

More uncontainable screams. What fan wouldn't react to being called fantastic by the charming Paul McCartney? George could only shake his head, an action barely acknowledgeable to the untrained eye. Hopped up on uppers and the like, he found he was growing a bit impatient, himself, though for reasons entirely different from Lennon's. While Lennon clearly wanted to get everything over with, George was antsy to begin. Antsy to drown the place in music.

Paul remained hidden behind his mask of calm composure, John looked increasingly agitated. Glancing back to isolated Ringo perched up at his drum set; George noted the blatant look of detached content in his eyes. Over the years, the lead guitarist had grown to learn something about each of his band mates. When it came to Ringo, he'd quickly picked up on the fact that the tone for his mood was sometimes set in the beginning of the day. When he awoke in good spirits, he would often remain in good spirits for the rest of the day from which it was hard to disrupt him from. The same often applied to bad moods, as well. Though this wasn't always to be the case, tonight was no different, as the drummer still found reason enough to appear at ease despite the wilting masks of his other band mates. Looking at him now, it was no wonder he was often the band's mediator with his uncanny ability to position himself well above the worst of everything. No wonder at all.

After a while, Paul gave up having already said what was important and resorted to introducing the band's opening number, "Tonight, we'd like to lead off with a song I'm hoping you've all heard before and know very well. It's a single that was made especially for you and it's called, 'She Loves You'!"

The fans responded with surefire loud positivity as Paul went on to count the band down. The sound of musical instruments rose to compete with screams and soon the voices of Paul and John joined in, perfectly blended together in complete, unshakeable harmony.

"She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

You think you lost your love,
Well, I saw her yesterday.
It's you she's thinking of
And she told me what to say

She says she loves you
And you know that can't be bad.
Yes, she loves you
And you know you should be glad…"

Time, as it always would while performing, ceased to exist and adrenaline, as it would, moved in with suitcases chock-full of energy supplements for each of them. For the first time in what seemed like ages, George was feeling incredible, driven, energetic, and just high on life; the constant purr of his guitar through yearning fingertips having everything to do with it. It was times like this when he found himself to be content; at his happiest. When he was completely engulfed in the chaotic yet soothing world of music, not an intruding thought able to permeate his brain.

Paul remained in his element, as well, completely in control as he normally was while on stage. Even John, for the time being, lacked the growing exhaustion and tension that would otherwise work its way into his abnormally wan face. In the background, Ringo could be heard drumming freely, those rhythmic hands of his, seemingly incapable of disruption or distraction. It was liberating. All of it. And George couldn't think of a better way to describe it.

For the subsisting moment, he and his band mates had taken on the form of their music and their music had taken on the form of them. Together, they fell hand in hand. Were completely and entirely inseparable; bonded to the fullest. Music flowed through each of them, like an endless, warm, pleasure-filled breeze taking pieces of their souls with it as it moved, blending them and blending them until four souls became one. The music was their life-force; it breathed and thrived for them. It fed their every last hunger and longing, warming them from the inside out. It was unreal… Unnatural almost… Sheer magic in the making. And it went on and on, each Beatle gaining something they needed from another. Each Beatle ruthlessly giving and giving and giving…

It was overwhelming, almost. Larger than life and the universe, itself. George closed his eyes and allowed himself to succumb to it, soon losing himself completely. He was barely aware as ending songs faded from existence and others began in their place. His fingers had gained a mind all their own, it seemed; his body, somehow, just knowing what to do. Enclosed in his musical cocoon, nothing could bother him. Not the growing pandemonium in the audience and not the insane fans that were behind it all. For a rare moment in time, he was oblivious to all of it. Oblivious as he played, oblivious as he sang… So oblivious, he didn't notice John's gradually growing agitation as the night wore on. Didn't notice the hardening chords he was strumming out on his guitar with shaking hands or his lapse in technique as he unwittingly skipped over notes necessary to the songs they were performing. It wasn't until Paul had momentarily stopped playing to address John on the subject did George drift back to earth, managing to catch bits and pieces of their veiled conversation. As he did so, having been the only one left still singing and playing, an ominous musical silence quickly proceeded to befall the stage; making even more obvious, if possible, the unrelenting screams of their viewers.

