A/N: Here's chapter 23 finally! Sorry to those I kept waiting! And thanks to all for the continued love and support I've been getting here!

ALSO, for those of you who don't already know, there's a new story that I'm currently co-writing with lovely and talented GoodMorningSunshine55! It's called 'Renaissance' and if you haven't already, you should definitely go check it out and leave behind some love!

For most of the flight, no one spoke and Ringo found it as a decent opportunity to cast a glance out a nearby window in a desperate search for any source of mental escape. He didn't particularly mind flying but today especially; he couldn't seem to shake the inexplicable feeling that the jet was something like a dungeon. An entrapment of sorts, complete with all the doom and gloom that would often encompass such unfortunate inescapable settings airplanes often provided. Windows were a must for him when it came to air transport as they would often help him not to feel so trapped and damn near claustrophobic. Plus he enjoyed being provided with the distracting thrill of being able to glance out the window, his awestruck gaze landing amid the clouds. Clouds had always been fascinating to Ringo. As a tot, he'd often stare at the sky and envision castles of the like floating amongst them and wonder for hours on end what treasures the skies beheld. Though such childish thoughts had since been put to rest through actual experience, he sometimes still liked to imagine that such separate worlds existed. Somehow, it helped him to feel a bit more grounded if that made any sense…

The sky's ever-changing conditions would often lend a hand in captivation, as well… Or rather its many faces. Each daily or even hourly display was like a separate depiction of emotion. Rain was equivalent to sorrow and misery while in contrast; sunshine was equivalent to happiness and elation. Thunderstorms were like displays of anger and frustration while cloudiness or even fog seemed symbolic of grief. For the time being, a thin veil had positioned itself over the sun, giving it that lazy, hazy appearance that would often attach itself to mid-summer morning skies in the United States. It was as though a giant paintbrush had been dragged across it repeatedly until all defined outlines within it were reduced to the dull appearance that presented itself to the drummer at that very moment. The sun had lost most of its definition to this haze's grip. As a result, the sky appeared almost blank. Indifferent, unreadable, apathetic if he were to attempt to apply human characteristics here. All the same, something seemed to be cooking up behind its veil. Something that gave the impression that what the oldest member of the Beatles was currently taking in was more than likely the calm before some kind of storm…
A premonition… An omen… Were omens real? Even with his whimsical nature intact, Ringo liked to think not.

According to the telly, more storms were expected to roll in today as they had yesterday. Ahead of a cold front camped out in western portions of New England; they'd begin flaring up first in upper state New York and parts of Pennsylvania then move east, tackling Vermont and the western half of Massachusetts. From then on, they'd trek into New Hampshire, Connecticut, Rhode Island, eventually hitting New York City.

Storms were fantastic when viewed in flight if they could get near enough to one. Even the distant ones were breathtaking, particularly when set ablaze by the strained rays of a setting summer sun. They'd appear almost reddish in color, the clouds. And various portions of it would light up with the occurrence of embedded lightning. It was strangely like a silent musical; no sound to be heard but one could feel the intensity just the same. And if one looked closely enough, the actual streaks of lightning could be seen emanating from the cloud base, the intricate designs enhancing and contributing to nature's show.

The storms weren't forecast for New Jersey until much later that day but by the sound of it, it was intended to be quite a washout when they did eventually arrive. And truthfully, it didn't take a meteorologist to be able to feel the changes already occurring in the atmosphere. The air was heavy and wet across the entire northeastern portion of the United States and this feeling of intense humidity was only expected to increase the further South one went… Ringo wasn't looking forward to the projected humid conditions. Just the thought of heavy, oppressive air pushing down on him from all angles of his body proved absolutely off-putting and he was weirdly uncomfortable enough. Heat was one thing, but when mixed with extensively sultry air, it put an entirely different spin on things. The slightest human movement would lead to an all-out sweat-fest, and enthusiasm, as well as, food-intake, would as a result drop significantly… Something that would often prove to be a near calamity in the eyes of a consistently motivated Paul and an endlessly hungry George.

While England didn't contribute much in terms of such stifling air masses, the band had been through more climate shock most recently than intended. Florida was by far the worst, humidity wise, as far as Ringo could see, and it hadn't even been summer at the time of their stay. If New Jersey was to be anything like Florida, he might need to invest in some kind of an air-cooling system or anything similar to what the private jet was currently exhibiting. The cool air mixed with the quiet calm reigning successfully over the jet's entire cabin was near bliss. It was everything that the drummer had been craving for endless hours now; more realistically, since leaving their hellish La Guardia airport experience behind. Ringo had been trying especially hard not to think about it since. He'd been trying especially hard to give off the impression that he'd left all negativities behind where they belonged. After all, bad thoughts only seemed to lead to more bad thoughts which in turn led to bad happenings… Bad happenings, eventuallycausing all hell to irreversibly break— Ringo hastily shook his head forcing his detrimental thoughts to an abrupt end. Even if this had been the common theme recently, there was no use in jumping the gun. The drummer was becoming quite annoyed with himself by this point. More so with every minute.

