A/N: Well, my friends, another day, another chapter :)). It's nothing special or anything but enjoy it if ya can!
Thank you everyone for reviewing the last chapter and other chapters and for continuing to follow this... unusual story. :))
I specifically want to thank Carly, a guest reviewer, for helping me to correct a minor lyrical mistake in my last chapter, haha. Definitely laughed out loud when I realized it!
Anywhooo, enjoyyyy :))
As a result of Epstein's constant and persistent badgering, Mal arrived early to the hospital at approximately 6 o'clock as planned to collect the band's ailing rhythm guitarist. Having found his way to the establishment's information booth, he was eventually directed towards the hospital discharge station to await his release while filling out the required paperwork. The road manager was, meanwhile, notified of John's condition, past and current; all of which consisting of troubling details that all but made him feel secure about ripping him from the environment. According to staff, the musician had been subject to a rough and turbulent night, his first real amount of sleep not occurring till a mere three hours ago. His temperature had dropped, however, and was now holding steady at 100.1. Test results remained uncertain, and as far as it showed, it was still unclear whether John was harboring the flu or something far worse. They didn't really want to discharge him yet. Mal could see that much… But unfortunately, Eppy was holding true to his plans and wasn't leaving much in the way of time for all indefinites to become clarified.
"They've had quite a bit of time with him, already," Epstein sighed remorsefully into the phone, following a phone call put in by Mal, "We simply can't allow them anymore unless we're to endanger everything that this day has to offer."
While Mal wasn't entirely sure whether he truly agreed with Eppy's take on the subject or not, he had stated his understanding and brought forth the bit of information to John's caretakers. They weren't happy with the news but there wasn't much that could be done, otherwise.
A half an hour later, a rather ornery John was brought out to Mal in a wheel chair by a nurse who was trying especially hard to smooth something over that he was clearly up in arms about, "I don't need the bloody wheelchair," he was growling, "I look like a cripple to ye'? I oughta cripple the bloke responsible fer such bollocks…"
"It's hospital protocol, Mr. Lennon. Please understand. You may not feel weak, but you're sick and it would look terrible on our part if we allowed for something to happen to you on your way out."
"So it's all to cover yer own arse, then, is it?" John snapped, glaring up at her.
The nurse shook her head and gratefully handed the irritable musician over to Mal. She disappeared from sight as soon as she was free to do so.
"I've left the name, address, and room number of the hotel we'll be staying at in New Jersey," Mal told John's primary hospital caretaker, "If you could forward the test results, we'd greatly appreciate it."
"That was the plan," the doctor smiled, "You should hear from us at some point during the day, regardless of whether the results are good or bad. That way nothing gets lost in translation."
"Thank you, Doctor," Mal responded with a grateful smile.
"Our pleasure. It's been an honor to have John Lennon here in our care."
"Who's honor?" John muttered quietly, a bit of hostility creeping into his voice, "First time I'm 'earing about this."
Mal shook his head apologetically, "Don't take his words to heart. He's a bit more difficult than usual when he's sick… and he's not the biggest fan of hospitals, really."
The doctor waved it off, unfazed, "Most people could relate," he smiled understandingly, "But, really, it's been an honor for us whether John realizes it or not."
"Ta…" John mumbled, lifting his eyes fleetingly up to him. There was a hint of a small appreciative smile there, to which the doctor returned uncertainly.
"Means thank you," Mal clarified.
"Oh… well in that case you're welcome! Best of luck and health to all of you!" The doctor turned and left, onto his next order of business.
"Right… well, let's get ye' back to the hotel, Lennon," Mal stated, turning to smile at him.
"Don't act like yer doing me a bloody favor…" John grumpily responded as Mal assumed control of his wheel chair.
Mal ignored him. "So, how're ye' feeling this morning?" he asked, rather than feed into Lennon's set traps.
"… Like I 'aven't slept in years…" John grumbled bitterly, "Bet everyone else is bloody well rested! They didn't 'ave t'sleep in a bloody prison…" Before Mal could comment any further, he hastily added, "Can we just get out of 'ere? I'd rather leave 'fore the press finds me and all 'ell breaks loose…"
"Hospital security's been on the lookout. Transfer will be smooth and quick."
"Great," John sighed, rubbing absently at his forehead. "…I wanna sleep… Hope y'don't plan on talking the whole way back…"
"Still feeling pretty lousy, eh?" Mal asked, slight concern permeating his voice.
"Perception goes a long way fer ye', doesn't it?" was John's response of sarcasm.