"…I'm all right," John was saying, his voice hoarse and quavering; just audible over the roaring crowd, "M'just so bloody knackered, I can barely feel me fingers anymore…"

"Everything all right?" George whispered to his two band mates, concern mixed with confusion beginning to plague him as he set eyes on John in particular. The older guitarist looked right awful. Bone tired, never mind knackered as he'd put it.

Paul looked over at George, noticing finally that out of all four of them, not one voice or instrument was in the works and they were supposed to be in the middle of a performance… in the middle of a song for that matter. Dangerous territory if the fans took notice. If they took notice… Who was he kidding? Someone might literally have to keel over right in front of this particular crowd before they'd even begin to suspect that something was wrong. Like most things, however, there was always an upside. A blindly ecstatic crowd could practically entertain itself, meaning that if things went out of the ordinary such as they were now, the band was less likely to be the on the receiving end of any barmy disturbances.

Visibly flustered, John was well below Paul's pervasive optimism. "Look at 'em out there…" he muttered weakly, his voice hoarsely fading in and out as he tiredly glared out into the audience, "I bet they can't tell a thing over their own bloody screams. No one's even playing and they're reacting just the same. Goes to show how much they're actually taking in. It's fucking ridiculous… It's fucking shit… This is all a waste, really…a big, fucking…"

"Carry on, Geo," Paul cut in with a strenuous sigh, his gaze still worriedly fixated on John, "It's all right. Just pick up where we left off. No worries, lad."

Somewhat disillusioned by Lennon's exhaustion-fueled words, George obediently picked up where he had left off, his voice belting out the remaining lyrics to "Everybody's Trying to Be My Baby."

Paul ended whatever side conversation that had been taking place and he and John jumped back in as though nothing had happened. George, however, didn't fail to miss the look of lethargic distress still plastered to John's face. He was tired. Tired and suffering, pained, shaking, near tears it seemed. Yet, he still fought to keep it together. He would be a right mess when this was all over, George predicted. He already was and would only become more so. Somehow, he couldn't help feeling increasingly sorry for him.

All throughout the following performance of "I'll Follow the Sun, the fans continued to scream and scream, their merging voices rising continuously, succeeding in drowning out the music altogether at times. George found he couldn't quite achieve the levels of bliss he'd held captive prior to the recent interruption. Though he tried to ignore the raucous unrelenting screams, he was growing slightly irritated by it. Maybe John was right. Maybe it was all a waste. The fans couldn't hear them. How could they? The band could hardly hear themselves! Christ, George could hardly hear Paul and the bassist was right beside him giving his all. They paid attention all right. They stared and stared, gaped and gasped, screamed, cried, fainted… but somehow George had the feeling that it wasn't entirely the band's instrumental technique or accompanying lyrics that had much to do with it. Had that theory been plausible, their viewers would then maybe have the decency to sit back and tune in with more than just their eyes and mouths. Then perhaps those that came to do more than just gape… the ones that actually came to listen to them play would have the option of doing so.

Paul, as usual, seemed to be miles above any negative thoughts. Level-headed as could be, he just kept on playing, kept on singing as though they were merely recording an album in the studio with all the respectable silence in the world. Just as much composed and in control, remained Ringo, in a zone all his own, managing as always to keep the necessary beat characteristic of whatever song they were playing. John had slipped into a distant trance, himself, his hands forcefully and mechanically moving to strike the right chords. He wasn't even trying to fool anyone anymore with those deceiving, cynical eyes of his. The misery, the sick haze, it was as much visible as was the color of his sweat-ridden hair. Lennon wanted so much to be done. For this to be over. For the first time that night, George was suddenly right beside him.

The third to last song of the night came to an end, and following a short introduction, the Beatles began to ease into 'Words of Love.' George noticed the chord mix up almost immediately, and knowing he wasn't responsible, looked to both Paul and John for explanations. Through all the escalating noise pollution of the building, it was hard to pinpoint what exactly what was going on but it became obvious after a while that John had begun playing the intro to the wrong song.

