A/N: Welllll here it is, chapter 16 :)). Hope everyone had a well-deserved HAPPPPYYYY holidays! Here's a late present to all my readers! Hope you enjoy!
The press conference was conveniently being held in a different segment of the same building that the concert had been held in. The four Beatles filed into the proper room and sat at the table presented to them in alphabetical order. As usual, water was presented to each of them and microphones were adjusted to suit each musician's preference. "Could I get a lozenge and some aspirin for John, please?" Paul politely asked a man who was helping with the set up.
The man nodded and passed the bit of information to someone else. The person on the receiving end hurried away to fulfill the request.
John's resulting glare all but signaled pleasure as he glared in McCartney's direction, "What're ye' doing?" he snapped hoarsely.
"He's doing ye' and the rest of us a bloody favor," George supplied from his other side, "We've had the pleasure of listening to ye' cough nonstop just about the entire walk 'ere. We don't fancy sitting 'ere voluntarily through that bit of torture again!"
John frowned, but said nothing more.
A throat lozenge and a couple aspirin were presented to John by a female and he thanked her with something of a feigned smile. Hurriedly, he took the aspirin first with a sip of water, tilted his head back and momentarily closed his eyes before starting on the lozenge. He began to shiver again after a while and pulled his coat around him even tighter as though wishing to shrink inside himself.
"Are you cold, John?" Eppy asked, eyeing him with a bit of concern from the side of the table, "It's really quite warm in 'ere, y'know."
"I wouldn't know a thing about it," John muttered; the latter of his words nearly drowned in the midst of a fleeting heavy throaty cough.
"Oh dear…" Eppy sighed. He whispered something to an important looking figure beside him and the man nodded before scurrying off to spread whatever it was that had been passed on to him. Staring at the concern embedded within his manager's eyes, John somehow had the feeling it concerned him. This bloody night couldn't end soon enough. He'd wished this numerous times, but it was a bloody mantra he just couldn't seem to let go of…
The room fell suddenly silent and someone at the head of the mob of reporters spoke into the new-found quiet, "First, we'd like to begin by welcoming you all to New York for the second time! We hope your second experience has been as wonderful as your first and we're honored that you could all be here today!"
"Thank you," John replied jadedly, his voice still terribly hoarse with just a hint of barely perceivable despondency.
"Yes, thank you!" Paul echoed, the brisk energy within his voice proving a blatant contrast to John's, "We're honored to be 'ere, as well!" Punctuating the statement with a brief, charming smile, he quickly and politely added, "If it's not too much to ask, we'd like to begin as quickly as possible."
A brief calm hung in the air before calamity struck and all at once, reporters moved in for the kill.
"Can anyone elaborate on what it was that just took place?"
"Is or was John intoxicated?"
"Are there drugs involved?"
John's eyes fell closed as a resulting wave of pain-induced dizziness washed over him. His patience, caught beneath the reign of his shivering and aching body, was already wearing thin.
"One at a time please!" Paul sighed, sensing John's growing distress.
"Yes," the normally mild-mannered Ringo added, "We only 'ave two ears each, y'know, no more than the lot of ye' and right now due to overexposure to noise, they're barely working as is."
The mob quieted some and the onslaught of questions slowed down to three per fifteen second interval.
"Can you explain the reasoning behind your unfortunate breakdown, John?" a balding middle-aged reporter bluntly questioned.
Breakdown? John bristled at the less than subtle use of wording. Were these people capitalizing on the possibility that he'd gone mad? Bloody hell, he'd show them mad… The rhythm guitarist opened his mouth to respond in a way that would properly deem him mad only to shut it again as the realization that he wasn't quite helping the cause here dawned on him.
"John?" the man impatiently prodded him.
What was the question again? Fuck… 'Quite the job yer doing here already, Lennon… Yer well on yer way to justice and redemption…' The pressure in his head seemed to increase in intensity. "C-could you repeat that?" he questioned, his voice drenched in a lack of sureness he was certain he had never let see the light of day ever, let alone in the public eye.
"Explain, if you will; the reason behind your unfortunate breakdown."
"I uh…" His mind had abandoned him, it seemed… 'Christ, what is it yer not understanding, Lennon?' His stomach churned repulsively in response to the thickening pounding in his head. Frowning, he draped an arm across it, hoping to keep the growing nausea at bay. Last thing he needed at this point was another fiasco…
Glancing briefly to John in heightened concern, Paul took it upon himself to respond in the uncharacteristic absence of his best mate's response, "Performing on stage is an overwhelming and taxing experience…" he professionally stated, "John was already feeling ill beforehand and it simply caught up with him as it would anyone else, really."
