A/N: AND if you looked up the word 'deranged' in the dictionary, this chapter would most definitely fall under it! Ah well, happy reading :))
Perhaps they'd drugged him.
For hours on end, it had been constant poking and prodding… testing this… testing that… He'd long since, begun to feel like a medical experiment or whatever it was they… it was called.
For the time being, they'd left him alone… Told him to go on and sleep until they needed him next. His head… his body had ached so much by that point, they'd allowed him a shot of morphine and a minor sleeping aid… And now he lay here alone… Awaiting his chance to be carried off into an alternate universe. Rather, he just wanted to be carried home… Back to England where he momentarily belonged. He loved America… He really did… but… it just hadn't been good to him, this time around… He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so bloody miserable…
…Miserable… dizzy… hot… hot… dizzy… detached… unreal…
"You'll be out of here before you know it," Mal had told him before leaving his side, "Just try and behave yourself until then…"
And then the last familiar face he knew of had disappeared, leaving him to this… this prison… This prison filled with uniform faces and emotions just the same… It was no big deal, really. After all, they all left in the end… Every single one of them…
And John smirked… Smirked in the face of this unsettling revelation… And then everything remotely sense-worthy slipped completely from his conscious grip…
…
He was suddenly back on stage again, in the midst of endlessly loud cries of pleasure and inconsiderately placed bright lights, a blatant contrast to… he couldn't remember what to… At some unknown point in time, a guitar had been added to his attire and a microphone was now being thrust into his face. He glanced frenetically about him in an altered attempt to gather whatever he could of his wits… He wasn't sure why but he felt terribly out of place… as though he'd just come into the middle of something he'd known nothing about moments ago…
"Sing, Lennon!" someone enthusiastically encouraged from behind him. Startled by the sudden plus one in company, John turned to look behind him. Paul McCartney was eyeing him eagerly and expectantly. He looked… different, though… Vaguely… older maybe…? …Was he? John found it odd he couldn't quite place whatever it was about Paul that was winking him in the face… But then again, Paul wasn't the one standing on stage in a hospital gown…
"Hurry! The fans'll get antsy, y'know! Then, y'don't wanna know what'll 'appen t'ye!"
George? …He seemed a bit off, as well… What exactly was going on here?
"What's the matter, Johnny?" Paul questioned; his gaze appearing suddenly disdainful beneath the stage lighting, "Yer looking a bit lost! If yer not used to the stage setup by now, y'might want to reconsider being in a band!"
"I can't wear this!" John murmured, glancing down at his hospital garb.
"Don't be daft, y'look fine!"
"I-I don't know the song!"
"Bollocks!" Paul responded, waving off his words, "Ye' only wrote it three days ago! Are we going to 'ave t'start questioning yer sanity, as well? It always comes back to ye' in the end, y'know, Lennon… Yer past, that is… Yer future, well… that's a different matter…"
Three days? And he was already performing it? Did that happen? Could that happen? Slowly and uncertainly, he opened his mouth and out flowed the words he was sure he'd never heard before let alone wrote…
"I read the news today, oh boyy
Four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire
And though the holes were rather smaall
They had to count them all
Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Haallll"
His voice seemed to have a distant feel to it, as though it was coming from elsewhere rather than himself…
"…I'd loove to tuuuurrrrrrrnnnn youuuuuuu oooooonnnnnn…"
An entire cacophony of instrumental noise sounded out of nowhere, prompting him to drop the mic in surprise and he turned frantically about him, desperate to find its source. Strangely enough, not one thing capable of producing such a racket could be seen, as far as his eyesight went, that was… From what he could see, other than Paul, George, and Ringo, there was nothing… Nothing was there…
Even his band mates didn't seem to be fully there anymore… They appeared oddly see-through now… as though they were fading away…
Before John could even begin to address the unraveling situation, the stage collapsed into a blanket of pitch-darkness. And as if on cue, George's lone voice carried out above it all, from somewhere unseen…
"…If you think the harmony
Is a little dark and out of key
You're correct… There's nobody there…"
"George?" John called out into the unwavering darkness, his voice tiny and insecure. Nothing. "Guys?" More of the same. A bit of resulting panic flooded John's mind. He was left alone… on a stage, surrounded by a mad audience… It was dark… and anything could go wrong… Somehow, the revelation made him feel even sicker than all the nerves-inducing circumstances he'd ever been faced with…
"…And I told you there's no one there…"
A sudden spotlight skittered across the wooden floor and from it; Paul emerged in a manner strangely similar to a flower rising from the earth… A microphone in hand, he crossed the stage towards him as though the mere occurrence was the most normal happening in the world…
"Y-y'just came out of the floor, Paul…!" John responded dumbly as though that much wasn't obvious, "How'd ye'… how…?"
