A/N: Wellll, it is shortly after the New Year and I did promise Chapter 17 by then sooo here it is! :)). Happy 2013 everyone!

"What madness, that was," George muttered in absolute discouragement, speaking on the subject for the first time since leaving the vicinity of the conference room. The remainder of the band was being safely escorted for precautionary purposes from the scene of John's alleged 'crime' following their near annihilation, courtesy of the oh-so-considerate press.

"You speak as though it's over," Paul muttered with a scoff, "We still need to grab John, and hall tail out of 'ere without further complications."

"I'm sure Mal's got something already prepared," Ringo responded confidently, "'E's normally on top of that sort of thing."

"…Well, it doesn't change the fact that I need a bloody smoke," Paul muttered, proceeding to pat down his shirt and pants pockets in desperate search for a pack. Inconveniently, the cigarettes, he knew he had brought along, were nowhere to be found. He must have left them in his coat pocket which was back at the dressing room… benefiting no one. The realization having dawned on him, he scowled, emitting a pronounced grunt of frustration. Brilliant. Couldn't one thing go right today?

"Why the long face, Macca?" Ringo inquired, "So it's not all over. The brunt of it is, ain't it?"

"Not with the way the press is carrying on about today's misfortunes," Paul grumbled, "For all we know, tomorrow's 'eadlines could end up glorifying Lennon's contraction of the black plague."

"John doesn't 'ave the plague," George responded automatically without giving the statement much in the way of thought.

"Theoretically speaking, Harri," Paul emphasized with a sigh. He arched an eyebrow at the youngest member of their band, "Bit slow on the uptake tonight, are we?"

"Sod off," George mumbled, "It's been a long day. What more do y'want? M'bloody knackered."

"We're all knackered," Paul replied half-jokingly, "But at least the rest of us are functioning on a normal brain wavelength."

"Blimey, what are ye' on about?" George snapped, "Yer acting like I forgot how t'spell me own name!"

"Seems highly likely, the way yer carrying on," Paul responded calmly. Whether he was joking by this point or not was skillfully hidden behind his mask of composure.

Entirely fed up with the day's events, George wasn't sure he even cared enough to find out. "It amazes me how ye' manage to come off so pleasant and sweet in the public eye," he commented, arching an eyebrow at Paul, "In truth, yer a regular arse, a bloody bastard."

"I know ye' don't mean that," Paul smirked, "Y'look up t'me!"

"And y'both look up t'me!" Ringo interjected somewhat teasingly though his voice held a tentative note, "Well…age-wise, that is…" He paused to chuckle at his own joke, "Listen, calm down, would ye'? I know yer all stressed and stretched thin, and Lennon's current predicament ain't helping any, but now's not the time to turn on each other, all right?"

"Sure, Ringo," Paul muttered, "But m'not the one ye' should be talking to. Anyone got a pack a ciggies on 'em by any chance?"

"Left mine back in the dressing room," Ringo responded with a cheery smile, a clear mismatch to the news he was revealing, "Y'can bum a fag a bit later on our way out."

Paul heaved a sigh of frustration, "That won't do. Me own pack's back there, as well. Might as well wait t'smoke me own."

"It's not like we're not 'eaded there now, anyway," George commented somewhat curtly, "Y'might as well do yerself a favor and come off it, already."

Paul turned to him, emitting a glare, "You come off it!"

"Both of you come off it!" Ringo half-snapped, half-pleaded before things could further spiral out of control, "Cor blimey! Would it kill either of ye' t'sort out and focus on the positives 'ere? Believe it or not, there are positives, y'know"

"If 'Positive Paulie' hasn't picked up on it, then there can't be all that much," George scoffed, allowing a smirk to finally claim his face, momentarily melting away his edge.

"Bloody brilliant, Harrison," Paul muttered, failing to see eye-to-eye with the lead guitarist's humor.

"You heard Ringo. Lighten up, would ye'?"

"I'm as light as a bloody feather, mind you," Paul grumbled. Without another word, he hastily quickened his pace, immediately projecting himself forward, ahead of his band mates.

George heaved a sigh and reached out to grab his arm before he could get too far, "All right, Paul. What's on with ye', mate?"

Paul spoke without looking at him or Ringo who had come up beside him on the side opposite George. "What makes ye' think anything's wrong?"

"Currently, yer level of cynicism could rival Lennon's easy. And if that's not a sign that something's troubling ye', I don't know what is," Ringo nonchalantly emphasized.