A sleepy John was assisted into Mal's awaiting car, and keeping any delays minimal, he started the engine and prepared to make his way back towards the hotel. He'd barely gotten a proper grip on the key in the ignition when he noticed that John had already fallen asleep- almost too quickly for Mal's comfort. Swayed by unspecified building worry, he found himself bringing a hand to the sleeping lad's forehead. Warmth… No doubt, he'd feel warm. A temperature of 100.1, though not disconcertingly alarming, was still significantly elevated… Mal sighed and backed the car out from its parking space… If John's health continued to decline, they'd certainly have their work cut out for them… once again…
Even while driving, Mal found he could hardly keep his eyes off the blatantly still ailing musician. Though his face had lost most of the feverish flush that had persistently held him hostage all the past day, he was still decidedly pale and clearly every bit as tired as he had earlier stated. He knew already for a fact, that Brian wouldn't like what he saw the minute he set eyes on John, but he'd overlook it, trading all feelings of concern for any gratefulness he could readily root up. 'He's functioning a lot better than he was last night,' he'd point out, 'and he doesn't seem to be vomiting every thirty minutes. Should count for something, right?'
Mal, at least, hoped that John wouldn't be vomiting as much as he'd been. Last night had been downright awful… It was no wonder, really, that the poor bloke was knackered and feeling off still. And the fact that he still had a bit of a temperature and slept little on top of it all couldn't be helping matter all that much. Perhaps sleep and a good meal would give him the boost he'd need to take on events this day would have in store. He'd have to take it easy, as well… Tap into a bit of that infamous, fluctuating well of laziness that could sometimes prove maddening to others.
A mere half hour later found Mal pulling the car over towards the hotel's front entrance. With barely a breath in between, he turned off the engine and proceeded to wake John from his sound slumber. The rhythm guitarist, clearly unhappy with his sleep disruption, mumbled something incomprehensible that may or may not have consisted of a series of fiery swears. Mal wasn't certain, nor was he interested in finding out word for word. "We're 'ere, Johnny," he revealed, trying especially hard to keep the concern from oozing from his voice, "Yer all right?"
Reluctant, tired eyes fluttered open, signifying alertness… as diminished as it seemed. "Can't I sleep 'ere till we're ready t'leave?" he whined.
Mal frowned. As pushy and manipulative as John could sometimes get, he wasn't normally one to whine. "No, John, ye' need to come in, eat something, and wash up…" he sternly stated.
The Beatle groaned and reluctantly eased himself up from his seat. Midway through the act, he winced, paling dramatically all the while.
"What's the matter?" Mal demanded worriedly.
"Bloody 'eadache from… 'ell…" John mumbled wearily…
"I'll give ye' something for it when we get in," Mal responded, "Then after a meal, and a decent shower, you'll be allowed to sleep it off if ye' can… all right?"
"I hope so…" John murmured; his croaky voice barely audible, "…Feel sick…"
"Sick?" Mal questioned, "Sick, how so, exactly? Nauseous?"
John miserably nodded.
Mal heaved a sigh, "Oh boy… Well… let's get ye' in. Perhaps, you'll feel better after a meal."
John didn't even bother with a response. Mal guided him in through the front entrance and into the elevator, not failing to notice how shaky and weak he seemed all of a sudden. Taking care to help support him, he pressed the necessary buttons and up they went to the floor of destine. Within seconds, he had his key in the lock and skillfully managed to open the door all while John leaned tiredly against him.
"Good morning, sunshines!" Ringo sang, rising up and hurrying over to greet them as a visibly troubled Mal entered the suite with a blatantly knackered John trailing lazily behind him.
"Good morning, Ritch," Mal responded distractedly.
As Mal hurriedly moved off to express his pending concerns with Eppy, John only stood there in front of the door, offering the drummer a blank stare.
Ringo's smile immediately faded at his mate's lack of vibrancy, "Ye' all right, Johnny?" he worriedly asked, "Christ, what'd they bloody do to ye'?"
"I look that bad, eh?" John quietly questioned, trying his best to display some kind of a smile or smirk… anything… He succeeded finally at an unconvincing, half-hearted smirk.
John's two other band mates were already set at the kitchen table in the middle of breakfast, Eppy having joined in at some point. Most everything was touched and half-eaten and crumbs were scattered everywhere, some even present in George's hair. John didn't even want to begin to wonder how that had happened. The incessantly hungry git had probably gone Tasmanian devil all over the table top, drooling and all, like the looney tune that he was.