"'Words of Love'! We're playing 'Words of Love', Lennon!'" Paul quickly informed his best mate, having to ease up right beside him just to be able to successfully capture his diminishing awareness.

In a manner not unlike a robot, the exhausted rhythm guitarist jolted to attention and quickly switched up on the chords he was playing. His mind easily slipping back into automatic, he managed to carry on the familiarized routine almost flawlessly with the exception of a few missed chords and randomly placed patches of inevitable verbal absences within his rasping voice. Wild screams ate up the atmosphere just the same as the slightly butchered song came to a much needed end. Caliber, at this point didn't remotely matter, least of all to John. He'd done what they wanted, hadn't he? Brought the song to a bloody end… Thankfully too. He was so dizzy; he could barely even stand straight anymore… And his head… he could barely hear himself over its relentless pounding. Was that normal? Somehow he didn't think so, but the rowdy fans were all but helping a thing. Christ. Was some silence too much to ask for? 'Is it too much of a farfetched wish?' he wondered wearily as Paul prepared them for the final number of the night. It had to have been, seeing as he hadn't once been granted one iota of true silence the entire day… If the fans would just shut up for even a second, maybe it would be enough for him to re-gather his wits… He was sure he was beginning to lose it… Pretty sure he had lost it hours ago… Days ago even…

The thought of yelling into the microphone for everyone to just do him a favor and shut the bloody hell up occurred to him… but that would lead to the unnecessary use of his voice… and truthfully his throat was more than ready to quit on him. They had but one more song left… Using up the remainder of his voice on just that one plea, as tempting as it was, would only earn him permanent removal from the concert… Permanent removal from the tour… Permanent removal from the band even for all he knew. 'Get it together, Lennon… You're fine… Just a bit longer…'

John lifted his gaze from the unmoving calm of the floor into the wild audience and then to Paul who was trying so hard to get the final song introduction out. He was failing miserably as his shouting words presented themselves with a volume no louder than a mere whisper amongst the pandemonium. Fuck it… this was bullshit… they were barely even letting Paul announce the final song of the night… Currently they were blocking the way to bringing the concert to its proper ending. Currently they were standing between him and his bed… and sleep… and that hopeful fantasy of waking up in the morning feeling refreshed and brand new… Before John entirely knew what he was doing, he asserted himself to center stage where Paul was calmly perched and shoved him aside much as he had done earlier in the night. Assuming control of the mic and ignoring Paul's protests, he pinpointed his oddly blurred gaze at the audience and glared menacingly. "Shurrup or get lost!" he growled hoarsely at them, "I'm sick of listenin' to the lot of ye'!"

"John!" Paul exclaimed in astonishment as the audience, resultantly stunned, suddenly fell silent.

John looked as if he'd sink to the stage floor in a pool of relief.

Then just as quickly as blessed silence befell them, as if to answer the rhythm guitarist's plea and shoot it down without much in the way of consideration, a deafening round of pleased cries resounded from the front of the audience. Before anything more could be said, wild cheers were bouncing off every wall and inanimate object with a vengeance even louder than before; all of which harboring what seemed like similar goals of shattering the ailing Beatle's eardrums. "We love you, John!" someone dared to cry out above the chaos.

John's face crumpled in pronounced discomfort and disappointment. What the fuck was this? This was bloody ridiculous… This was…

"You tried, Johnny," George whispered to him.

Fuck… He hadn't tried… Not remotely… Not hard enough… Was he so sick he couldn't even instill a bit of fear anymore? Was he so sick he couldn't be taken remotely serious? "Leave it alone, John…" Paul was telling him now as if sensing that he had been about to do something crazy. Well he didn't have to worry about that. He was practically spent. What was left of his energy was gone… Drained completely… His head felt as if he'd taken a kick to the back of it… Dizziness was overwhelming… 'You're spent for the night, Johnny… All in... Bloody nancy boy…'

"John, unless you're going to announce the final song, could ye' step aside? Fans are getting antsy, I think…"

'Then I'll shut 'em up… Watch me shut 'em up once and for all…' his mind pleaded weakly. His body didn't have the energy for such shenanigans. He really didn't feel all that great at the moment… Succumbing to overpowering defeat, the guitarist turned and submissively made his way back towards his own microphone…

"…'A Hard Day's Night'!" the remainder of McCartney's voice drifted back towards Lennon's ears followed by a deafening roar from the audience. It sounded official… like an announcement of some sort. He should probably try to tune in … Focus… Make sure he wasn't about to miss something important but his wearied mind seemed intent on other plans.