It was Paul's turn to sigh. "I've just a bad feeling is all," he muttered quietly, his eyes slipping to the floor to avoid catching the reactions of his mates, "All right?"

"What's it about, then?" George questioned, "The press? John?"

"Is it about John?" Ringo pressed, suddenly eager to know the answer. If so, he'd been harboring similar feelings all day…

"I don't know… Can we just drop it?"

Something in Paul's voice compelled the two musicians to do exactly that. The hall as a result, slipped into silence.

Despite the circumstances, George was almost thankful for this new-found quiet. His tension headache still had yet to go away and his added exhaustion and accompanying stress was only making it worse. Not to mention, John's mysterious condition and Paul's new development, whatever that was… Absently, the lead guitarist brought his hands to his temples and unwittingly worked at scrubbing away the increased discomfort.

The subtle movement wasn't ignored. Ringo's eyes were on him like a hawk. "All right, Geo?" he questioned, his sudden voice, shattering the silence that had become more than bliss to the lead guitarist's ears. "Ye' look a bit like Johnny did early on…"

George nodded after a while, "Just a bit of a bloody 'eadache, really…"

Paul turned a stern eye on him, "Well, ye' better not be coming down with whatever it is Lennon's got. That's the last thing we need…"

George arched an eyebrow at him, taking slightly aback by the sharpness in his tone, "M'just knackered, Paul! Bloody 'ell, take it easy!"

"Speaking a Lennon, I wonder how the poor blokes 'olding up?" Ringo mused, trying again to neutralize the atmosphere through mention of the most prominent subject available to them.

"Hopefully better than we last saw him," Eppy stated, the sudden and unexpected inclusion of his voice startling all three Beatles. They'd nearly forgotten they weren't completely alone. Even forgot about the security guard that was currently leading them to their destination. The guard, in particular, must've thought them mad, Ringo couldn't help assuming. Bloody hell, Eppy must've thought them mad. Their band mate was sick with who-knew-what and here they were continuously fighting over things of trivial quality. Good thing the press wasn't around to witness such things. Lennon had involuntarily left them with enough ways to butcher the band.

"The sooner this day's over, the better," Paul muttered.

The dressing room door loomed suddenly into view and Epstein, asserting himself to the head of their ragtag group, took it upon himself to hastily yank it open, much like an FBI agent investigating the scene of a crime in the making. The three Beatles followed as he entered its frame which gave way to three figures, the nearest being Mal who seemed to be overlooking the two remaining figures in the room. John, of the two remaining figures, was seated on one of the room's sofas, his coat wrapped protectively around his shivering, half-asleep form while a woman, who gave off the essence of a nurse or caretaker of some sort, tended diligently to him.

Eppy immediately crossed the room towards Mal without the least bit of hesitation. "How's he looking?" he demanded, breaking the calm that had otherwise held the room captive.

"He's slightly dehydrated and he's got the flu something awful," the nurse responded automatically as she lifted an oral thermometer into the light for a proper reading, "One of the more extreme cases I've seen yet for this time of year…" She set the thermometer down on a nearby table and turned finally to take a gander at the new additions to her audience, "I'm Nurse Morrow," she introduced herself with a smile, taking the time to take in each of their faces. She focused her gaze on Brian, "I assume you're Mr. Lennon's proxy in the absence of both his parents?" she questioned.

Eppy nodded, "I'm Brian Epstein. Call me Brian."

Nurse Morrow smiled once again before allowing the subject of the matter to claim her face in an air of professionalism. "I'd like to admit John to the local hospital for observation and further testing, Mr.-" She quickly corrected herself, "Brian."

Ringo hadn't been able to conceal the awestruck gasp that had escaped him in the silence following the initial revelation of this Nurse Morrow's face. Her brown eyes, gentle in nature, were kind and warm, clear windows to her very soul. She seemed real and genuinely interested in the well-being of her patient. Very much a contrast to the icy-eyed Scrooge of a doctor they'd had the pleasure of dealing with two times too many. Regardless, Eppy would never spring for such an encumbering suggestion had it been from the queen herself.

"I'm afraid that just isn't remotely possible," Eppy reluctantly responded, successfully solidifying Ringo's assumptions.

"Why not?" the nurse inquired.

"Well, we're due in New Jersey very early tomorrow and this kind of thing would only serve as a hindrance," was his blunt but hesitant response.

The nurse nodded, her eyes portraying unyielding open-mindedness, "I understand that fame can be very demanding, a downright obstruction even, but this is something that…"

"Why should he require hospitalization if it's only the flu that he's got?" Epstein demanded over-eagerly.