Paul didn't respond. Didn't even look at him for that matter.
Impulsively, John launched himself into the bassist's line of vision. "Paul, y'stupid git! I'm talking to ye'! How…" His escalated voice trailed off as his mate only continued to stare… right through him it seemed.
"…And it really doesn't matter if I'm wrong, I'm right
Where I belong, I'm right
Where I beloonng…"
It took John's sluggish mind a while to figure out where exactly the lyrics were coming from. Then it occurred to him. Paul…
"…Silly people run around, they worry me
And never ask me why they don't get past my dooor…"
He turned to shoot John a smug look right then, but his face was melting, like wax beneath a hot flame… disintegrating before his very eyes. John felt even sicker. Suddenly, it wasn't Paul any longer, he was looking at… It was… It was… bloody hell… He'd come face to face with… Who was that? This person, whoever it was, vaguely resembled himself… Only, it wasn't… He looked different… older somehow… How was this happening? Surely he was going mad… cracked…
As though the revelation was every bit comforting, his older form began to sing as though they were smack-dab in the middle of a deranged musical… For all Lennon knew, he could very well be… How the hell else could he explain the unfolding madness?
"…But every now and then I feel so insecuuurre
I know that I just need you like I've never done befoorre…
Help me if you can, I'm feeling doowwn
And I do appreciate you being 'roouund
Help me get my feet back on the groouuund
Won't you pleeease, please help me?"
Bloody hell… what was he even rambling on about? John wasn't entirely sure how to react… Then song began to change… sounding even darker now…
"…I need a fix 'cause I'm going doown
Down to the abyss that I left uptoown
I need a fix 'cause I'm going doown…"
What the fuck was going on?
Just as suddenly, the ground shifted and the walls, what he could make out of them, anyway, started to crumble all about him…
"The sky's falling!" Ringo could be heard yelling. Screaming ensued.
But held in place by an invisible force of some sort, John couldn't move… He felt a bit odd… unreal, rather. Somewhere seemingly far off, his own voice could just be heard resonating above the madness…
"…Cry, baby, cry cry cry cry, baby
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better, so
Cry baby cry cry cry cry
Make your mother sigh
She's old enough to know better
So cry baby cry…"
It sounded far away… detached… a bit like how he felt. A strange sort of faintness flooded his mind as over and over again, the lyrics repeated… and then…
Silence.
John blinked as a hand snapped in his face. Slowly, his eyes refocused, his worn-out gaze landing on Paul. "Hey, ye' all right?" he was asking, looking startlingly concerned.
"I-I-" John found he could hardly speak. Had it all been a dream, then? He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to recall details but found he couldn't…
"We 'ave t'get to the Cavern Club. We can't afford t'be late, 'less you want to be replaced…"
Cavern Club? Wait, that meant… John turned back to Paul, realizing suddenly that he looked much younger than even seconds ago…
"Y'ready, Johnny?" John's eyes grew wide and his heart nearly stopped altogether as he turned towards the source of the voice he'd nearly forgotten the sound of. Stu! …Stu… it couldn't be…
"I-I never thought I'd see ye' again!" he croaked out, eyes landing on him in a feverishly intense manner.
Stu's initial astonishment evolved into confusion, "What are ye' on about? Ye' saw me moments ago!"