John's stomach churned repulsively at the mess and disarray in front of him. This was what he had to come back to… Slowly, he made his way towards the counter and leaned upon it, distributing some of his body weight away from his rubbery-feeling, wearied legs.
Paul watched him warily. Though he hadn't yet addressed the rhythm guitarist, there were infinite amounts of worry and sympathy racing through his veins. Concern, he knew John wouldn't outwardly respond well to, had he just gone and stated what was most plaguing his entire mindset. 'Christ, ye' look like shit!' he was somehow most obligated to blurt out,'What the fuck's on with you?' The way Lennon currently looked to him, the bassist had the feeling he'd probably end up with a black eye for such menacing words. "So, how're ye' feeling, Johnny?" Paul presently asked from the table, looking up at him in as nonchalant a way as possible.
George followed his gaze with genuine interest.
"Knackered…" John mumbled, still staring absently at the disgusting mess the table had to offer.
"Y'look it!" George bluntly pointed out, "I mean, y'don't look good, Lennon!"
John's eyes narrowed heavily and he appeared to sag slightly in stance, struggling blatantly to fight surfacing feelings of contempt towards George's misplaced wording. "Yer one to talk, Harrison…" he retorted scornfully, "Y'looking to start some kind of fad with the bloody crumbs scattered about yer 'ead?"
Ringo laughed. George's eyes widened in confusion before a blush ate at his face, "I didn't mean anything by that, Johnny… Just that-"
"Save it," Lennon snapped, "Leave me be. I don't fucking feel good."
George fell silent and anxiously attempted to busy himself in an act of brushing the crumbs free from his hair with his finger tips. A scant amount of attention was paid to where the additional mess was ending up…
"Not on the table, y'silly git!" Paul protested in disgust, taking his chance to jump at the lead guitarist, "You'll get yer blasted 'air everywhere!"
"Sod off, McCartney," George grumbled. He obediently backed away from the table, however, and continued his act at a safe distance.
"It's almost 7:30, John," Eppy pointed out, his gaze seeking out the distressed musician seemingly for the first time since he'd arrived. He gestured to the dining table and an empty chair beside George, "'Ave a seat and grab something to eat."
"Sounds like a song in the making," John smirked at him, his eyes lacking any real humor. He didn't, however, move to take the offered seat. The thought of being within five feet of food threatened to bring up bile. "Time's declining and s'not like there's much that 'Bottomless George' 'asn't already 'elped himself to…" he stated hoarsely, hoping his biting words were a valid enough excuse not to join in on the mess.
"If it's time yer worried about, ye' needn't worry. We've still got quite a bit," Mal explained, debunking that much of his constructed rebellion, "Everything's just about packed and ready to go. The sooner ye' eat, the sooner I'll produce something for that 'eadache of yours."
"Ye' didn't say before that I'd 'ave to eat first," John pouted, tired eyes beginning to portray true misery.
"Well, you do. Y'don't need to upset yer stomach anymore than it's been."
"Y'still got that 'eadache, Johnny?" Paul asked, worriedly.
John frowned and started to reply only to falter majorly as a wave of dizziness reared its ugly head. He swayed slightly on his feet and found himself, grabbing the edge of the counter for support. "Sure thing, Macca," he muttered dryly after a while, "What's new with ye'?"
Paul didn't miss the subtle waver in his friend's balance nor the accompanying pallor in his face. When was the last time the guitarist had even eaten a hearty meal— one that he hadn't heaved up hours later? He couldn't imagine the hospital food being that great, either… "Up for some brekky?" he offered, gesturing to the mess that cluttered the kitchen table.
"Maybe a bit later," John murmured without conviction.
"Any later and it won't be breakfast anymore," Ringo pointed out, referring to the declination of time, "Y'should really eat, Johnny."
"It barely stands as breakfast, as it is," John mumbled, gazing with ample repulsion at the table. A feeling of nausea continued to surge within him, "Really, m'not hungry."
"Still, you should try and take something in," Eppy sternly enforced, "You'll need all the energy today. There's a lot taking place."
"It won't do any good…" John allowed his voice to trail off. A familiar greenish tint had taken his face hostage.
"Y'feeling all right?" Paul skeptically and worriedly demanded of him.
"S'not feeling a hundred percent still, I guess…" John mumbled.
"Didn't they give you any meds? It's a bloody hospital for crying out loud!" Paul spat.