"He's fairly dehydrated from excessive loss of fluids, his current 102.3 degree fever seems to be on the incline, and I have reason to believe that he's even a bit drugged on a variety of medication that it seems he's been taking incorrectly. It would be against hospital regulations to turn-"

"Can't you do anything about that without admitting him?" Eppy inadvertently cut in.

"Well, yes but…" Nurse Morrow lowered her voice as she spoke and moved closer to both managers as to keep John and his band mates from overhearing her, "Certain revelations have led me to believe that this might be a much more complex matter. There are some doubts present, minuscule as they are…"

"Doubts?" Eppy echoed, taking care to keep his voice low. It didn't, however, stop the nervous tremor from easing its way into the works, "What doubts?"

"Most of his symptoms indicate the flu, but others suggest something entirely different."

"What others?" Eppy demanded.

"His previous 104 degree fever spike, the ongoing stiff neck he's developed since, the fact that he can hardly keep anything down, to name a few…"

"Are those not possible symptoms of the flu?" Mal asked.

"They could very well be, but they can't simply be overlooked should they suggest the onset of something highly life threatening and infective."

"Well, perhaps we could work something out, then," Mal asserted thoughtfully.

Epstein turned to him, eyes full of skepticism, "What is it yer on about, Mal?" he asked.

"We have him admitted overnight for testing and whatever else he may require… Early tomorrow morning, we have him discharged and settled before we're set to leave for New Jersey. The test results if relevant can be sent ahead to our destination… I'll have some of the road crew look into it."

"Then, you'll be responsible for this along with whoever else you dare to get involved," Epstein retorted, looking suddenly as though he'd been dragged through hell and back, "Get him to the hospital and bring him directly back to the hotel before we're set to leave. You're also in charge of these test results… whatever they might be…"

Mal smiled in spite of Epstein's misplaced bitterness, "All right," he agreed simply. He knew that his attitude was only present as a defensive mechanism to cover up his concerns not just for John but for the now endangered events of tomorrow…

"Getting him to the hospital shouldn't be a bother," Nurse Morrow spoke, "I could easily arrange for transportation, if you'd prefer."

"Yes, that would be quite lovely," Mal responded appreciatively, "I'll ride along, as well, if you won't mind."

The nurse shook her head, "Not at all, Mr. Evans. I'll put in a call right now."

"Ride along where?" Ringo asked, having overheard that portion of the mostly private conversation. He, Paul, and George had been since standing off to the side, having a quiet smoke to pass the time while keenly awaiting the anticipated outcome.

"To the hospital, of course," Eppy responded casually, "John will be admitted there overnight for testing and observation."

A series of faint gasps rang out throughout the room.

"What? Can we come along?" George asked; eyes wide in concern.

"Don't be ridiculous! The remaining lot of ye' will need your rest!" Epstein reprimanded sternly, "John will be fine. Mal will be with him."

The band looked deeply troubled by the revelation with the exception of John who had at some point fallen asleep. Poor bloke wasn't even the least bit aware of the decisions being made without his knowledge or consent. A healthy John wouldn't have allowed such a thing to occur without first attempting to place forth his opinion and make it count for something. A healthy John wouldn't even be in this predicament…

"Better to be safe than sorry, Brian," Mal whispered to him, catching the worried glint in his eyes prior to his assembled promise to the band regarding John's condition.

"Yes, I suppose yer right," Eppy sighed absently. He nervously looked on as Mal went to wake John before forcing his attention away towards the rest of his band, "It's time to go, boys," he tiredly announced.

"We can't just leave 'im!" George argued, "E'll 'ave our 'eads when we see 'im next!"

Ringo nodded in agreement, "Can't we say our goodbyes first?"

"Very well," Eppy relented with a flicker of a smile, "Go 'ead, then." It continuously amazed him more and more each day just how tightly bonded this extraordinary group truly was. In spite of all the trying times, he still had yet to believe the amount of honorable luck that had been cast his way years ago leading to the blessed opportunity of being able to become their manager.

"Time to wake up, Lennon," Mal presently coaxed.

The three members of the Beatles approached their fourth just as Mal, with a bit of trouble, managed to rouse him from a seemingly deep slumber.

"Go 'way, Mimi… m'sick…" John protested huskily, batting away his invading hands as they moved repeatedly to jostle his shoulder.

"It's Mal, Johnny," the road manager patiently explained.

There was a momentary pause.

"Go 'way, Mal… m'sick…"

"It's important, John. It's best you awaken for now. You can sleep all ye' want a bit later."