"I didn't! I mean… I didn't, really…" John finished lamely… He felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden…
Stu's face twisted into a worried frown, "All right, love? Maybe ye' should sit this one out… Ye' seem a bit under the weather…"
"Not to mention, yer acting a bit like a loon," a new voice contributed. Pete… Pete Best…
"But… but…" John flared in frustration… Christ… what happened to his tongue?
"Well, his mum just died, what d'ye expect?" Paul stated.
John blinked… No, she didn't… She died… she died… He was suddenly faint all over again…
"He should still sit this one out," Stu advised, "Look at 'im… he's burning up… Near delirious!"
…Delirium…
"Are ye' feeling all right, Johnny?" Paul demanded of him.
John frowned. No, he wasn't, actually… He was rather hot all of a sudden… Burning up… And his head was beginning to ache something awful…
Before he could speak, however, his band mates suddenly had him surrounded, accusatory looks of disgust thrown his way. "Get us sick, y'will, Lennon! Get outta 'ere, ye' inconsiderate sod!"
The pain was blinding now…
"Me 'ead!" Stu started to wail as though feeling John's pain… or maybe it was John feeling his pain…
In the midst of his sudden breakdown, Paul began to sing and dance as if it were perfectly justified…
"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da life goes on, brah
La-la, how the life goes on…"
Circling around and around John and Stu, he pranced and sang on and on and on…
"Me bloody 'ead!" Stu moaned on…
Gripping his own head, John sank to his knees unwittingly mirroring Stu's actions…
"…La-la, how the life goes on…"
His mate began to fade. Wide-eyed, in a mix of disabling pain, John watched as Stu evaporated before his very eyes. One by one the others followed… Only John wasn't concerned with the others…
"Stu… no… wait!" he called out. His words were futile against such enduring occurrences…
An older man began to materialize where his best mate once sat and despite the feverish feel to him, John's blood ran immediately cold as recognition set in. It was Alfred Lennon. The Alfred Lennon that had once played the role of his father… The father that he'd once watched walk out a door never to return again… How he'd hated him… Hated him for all the wasted nights he'd spent as a young, naïve child awaiting his return which, all the more painful, never came… and then for his mother to discard him off to his aunt- it was no wonder he was messed up, really… Somehow though, in the midst of resurfacing feelings of overwhelming anger and hurt, it took everything within him to fight off inexplicable feelings compelling him to embrace this man he hadn't seen in years on end… To mend the broken ties… To begin to heal strengthening feelings of abandonment… Maybe it was the fact that he felt like absolute shit… He'd probably seek comfort in a cactus had he had that option…
Before John could speak, the man stooped down to his level, the declination in his stance, making it obvious that the rhythm guitarist was no longer of the height he was used to. This, again, was a startling revelation, and John's blood ran even colder at the familiarity of this unraveling scene… He knew in an instant what was happening as he'd had enough nightmares about it to carry on into oblivion and beyond. His aching muscles defensively tensed up. He couldn't relive this… He couldn't! He tried to fight. Tried to speak, but he couldn't seem to move… It was like watching a terrible movie scene unfold with no way to stop the inevitable from happening…
"Well, Johnny, who's it going to be?" his father presently asked, his voice taking on a slow, sinister echo, "Me… or… yer mum?"
It was then when the scream lodged in his throat broke loose… and he screamed… and screamed… and screamed…
A sudden wave of heavy, mind-disabling pain collapsed upon him and he grew silent, feeling resultantly even less in tune with reality… He couldn't even remember why it was he'd been screaming in the first place. Perhaps, he'd had some kind of nightmare…
Lethargically, he glanced about him, the unfamiliarity of his settings suddenly sinking in with a vengeance. Where was he? All around him, hazy barren walls crept into view along with a paneled ceiling and a linoleum floor. Nothing looked remotely familiar… Bloody hell. Was this some kind of institution?