"You seemed troubled prior to your breakdown, John… Is it possible that you were under the influence of something?"
"If yer suggesting alcohol then the answer is no." John answered dully with half a mind, the rest of him concentrating intently on willing his body not to further humiliate him for the rest of the night.
"What caused you to throw up, then, and in the midst of a performance at that?" a curly-haired reporter asked as if the whole turn of events had been planned and was, therefore, his fault.
John subtly leaned forward against the table, tightening the grip around his middle with one hand while supporting his head with the other. "I was bored…" he mumbled sarcastically, "Seemed like the thing to do." Good-natured laughter broke free of their spectators but John wasn't in the least bit trying to be funny. Weren't these people remotely capable of filling in their own blanks? It was established already that he was sick. What the fuck else would have cause him to throw up?
"You're not helping matters, John!" Epstein furtively hissed in his ear, appearing behind him without warning.
John wearily rolled his eyes, "It was the illness, actually..." he answered finally, putting emphasis on the latter of his explanation.
"Care to elaborate?"
"No."
"So alcohol isn't a possible factor?"
"Not remotely," John muttered, eyes beginning to fall closed in growing exhaustion. Sighing, he lifted the hand that had been cradling his middle and attempted to rub the ache out of both of them. The pain only seemed to grow as if out of sheer rebellion.
"Was it food poisoning?"
"No…"
"You look a little peaked, dear. Are you still not feeling well?" a kind-eyed brunette reporter asked; utmost empathy present in her voice.
John shrugged halfheartedly, "You must not be taking in me good side…" he sluggishly deadpanned, intentionally allowing a bit of much needed humor into the building for the first time that night. Lighthearted laughter erupted.
"What do the rest of you think?" the curly-haired reporter spoke again, directing her attention to the three remaining Beatles.
"There's nothing to think. It is what it is," George responded automatically, "Haven't you been sick before?"
The reporter didn't seem to hear his question or decisively dismissed it as casual cheekiness. "George," she stated instead, "I've heard that you were sick most recently, is it possible that you've passed it on to John?"
"I 'aven't quite earned me doctorate's degree in medicine. I wouldn't know for sure." George quipped. Lighthearted laughter was imminent.
John smirked tiredly, "I established that earlier. Dr. Harrison doesn't quite 'ave the necessary flow it needs to become official…" As more laughter sprang free, John found himself choking on the latter of his words. Before he knew it, he was well into one of his particularly stubborn coughing fits. It wasn't until he'd near drained the majority of his water did slight relief find him. The same didn't stand for the subsisting ache weighing terribly on his head and remaining body. Stupid illness was draining him from the inside out…
"Goodness, are you all right?" a bespectacled female reported gasped.
Despite his increased discomfort, John managed a watery-eyed smirk of pronounced cynicism in her direction, "Define all right…" he croaked, clearing his burning throat.
"Sounds like it's quite the nasty bug you've caught. And what terrible timing well into summer!" the curly-haired reporter stated, rudely inserting herself intrusively back into conversation.
John lazily focused a pair of haggard eyes on the woman, "Well, it's winter in Australia, y'know…" he revealed indifferently. He sniffled and cleared his throat again as laughter filled the room. So he hadn't completely lost his wit after all… He wondered vaguely why this revelation wasn't more comforting. Maybe it was the radiating headache still clouding his judgment… Maybe it was the overwhelming feeling of allover sickness fully beginning to claim him.
"Either way, it's a terrible inconvenience. Were you truly on stage with this terrible illness?" she probed, bringing forth yet another subject that like her first one, easily spoke for itself.
"No, that was me stunt-double," John muttered without missing a beat, his tone portraying its well-known sarcasm, "As for the throwing up and fainting bit; that was just a bit of extra fun… It's a hobby in England, really. Liverpool to be exact."
Laughter ensued causing the rhythm guitarist to collapse into an all-out wince. The amount of resulting pain that enveloped his face was infinite.
"Is that so?" the woman pretended to take the bait with an amused smile.