The audience carried on, their voices threatening to deafen them all. John fought back a groan as resulting, continuous spears of pain shooting through his skull threatened to cripple the remainder of his mentality. He might as well step off the stage, hand any random fan a sharp object and tell him or her to stab him repeatedly in the ear. The pain threshold, the effects would be the same, nonetheless... minus the gruesome and possibly bloody aspect... John groaned a bit, feeling a bit uncharacteristically queasy at the extent of his own vivid not to mention vulgar imagination…

Somewhere in the distant background, Paul could be heard counting down…

Nausea proceeded to grip him and John wondered vaguely when his tolerance for the repulsive had become so limited. Deciding he'd rather not give it much thought, he tilted his head back and inadvertently allowed for his eyes to close.

"John!" someone called distantly. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

"John!" Louder now.

"Fer chrissakes, Lennon, answer me!" The intrusive voice paraded loudly through his heavily throbbing skull threatening to disassemble it altogether. Christ. What now?

The guitarist sluggishly forced his eyes open, feeling blatant, immediate irritation towards the added presence of an annoying hand waving directly in his face. The rapid motion somehow made him feel even sicker. Blinking blearily and trying not to groan, he slapped it away. "What…?" he snapped or at least thought he snapped. His tongue suddenly felt as if it had been replaced with a water-soaked sponge.

"Ye' all right?" Paul frowned, staring hard at him, eyes chock-full of concern, "Ye' missed yer cue… twice…"

John opened his mouth to answer but…all that escaped was a groan.

"He doesn't look so hot, Macca… maybe we should…" John couldn't seem to make out the rest of George's words.

What a strange assumption, anyway. He felt… He felt… He felt- The rhythm guitarist pulled away from his microphone with just enough time to turn away from his band mates. With just enough time to avoid vomiting what would've been all over the mic and the front of the stage. With just enough time to spare the audience of the gruesome sound effects that would've otherwise been amplified throughout the building. Twice, the rhythm guitarist violently retched, the tiresome spasms bringing up little if any traces of vomit. Their spectators screamed on, no louder and no quieter, than before. Nothing to give away the fact that they even had a clue what was happening. John wasn't even sure he had a clue what was happening and he was the current source of astonishment. "

He stood there numbly for a second, staring at the tiny puddle he'd created, his head throbbing in sickening pain before reality began to catch up with him. The show… What the bloody hell was he doing? What the bloody hell was happening…?

The various anxious cries of the audience peaked without warning and John right away knew, in his haze-filled mind, that this most recent unexpected happening of his hadn't gone unnoticed. Great… of all the stupid additional things to happen in the public eye… Now these people paid attention… Now they were was on a bloody roll. The band was possibly going to kill him. Eppy would be so thrilled; he'd send his sorry arse on a permanent vacation to some deserted island just to be rid of him. A lucky break, it sounded like, but at the rate he was going with this stupid supposed flu of his, he'd be too bloody sick to make a proper holiday out of it. Perhaps it was this realization that dizzied him completely. Perhaps it was this realization that drained the blood entirely from his face and brought him to his knees.

"John… John! All right?" A pair of shaking hands took firm hold of both his sides and hoisted him to his feet with the surprising strength that had momentarily abandoned him. Mal… right… Wait… Weren't they…? How was he… What the…? His heart pounding thickly in his sensitive ears, he could hardly make out a thing…

"Blimey, e's bloody let 'imself overheat…" Mal sighed, pressing a knuckle against Lennon's cheek. He was no more than a silhouette in John's eyes. There was more waving in front of his face but he couldn't quite make it out…

"Let's get 'im backstage where it's a bit quieter and cooler…" came a muffled baritone voice that could only fit Ringo…

'But I'm all right…' John revealed or at least thought he did. His body seemed to have quit on him.