'Just as well, Lennon…' an unattached voice took the moment of silence to assert, 'Yer more or less, being committed… It's no wonder, really; you've had it coming for a long time, now…'But he wasn't being committed, was he? Was he? Christ, he was raving mad, wasn't he? And finally the world had realized it… 'And why shouldn't the world realize it? You've never been sane, Lennon. Your world's been messed up since the day you were born…' The voice was beginning to sound a bit like his own now, 'Your dad couldn't stand the sight of you once you chose your mum over him; your mum couldn't even begin to handle you… You weren't wanted then, you're not wanted now. Admit it… It's about time it all caught up to you…'
"S'not true…" John repeated softly… "Bloody 'ell, s'not true!"
There was no contradictory response; making it all seem somehow all the more solidified and realistic… John was suddenly beside himself. He belonged in an institute… It was one John Lennon against the seemingly inescapable…
"Why don't ye' cut the sorry act, Johnny?" a voice, entirely separate from his mind, abruptly stated, cutting through the bit of haze that stubbornly surrounded him… Or was it his mind? Somehow, John couldn't quite figure it out… "You're quite better than that, you know…"
Act? John found that he could hardly talk… nor could he see who it was, he was attempting to reply to…
"Yes, act…"
An airy hand brushed across the top of his head in a manner that proved the gentlest he'd experienced since… since… He couldn't remember when last… He bristled suddenly with uncontrollable suspicion, his distrustful nature kicking in. Despite the very real emotions, "Wha…?" was all he could bring forth, and croakily at that…
"Why don't you take a gander, yourself, lad?" his spectator chuckled.
Jadedly, John shifted his gaze about him, his eyes seeking out answers to questions barely asked… The controller of the voice suddenly manifested before him and, after a while, he saw that standing in front of him was the undeniable form of his uncle… His Uncle George to be exact…
Eyes wide in a mix of instant fear and alarm, John frantically shook his head to clear it, forcing himself to overlook the perpetual wooziness, threatening to bind him to darkness… To his utter dismay, the man patiently remained in his line of vision, an amused smile on his face. John frowned at this. It was becoming quite obvious by this point that he was, more or less, cracking up. 'It's no wonder yer being committed,' his mind stated scornfully. Jesus Christ…
His uncle's smile of amusement widened, "'Ello, Johnny-boy," he greeted him, softly and gently. His voice sounded just as it should. Everything John had remembered it to be…
"What… what are you doing 'ere?" John demanded in confusion, attempting to sit up, but floundering miserably.
"A deceased man can't pay a visit to his still living nephew?" his uncle chuckled, another sound vaguely familiar to John's ears. It was all becoming very convincing… Very real as though the man hadn't yet ever passed…
John frowned, nearly rendered speechless. "Well… that's exactly it… I think… Where'd ye' come from?" he went on to ask. And what was going on here? Why did this scenario seem so familiar? Perhaps he'd seen it in a movie before… or read it in a book…
Uncle George lifted a hand and gestured to the top of John's head, "Y'left the door open, lad!" he simply responded with a smile.
"What?" Unwelcome confusion and wooziness still swirling around his muddled mind, John found himself shaking his head in attempt to ward off such feelings, "What door?"
"No need to trouble yer 'ead about it," his uncle stated, still smiling.
John's frown lengthened, "Y'can't be 'ere! This is all wrong! They'll think me mad. I'm bloody mad, aren't I?"
"Don't be daft. Yer mother visited you earlier, did she not?" his uncle questioned.
John's frown lengthened even more at the unwanted and temporarily forgotten memory, "Yeah… I suppose she did…" That was it! There was the answer… His mum was why this was all so bloody familiar… He blinked groggily, wincing as a severe amount of pain, foraged its way through his hazy mind, making unwanted contact with the pain receptors of his brain…
"Not feeling too well, are you lad?" his Uncle George asked; sympathy present in his voice.
John shrugged indifferently.
"Of course you aren't. I don't think I ever found you to be this gobsmacked while I was still alive…"
John shrugged again, not quite sure what else to do, "Well, it's not every day yer dead mum and uncle come to visit…"
His uncle laughed richly and good-naturedly and John blinked, still hopelessly confused, "What are ye' really doing 'ere?" he asked.