John reluctantly sat up with a bit of effort, blinking groggily into the ambient light. In a fleeting moment of alarm, he failed to even recognize where he was. He relaxed only slightly at the presence of the familiar faces around him. "What is it, then?" he irritably whispered, realizing that the use of his voice was futile. Not only was it nearly nonexistent, but it was rapidly getting to the point in which it hurt his own ears and head.

"We came to say goodbye, Johnny," Paul spoke softly, moving subtly towards him.

John frowned. Something else was hurting his head… What was it? He glanced about him distractedly, his eyes falling on a nearby lamp. With a groan, he brought a hand to his eyes unnervingly shielding himself from its luminosity. "Jesus Christ, it's so bloody bright in 'ere," he mumbled, somewhat incoherently.

Eyes wide, Paul moved quickly to turn off the offending light, plunging the portion of the room in slight darkness. "That help any?"

"Better, Macca… thanks…" John mumbled, lowering his makeshift shield. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Christ… s'like y'sods were trying t'recreate the sun or something…"

"You all right?" Ringo asked, worriedly.

"Bloody bastard of a 'eadache just won't go away…" John muttered listlessly, refusing to open his eyes, "Whad'ye' gits want, anyway…?"

"We uh… came t'say goodbye, John…" the drummer replied, picking up where Paul had originally left off.

John's eyes reopened reluctantly in a bit of surprise. "Bye? What for?" he questioned in confusion while forcing himself to sit up even more. His body cried out subsequently in pain, causing his flushed cheeks to pale several shades. Even more prominent now, were the still blatant dark bags beneath his strained eyes. "Who's the bird?" he went on to ask, gesturing towards the nurse who had now faded into the background.

"That's Nurse Morrow. She was looking you over just recently, actually," Paul explained, "Remember?"

John shook his head. "Pretty sure I'd remember a looker like that…"

Ringo frowned, glancing momentarily to the nurse who was now overlooking the conversation with a bit of a frown of her own. Ringo didn't fail to notice the fleeting concern in her eyes. Was there something she wasn't revealing?

"Well, what's she doing 'ere, then?" John sleepily asked, his eyes, glazed with fever, beginning to slip shut again, "And what's with all the bloody, nesh farewells? Y'sending me off somewhere?"

"Yer being admitted to the hospital, Johnny, for observation and some testing," Mal stepped in to explain.

John's fevered eyes suddenly widened, temporarily expelling all traces of exhaustion from them as real, unguarded fear crept into them. "What?"

"You'll be discharged early on tomorrow," Mal elaborated with an assuring smile, "Hopefully feeling better off than I imagine yer feeling now."

"I've got transportation waiting outside, Mr. Evans," Nurse Morrow calmly cut in.

John's face fell at that moment as he realized just how real the situation was quickly becoming. "Come t'think of it, I don't feel all that badly, really," he protested, his voice weak and hoarse and lacking effect, "The hospital? It's a bit overkill, don't y'think?"

"Not when compared toall that you've been through today," Paul stated softly.

Ringo nodded in agreement, "Just think of all the pretty nurses that'll be tending to ye'," he grinned, attempting to help console him, "M'rather jealous just thinking about it, actually."

John managed a grin of false bravado, "I s'ppose yer on t'something, Rings…" he mumbled mechanically.

Paul frowned, able to see blatantly through Lennon's poorly-crafted guise.

"Always, love," Ringo responded with a genuine smile, "I didn't spend me whole childhood in a hospital to learn nothing of the sort." If the drummer could see through Lennon's act, he didn't let on.

John no longer seemed to be listening. His initial fears had worn off and he looked sickly and exhausted all over again.

Mal took it as his cue to promptly indicate the essence of time. All at once, the Beatles came to life and jumped into official goodbyes. "…Until tomorrow," Ringo emphasized, "You'll be all right until then."

John remained quiet and oddly submissive, just two more signs amongst many that he wasn't feeling right.

Paul wanted desperately to be able to accompany him on this foreign, less-than-relaxing voyage but was more than aware of Eppy's firm standing on the subject. "Hang in there, Johnny," was all he could bring himself to say, "See ye' tomorrow, all right?"

"Tomorrow never knows," John mumbled thickly, turning to look away.

As silence overtook the room following the ominous statement, the frown returned to Paul's face. What an odd thing to say, even for Lennon.

A/N: Yup... that's it for now :/. Chapter 18 will be up whenever I can get it together... Hopefully before January is overrr :))