John indolently nodded, failing to come up with anything additionally clever and entertaining as he was normally capable of under circumstances of similar nature. He was beginning to feel a bit dazed and disoriented not to mention hot and overwhelmingly sick to his stomach. He closed his tired eyes in a passing effort to get himself to cope before reopening them sluggishly, his mind working overtime to come to terms with his surroundings. He was beginning to think that he needed some air. But if he dared get up to leave, chances were, he wouldn't be coming back…
"Are you currently taking medication?" the kind-eyed lady presently asked him.
John blinked distractedly, "M'sorry, what?"
"Medication… for your illness?"
"Right …" John froze, his mind, once again, failing to piece together the words being thrust at him.
"Meds, John…" Ringo whispered to him as though sensing the muddled mayhem that was his mind.
John blinked and gave his head a quick shake to clear it, ignoring the searing flare up of pain that now permanently accompanied such actions. The rather violent attempt somehow yielded the desired effect as the thickening fog in his head came to a temporary halt and his delayed and suffering mentality momentarily kicked back into gear. "Right… yeah… meds…" he murmured, swallowing painfully, "M'taking prescription… prescription… meds or something of the like…"
Paul was staring hard at him. 'Are you all right?' his eyes were questioning.
John nodded ever so slightly in response to the unasked question despite the fact that it wasn't entirely truthful. His head was beginning to spin from his less than graceful attempt to clear it and he was feeling quite overbearingly nauseated by this point… still felt like… Quickly, he emptied his mind as though not to give his body any ideas…
"Have you seen a doctor?" a bespectacled curly redhead asked, "If not, you really should. There are a lot of strange illnesses out and about these days and clearly you don't seem to be lugging about the common cold."
John settled for a submissive nod by way of response, wishing deep inside that everyone would just go away… Leave him alone to his perpetual misery and feelings of illness…
"The common cold and flu aren't all there is to worry about in this day and age," the reporter preached on, "Some illnesses have yet to be truly understood and therefore pose a threat beyond comprehension."
John's frown lengthened. Great. Just what he needed to hear. Was this lady trying to give him a scare? If anything, she was beginning to right piss him off. Had he been capable of thinking clearly, he'd give her a taste of what he felt needed to be said. He'd give them all a taste of what needed to be said. Strangely enough, he had no idea where to begin… or where to end for that matter… Words were coming to him but they weren't remotely logical… At least not to his dense, fevered mind…
As if things weren't overwhelming enough, in the midst of this woman's lengthy health rant, additional unnecessary words were being thrust at courtesy of his accompanying band mates… "Look alive, Johnny… All right? …Pay attention… Drink water…" The ill guitarist didn't know whether he was coming or going… What the fuck was anyone even on about? It pissed him off… Threatened to push him to the limit. The very limit of his limit… Overwhelmed, didn't even begin to some up his feelings. Subconsciously clenching a fist concealed below the table in front of him, he bit down on his tongue in a desperate attempt to keep from saying anything he'd immediately regret.
"You have been properly diagnosed, right?" the reporter presently asked.
"Yes, I think… I mean, yes," John muttered, swallowing back on the feelings of irrepressible anger still building within him, "It's only the flu, y'know…"
"It's got you good too," a different reporter commented.
"Is it catching?" a blonde reporter asked, "Is this something we should all be concerned about?"
"I'm not a doctor…" John testily informed her.
"As far as we know, it's just the flu," Paul added.
"What does this mean for tomorrow's show?"
John merely shrugged, tired, apathetic eyes focusing idly on his nearly empty glass in front of him. It was clear after a while, that he wasn't going to give way to a verbal response.
"We'll see how he is tomorrow," Paul asserted in place of John's silence.
"Is the rest of the tour endangered?"
"We'll see how he is tomorrow," Paul emphasized.
"Regardless, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we wish you the speediest of recoveries, John!" the kind-eyed brunette reporter stated.
Resulting murmurs of agreement and nods emerged from the group of reporters.
"Ta… err… thank you," John found the energy to articulate.
"What did you boys think of Forest Hills?" the balding reporter asked, finally setting the tone for a much needed change of subject.
"Everything was practically perfect in every way!" Ringo stated, playfully quoting Mary Poppins in an effortless attempt to uplift the depressing ambiance that had settled within the room.
Paul rolled his eyes at him. "Ringo Poppins isn't that far off, really," he stated, drawing laughter from their interviewers, "The sound system was decent, for starters!"
"The lighting too!" George quickly added, not wishing to be overlooked.