John shrugged, "I don't know…" he stated uncertainly, "… I'll be all right with a bit of time…"
Paul frowned… "Are ye' sure? Yer worrying me still…"
"M'just tired, really…" John weakly explained, "Slept pretty lousy last night… Sometimes makes ye' feel a bit sick the following morning when yer forced immorally from yer bed…"
Paul nodded in his direction, "I know the feeling. Y'get so little sleep, ye' wake up feeling sick… Of course yer already sick so… can't really help matters for ye', any…"
"Yer bed couldn't 'ave been much in the way of comfort, either," Ringo sympathized knowingly, "I don't remember them ever being easy t'sleep on."
John grimaced reactively, "… Explains why m'bloody sorer than Eppy after a night in with his lover…" he muttered flatly.
"How about some tea, then, John?" Ringo offered, "Got some right 'ere with yer name on it. Or I could whip up a batch of something specific you may want? Mint tea, perhaps? Won't take away the aches and pains but might 'elp settle yer stomach…"
"Yeah… sure… whatever…" John mumbled absently, flopping down finally into a chair beside George at the kitchen table.
"Hurry up and serve something, Ritch," Eppy hastily ordered, "Time really is diminishing before our very eyes!"
"Right!" Ringo jumped to attention with a playful salute.
John staved off a yawn, idly watching as Ringo fluttered about the kitchen like something of a maid, "Water's hot so it shouldn't be long!" he sang out, "It won't be long, yeah… yeah… yeah…" he proceeded to sing out loud, "It won't be long, yeah… yeah… yeah…"
John looked visibly pained by his rendition of their song, "Bloody 'ell, shurrup, would ye'?" he muttered grumpily, "There's a bloody reason ye' weren't selected t'sing that bloody song …"
"Why not?" Ringo grinned at him, unfazed by his sharpened tongue, "I think I give it the necessary flair it deserves."
"The only thing yer giving anything, anywhere, is me a 'eadache…" John stated, blinking resultantly at the lack of structured sense that just came from his mouth.
"Y'already had one, so there!" Ringo playfully stuck his tongue out at him.
John frowned, "Shurrup then, before it gets worse…" he muttered quietly.
"I still think you should consume something other than tea, Lennon…" George enforced, staring at him now in increased concern, "Ye' 'aven't eaten since yesterday and most everything ye' ate, ye' threw right back up."
"Tea counts for starters," Ringo pointed out, "It's much better than nothing."
John allowed for his head to meet the table in front of him, not seeming to hear or care for that matter that words were being cast in his direction. Ringo moved to pour him a cup of freshly brewed tea from a teapot, separate from the one already in use. "Here y'go, Johnny…"
John proceeded to close his eyes.
"Johnny… 'ey, mate…" Ringo moved to gently jostle him.
The rhythm guitarist reluctantly lifted his head and gazed tiredly into Ringo's worried blue eyes. "Ta…" he murmured, finally enclosing a hand protectively around the mug.
Ringo frowned, "Y'sure yer gonna be all right today, Lennon?" Without waiting for the slightest response, he shoved a hand beneath John's bangs and pressed it against his forehead. "Yer kind of warm, really…"
"Of course he is," Mal piped up, "He was discharged with a 100.1 degree temperature."
Ringo frowned out of sympathy this time around, "Drink up, Johnny," he urged, "No sense in ye' drying out all over again…"
John nodded and obediently took a sip, his hands shaking slightly, "Could I 'ave some aspirin, now?" he asked, glancing beseechingly in Mal's direction.
Mal nodded and eased himself up from the dining table. "Try and eat some toast, at least," he wisely advised, "I'd rather not give you anything on an empty stomach. Liquids may not be enough to save ye' from a rude awakening."
"Spare me the bloody act of concern, Mal," John snapped irritably, "I already feel like shit… How much worse could it bloody get?"
"You'd be surprised. We could 'ave a repeat of yesterday. Toast or no aspirin," the road manager sternly affirmed before leaving the room.
"Are we almost ready?" Epstein asked, in the silence that followed Mal's unalterable final say.
"I need a shower…" was the only response he received courtesy of Lennon.
Epstein's eyes softened as they landed on him, "Of course. Why don't you hurry up and take one, then… The rest of us will begin to transport our belongings to the awaiting vehicle. I'll make sure to leave your change of clothes nearby."
John nodded wearily. Christ. If he thought yesterday was god-awful, someone should've taken the time to introduce him to today…
Things shifting into sudden overdrive once again; no one noticed that John didn't get around to tackling a piece of toast, nor did he actually manage to finish his tea.
A/N: My attempt to set the tone for whatever it is the day will bring in upcoming chapters... Welll, ya guys know what to do, review, review!
AND stay tuned for chapter 20, my friends! :))