"Christ, the fans are going stark-raving mad!" Paul… or was it George? Bloody hell, they don't even sound the same…

John felt himself being dragged in a direction he was unsure of. It wasn't until he was eased into a chair did his reluctant senses begin to re-greet the world. Another groaned eased out of him…

"Bloody 'ell, Lennon! Ye' trying to give us the bloody scare of a lifetime?"

Still terribly woozy, John brought his eyes unsteadily to the source of the newly spoken voice. Eppy came into focus… His eyes were wild as he frantically glanced about him as if debating what to do about the still unraveling situation.

"Are you all right, Johnny?" Ringo's worried voice drifted from somewhere that John didn't have the energy to scope out. He found he didn't have the energy to answer either…

"Maybe we should call it a night," George supplied worriedly, "He looks as though he's 'ad enough…"

"'Ave you? 'Ave you 'ad enough, John?" Eppy asked, asserting himself further into John's line of vision. He looked to be at a loss, completely disillusioned by the turn events. He looked as though he wouldn't take yes for an answer. Looked as if he expected John to jump right back into the mix as if nothing had happened… As if he hadn't just thrown up and nearly fainted on stage…

John blinked away the remaining fog clinging heavily to the back of his plaintively aching eyes and forcefully sat up, uncontrollable feelings of guilt and stupidity beginning to claw at his innards. He smirked in spite of his feelings. "Don't be bloody ridiculous, Eppy. I'll be all right…" He found his voice to be hoarse, barely existent in its painful attempt to bring forth words.

Eppy didn't seem to hear him, "They're going to want to know why ye' fainted… nearly fainted…" he corrected himself, "…Why you vomited on stage of all places! I suppose there'll be all kind of rumors readily suggesting drugs and alcohol poisoning…"

John's smirk wilted at the approach of an overwhelming wave of dejectedness. "What are ye' on about, Brian? I 'aven't touched a drink all bloody day… no thanks to you…"

"They don't know that and we can't afford to take any chances," Eppy responded, "How do you think rumors start, John?"

"I don't understand…" George spoke up, "Why shouldn't anyone be able to automatically assume he's just ill?"

"Something happened that changes that," Eppy muttered. He turned briefly to acknowledge the lead guitarist before allowing his eyes to settle on John once again, "Multiple sources are claiming that you fell on your way in, John. Correct?"

"Yeah and?" he muttered, glaring tiredly back into his manager's eyes.

"Half those sources claim that you seemed intoxicated. Unstable… Unfocused… Drugged…"

"Anyone with 'alf a brain can see that that's not the case," John countered, anger claiming him once again.

"Beside the point, Johnny…" Eppy sighed, "You must understand that-"

"Gits…" John interrupted, his hoarse voice quavering in pronounced frustration, "Bloody, fucking gits,the lot of 'em…" Clenching his fists unwittingly, he rose adamantly from his seat and impulsively started away from the unwanted group that had gathered around him against his will.

"John-"

"Eppy, give 'im a break, he's sick fer chrissakes!" Paul snapped, staring in the direction of his blatantly miserable band mate with worry. He still wasn't sure if it was the illness, or the drugs in his system, or both combined, but John Lennon had been handling his emotions with even less care than usual and it was often the littlest things that would succeed in pushing him a step too far.

"Right…" Eppy frowned, glancing after John with a bit of remorse, "I suppose we'll 'ave to terminate the remainder of the show. It's no matter really. The majority's been said and done. Besides, it'll allow you boys a bit of extra rest before the upcoming press conference."

"We're still going 'ead with that?" Ringo asked incredulously.

"There's no choice now. The New York press is going to want to know every last detail regarding what 'appened on stage tonight. We can't very well wait for tomorrow now, can we? Not if we're due in New Jersey by late morning. By then, irreversible rumors could be sweeping the country!"

Paul heatedly shook his head, and took off in Lennon's direction.

John had just begun putting his guitar away in conceded defeat when the bassist came up beside him, a worried look aimed at him.