"Most importantly, the fans were wonderful, as usual," Paul added with a charming grin.
"Always," Ringo emphasized.
"What's next on your list of goals following this particular tour?" a redheaded man asked.
George shrugged, "Another album most likely…"
"Another movie," Ringo put in.
"Another tour," George drawled, "The usual, y'know…"
"Could you offer us a preview or a sneak peek so to speak?" the man continued with piqued interest.
"Right now, we couldn't even offer ourselves any of those things," George responded wryly, "There's no telling where we'll end up. Wherever the wind takes us I s'ppose."
"Any chance that wind will blow you back to New York?"
"Why, what's in it fer us?" Ringo cracked, bringing about another round of laughter.
"What would you like?" the man asked, taking the bait.
"A lifetime supply of your fabulous cheesecake," George responded without missing a beat.
Laughter exploded around them.
"Y'might not want to consider that," Paul muttered, "There isn't enough cake in the world to satisfy that insatiable appetite of 'is."
"Cake?! There isn't enough food, mind you," Ringo emphasized with a pronounced roll of the eyes.
His own grin fading in the aftermath of surrounding laughter and amusement, Paul glanced over to John noting his unusual prolonged, growing silence. The rhythm guitarist with his head resting in the palm of a propped up hand was quietly looking on, an oddly distant and pensive look claiming his face. He didn't seem to be taking in any more of the conversation that surrounded him. Paul frowned, "Holding up all right, mate?" he whispered to him.
John turned to him but didn't answer. His eyes, half-lidded and fevered said it all.
"What's on the agenda tonight?" a mousy-looking woman asked.
"Sleep," George sighed yearningly.
"Sleep?" A reporter echoed as if the mere idea was ghastly.
"Yeah, we're pretty knackered," Paul explained, "And John's sick so… it's looking like an early night in." He tried to put an emphasis on 'early' in hopes that someone would catch on and begin to wrap things up but… that didn't seem like it would be the case.
"Got a big day tomorrow, as well," Ringo added.
No one noticed right away as John lowered his head to the table in front of them.
A few more questions were asked by oblivious reporters before that kind-eyed reporter abruptly cut in. "Uh…is he all right?" she asked, pointing frantically to John's unmoving form.
Puzzled, three Beatles, Eppy, and Mal turned to look at John in surprise. Christ, had he passed out again?
"John!" George hissed, shaking him in attempt to wake him. Paul joined in his efforts driven by near franticness.
The guitarist awoke with a sleepy moan before succumbing into a violent fit of coughing. George pushed his glass of water at John, noting that he'd already finished his. After taking a few sips, John managed to clear his throat before dropping his aching head into his hands, his body erupting subsequently into spasms of shivers. "B-bloody…bloody 'ell…" he squeaked out, his voice just barely audible.
"All right?" George quietly asked him, dark eyes wide in an even blend of alarm and sympathy.
"I…" John frowned, realizing that his voice seemed to be working even less than before. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "I can't…" The repeated attempt proved even worse than the first as nothing more than a barely audible rasp came out. He coughed again and grimaced, pointing frantically to his throat in indication of its failure.
"Blimey, 'e's finally gone and lost 'is voice," Ringo announced ever so helpfully as though it wasn't readily obvious.
John was shaking rather violently now, the tremors sounding off through the slight rattling of the wooden chair. Pain and nausea coursed throughout his body.
"Christ, John, what's the matter?" Mal asked, turning to him in surprise. The rhythm guitarist was dreadfully pale now, almost gray it seemed. He hoped to God, it was the bloody lighting.
John started to cough again and just as suddenly, started gagging. Almost immediately, gagging became retching and within seconds, the water he'd just consumed was all over the table in front of them. Paul and George having been closest to him at the time jumped back in immediate surprise, Paul nearly falling from his seat and toppling Ringo in the process.
Mal let slip an array of colorful language once he'd realized what had just happened and rushed to the guitarist's side to offer a comforting hand. John helplessly continued to heave over the edge of his seat, bringing up nothing more but traces of bile. Pain was written all over his face in the aftermath of each exhausting stomach contraction. "Easy, Johnny, easy…" Mal coaxed as the world around him came to a gradual standstill. The rest of the band stood in place, each looking like their own rendition of petrified deer caught in headlights.
The heaving came to a sudden end, and silence blanketed the room as John exhaustedly lifted his head and tilted it back towards the ceiling, his eyes falling closed. "All right, John?" Paul was the first to ask, breaking the silence before it could get too deep.