"I've only just arrived, Johnny. You can't tell me y'want me to leave already!"
John frowned, "I didn't say…"
"I suppose I've always had that natural effect on people," his uncle laughed, "You do remember, Johnny, don't you? I do believe it was my humor people questioned most."
John didn't bother respond. His uncle wasn't that far off, really. In a way, he wasn't sure he wanted him here. Nostalgia was beginning to set in…
Uncle George waited patiently, expectantly, "Well, haven't you anything to say to me, boy?"
John shifted his lackluster gaze past him out a darkened window, finding it a bit harder with each growing second to look his uncle in the eye. "Why burst me own bubble? Yer just gonna leave like me mum… like all the others…"
"Still such a cynic…" His uncle laughed as though the revelation was merely funny.
John didn't see the humor. "Well, life has a funny way of shaping people…" he muttered, still avoiding his uncle's prying eyes. He found a loose thread on the edge of the topmost sheet draped across him and idly began playing with it.
George reached out to affectionately ruffle his hair. "Johnny, Johnny… what's the matter, boy? Hasn't Mimi been good to you?"
John uncontrollably clenched a fist and glared at the older man, "Who's talking about Mimi? What about you? What about everyone else?"
Uncle George shook his head in dismay, "Such anger, Johnny… That fever of yours must be frying your brain…"
"Are ye' even listening to me?!" John yelled, "No of course not. Nobody gives a shit about John Lennon… It's why they dumped me off at this… this…" He gestured about himself, "…prison…" He shook his head, after a while as though accepting his fate. "S'all right. I don't much care, really…"
"You're in a hospital, lad, not a prison. Now if you're wise, as I know you are, you'll buck up and turn a bit of that misplaced anger into strength. You might be out of here tomorrow but you're going to need quite a bit of extra vigor for the long battle ahead… Trust me." Uncle George paused and laid a loving hand atop John's head with a sad smile, "…I can only hope that I've given you the lift you need…" Before the distressed young adult could put in a word edgewise, he disappeared before his very eyes.
There was a sudden ripple in reality, and next thing John knew, he was on his back, staring vaguely at the white paneled ceiling above him. An opaque haze continued to eat at his vision as a group of figures stared down at him, looking somewhat like angels draped in white… Everything was white… and he was soaking wet… Why was that?
"Thank goodness… his temperature's finally within secured range," one of the figures spoke in utmost relief.
"Are you all right, John? Can you hear me?" John could just make out the form of a doctor as he gently proceeded to tap the side of his face.
John started to respond, but thought better of it, managing a weak and tired nod instead. As much as his head still ached, his throat ached more and he wasn't quite sure he could speak without further irritating it.
A nurse proceeded to sponge his face, removing excess amounts of sweat from it… Almost instantly, he started to shiver, his heavily soaked-through clothing finally getting to him…
"I'll get you a dry gown and some fresh sheets, John," the nurse stated with a smile, "Will you be in need of assistance?"
John shook his head… "I think I'll be all right on me own…" he managed to croak out. All he wanted to do was sleep. Unable to fight any longer, he indavertantly made the mistake of closing his heavy eyes as the nurse disappeared to fulfill his request. He wasn't sure if or when he ever received any of the items he awaited on… Within a matter of seconds, he was asleep… completely oblivious to any further conversation issued by his caretakers…
"Hopefully, whatever it is he's fighting off, he'll be all right enough by tomorrow… preferably by the time he's to be discharged."
"I'm not sure it would be wise to discharge him, doctor. We're still not sure if it's the flu we're dealing with and…"
"Regardless, I don't believe you have much of a say! This is infamous Beatle, John Lennon we're dealing with in case you weren't aware. Unless you're looking to be on the receiving end of a lawsuit, it is best we do whatever it is, his managers prefer…"
A/N: Welll, you all know the drill by now! Such lovely reviews for the past chapter by the way! Thanks to all my readers, guests and non-guests! :)) Hope you weren't too put off by this crazed web spun by my mind!