"What?" John demanded shortly, irritation still present in his antics.

"All right?" Paul asked.

"I don't feel well, Macca… I wanna get back to the hotel…" John muttered hoarsely without looking at him. He found himself shivering again and after closing his guitar case, wrapped his arms protectively around himself to keep the uncontrollable tremors at bay. The body aches that had subsided at the declination of his fever were beginning to resurface once more and he was beginning to feel right awful all over again… not that he'd ever really stopped…

Paul frowned as he regarded John's mostly pale face. The majority of the heavy flush had vanished over time but now he could see that little tidbits of it were starting to take hold of the bridge of his nose and surrounding cheeks. John coughed right then, a horrible hoarse barking sound that shook his entire frame in what seemed like a painful manner. Paul's frown deepened as he regarded him. Before he knew it, he had a hand pressed to his best mate's forehead, his frown only continuing to lengthen as he concluded that John was starting to feel a bit hot all over again. "Y'shouldn't 'ave gone on…" he sighed, his voice full of concern and regret.

John glared at him, "What difference does it make? It's all said and done, isn't it?"

"Not entirely. We still have that press conference to get to," Paul worriedly reminded him, "Remember?"

John's glare melted into a frown and he scrubbed at his grainy, watery eyes. Fuck, he'd forgotten all about the stupid conference. "Yer kidding…" he muttered.

"You gonna be up fer it?" Paul asked, "Eppy said earlier that he'd make sure it's a quick one if ye' still weren't feeling well by then."

"Of course I'm still not feeling well… I 'aven't felt good all bloody day… why should that change?" John muttered cynically, "He should've arranged fer that since me graceful collapse earlier back in the kitchen…or wherever it was." Feeling suddenly increasingly agitated, he forced in a deep quavering breath and closed his eyes as resulting dizziness claimed him for what seemed like the billionth time that day. He honestly didn't know how much more of this he could take…

Paul frowned, "It'll be all right, John," he attempted to assure the guitarist, "Y'know that right?"

John laughed bitterly, "Don't I know it," He stood up unsteadily and reached for his guitar case, throwing a small sincere grin in Paul's direction, "Let's get this little tea party over with then, shall we?" he affirmed, traces of his true persona managing to shine through the heavy haze of constant illness that surrounded him.

Paul smiled. There was the John he knew and loved. "Y'sure yer up fer it, mate?" he asked, "They're going to ask a lot of questions. Chances are, their noses will be where they don't belong…"

John smirked, the trademark look of cynicism still present within his tired eyes, "What's a few more minutes of torture?" he inquired with a halfhearted shrug, "…But if I decide I need to leave before it's over, I'm leaving. Me throat's killing me as it is and me voice 'as about 'ad it. I'm not sure how much more I can put it through if I'm to get up tomorrow and do this all over again…"

"Somehow, I don't think anyone would be offended if y'did end up leaving," Paul told him, managing a weak smile, "It's pretty blatant yer sick, Johnny, and the fact that y'can barely talk should easily give off the sign that yer not right."

John frowned at the revelation that the voice he was always so quick to fire off was no longer a trusty weapon, "I should've taken up bloody sign language when I 'ad the chance…" he muttered, half-seriously. A sudden realization dawned on him right then, and he broke out into a devilish grin, "Although I do know a thing or two…" he added, allowing his words to trail off with an air of nonchalance.

Paul knowingly rolled his eyes, "Yer not showing off yer middle finger to the press, Lennon," he chastised.

"I will if they cross me…" John muttered, "I feel like fucking crap, Macca…I don't exactly 'ave yer patience."

"Y'don't 'ave my patience even when y'don't feel like crap, John!" Paul scoffed, "Who are ye' kidding?"

"That's a matter of opinion," John replied stubbornly, turning away from him in mock resentment.

Paul sighed, "Just try not to talk till we get there, will ye'? Y'need to save what's left of that voice of yers if yer to use it at all."

A/N: What a train wreck, huh? Possible upcoming tweaks for this chapter and chapter 16 are in the making... Stay tuned is all I can say... oh and... review if you wish :)).