John nodded, ever so slightly.
"Feel better?" Mal asked.
Again, John nodded. There were tears streaming down his face now, the shininess catching in the glare of the overhead light.
Stunned silence continued to hold the room captive while the rhythm guitarist sat frozen in the aftermath of his second public mishap, looking a blatant mix of misery and humiliation.
Finally the dam of shock collapsed and a resulting buzz emitted amongst observing press as various comments on the subject were subsequently being uttered right in front of them. Immediate remorse ran through the remaining 3/4ths of the band. No one knew what to do or say in order to successfully transform this particular irredeemable, unexpected occurrence.
Paul turned after a while and whispered something to Mal who in turn signaled to Eppy his formed intentions of removing John from the scene for his own good.
Epstein solemnly nodded his approval before moving closer to Mal to utter something the press wouldn't be able to hear. "Send for a doctor while yer at it. I'd rather we 'ave proof that this is just a case of the flu we're dealing with 'ere and nothing more."
"I'll make the arrangements from the comfort and privacy of the dressing room," was Mal's brisk response.
"Very well," Eppy responded with a weak smile, "We'll meet you…" The remainder of his words was drowned out as the press' resulting clamor suddenly rose in volume, each individual reporter dying to be heard.
"He's really sick, isn't he, the poor dear?"
"What's this mean for tomorrow now?"
"Is the rest of the tour canceled?"
"John… I'd like to speak to John Lennon…"
George's eardrums reacted negatively to all the increased commotion, the pulsating vibrations within them giving way to the beginnings of an anxiety-induced headache. He longed for John's commanding voice in the midst of this most recent onslaught. Two words were all it would take and silence would be imminent. Not tonight, however. Tonight, John was forced to take a backseat to things. Forced to comply as Mal led him from the room in a way that proved similar to a schoolteacher leading a sick little boy that had just embarrassed himself by heaving in the middle of class. This was all very foreign to John, as well. He looked absolutely mortified but at the same time too defeated to really do anything about it in terms of self-redemption. No jokes… no silly faces… It was one of the many worrisome things that plagued the back of George's mind. Made this all a bit too real… Strengthened the fact that he still couldn't shake the vague feeling that something seemed very wrong… He'd seen John victim to a myriad of various illnesses over the years. John at his sickest was still John, nonetheless. Altered or not, that insuppressible Lennon charm always seemed to ease its way out from within him. Suddenly, he seemed hardly in touch with that side of himself. Seemed hardly in touch with himself at all… Was this something he'd sleep off? George bloody well hoped so… Everything, thus far, mirrored a story gone wrong. Though he wasn't the oldest out of the four of them, it didn't stop George from readily believing that John Lennon was supposed to be their protector. The leader of their pack, somewhat soft on the inside, tough on the outside. Most feelings of vulnerabilities and accompanying insecurities, as plentiful as they were, were almost always skillfully masked from view. To see him so outwardly and uncontrollably weak all the time… just… didn't quite sit right with him…
All at once, security filed into the room as safety precautions, should the press get unruly in pursuit of juicy details to the newly unraveling story.
"What do we do?"George presently nudged Paul, jolting the bassist from a reverie of his own.
Slightly startled, he turned to the young guitarist noting that he seemed a bit frightened at the unexpected turn of events. Paul opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted as a pair of unidentified hands suddenly clasped down on both their shoulders. Given twin jolts, both Paul and George gazed up to see Epstein's apprehensive eyes focused on them. It was only Eppy. George emitted a minor sigh of relief. Christ, he was a bundle of nerves all of sudden. Paul too, he could see.
"Time to go boys," Eppy sighed, "Security wants us out of the building should things 'appen to go barmy."
"Go barmy?" George scoffed, eyebrow arched in ridicule. He gestured frantically to the unfolding madness ensuing about them, "What does this qualify as, then?"
"Nothing to trouble yer pretty little 'ead about, love," Ringo protectively stated from behind the youngest Beatle. He placed a gentle hand against his upper back, preparing to help guide him from the room, "Come 'ead, now," he cajoled. He glanced briefly to Paul, "Both of you," he took the time to emphasize.
A/N: If all goes according to plan then chapter 17 may be uploaded sometime in the early new year :)). UNTIL THEN, please read and review! Thanks lovesss you've all been more than wonderful thus farrrr