Even Paul had managed to keep his own thoughts at bay enough for him to a catch a much-needed kip. Paul. Worrywart Paul McCartney. So what was his problem? He was Ringo for crying out loud. Ringo Starr, the lighthearted drummer of the Beatles. A ray of sunshine. Ringo, who was always looking endlessly for ways to lighten every situation with his uncanny ability to see the best in everything and everyone. In ways, he was even more an optimist than Paul. It was hard to bring him down. Poke fun at him and he'd laugh it off and even poke additional fun at himself. It was who he was and his mates even admired him for it. So what was off here? He needed a way to calm himself and untangle his nerves… He needed a way to get his mind back on track… He needed a smoke.

Unfortunately, such a method of achieving serenity wasn't about to happen here in the sky where he needed it most. He'd tried early on, ten minutes or so into the flight. He had merely gotten around to taking in a minimal of two puffs before unintentionally sending Lennon into a severe coughing fit. What had been disquieting about the fact was that the rhythm guitarist had been in a dead sleep at the time and his own coughing, as violent as it had been, hadn't even been enough to rouse him. Paul had anxiously and jokingly quipped that it should've been enough to wake the dead, let alone the subjected person. A few people had tittered nervously at this but no one really laughed. It was as though they'd all been afraid to do so; even Paul, who'd spilled forth the joke in the first place though his regret had been imminent. By that point, Ringo had fearfully snuffed out his cigarette and Lennon's fit came to a gradual end. He was still dead to the world even then. Completely unmoving. Had it not been for the continuous rising and falling of his chest, Ringo would've feared the worst…

Driven by fear of his own, Mal subsequently reached his breaking point shortly after; explosively yelling for everyone to hold off on smoking until they touched down. Ringo hadn't been sure who 'everyone' had been. After all, it had only been him who'd chosen to light up. But yet, Paul had been the recipient of his unpredictable fury, as well. Still no one dared to question the road manager. If the fact that something was bothering him hadn't been clear before, it certainly had been then. It certainly was now… The thought chilled Ringo to the very core. Perhaps, he'd just keep quiet like everyone else and try to catch a kip himself. Exhaustion due to surplus amounts of worries and concerns had long since been threatening to drown him. He was certain he'd be useless in a press conference and later on in performance if he didn't attempt to redeem his waning energy supply. Solely sold on his choice for the better benefit of his health, he finally allowed himself to close his eyes… and after minutes passing into oblivion, began to ease into a dreamlike state.

The quavering of the seat beside him drew him unceremoniously back into present reality. Completely robbed of his bearings, Ringo tore his eyes open and turned to look blearily about him; the humdrum surrounding of the jet easing itself into lucidity. What had awoken him?

As if to answer his unasked question, more violent quavering emanated from beside him. Remembering that it was John who had seated himself beside him, Ringo acted quickly, his gaze landing with eagle-like precision on his younger mate. Sure enough, the rhythm guitarist was thrashing about in his sleep, his face twisted in a reactive grimace to some kind of nightmare he was having. Ringo stared at him a moment in fleeting wonderment before a feeling of immediate dread moved in to replace it. The ongoing display was quickly growing so unnatural; he could hardly stand it. Acting out of haste, he jumped into yet another panic-induced, desperate struggle to wake him.

"Johnny, 'ey mate, wake up!" he began quietly at first, gripping his arm with rigid fingers. When that didn't work, he frantically picked up his tone, shaking him even harder in an increasingly anxious attempt to get him to comply. He was about to call for help when John's eyes finally fluttered open and his unfocused gaze landed on him. There was no recognition within them. Ringo frowned worriedly. "Johnny… you all right, love?" he asked.

"You!" John's eyes narrowed on the drummer before he was even granted the chance to blink, "Toss Cyn off, will ye?"

Ringo's eyes continued to grow wider in surprise bordering alarm, "Cyn? What're ye' on about? She's not 'ere, Johnny!"

"Y'know damned well what I'm talking 'bout, Pete. I saw yer an' her… y'fucking wanker… an' now yer gon' pay."

John's voice was lower and more menacing than Ringo had ever witnessed let alone been faced with. An icy chill trickled down his spine. "John, what're ye'— Yer not… I'm not Pete!" Before the drummer could even begin to defend himself, John violently lunged for his neck with increasingly tightening fingers. "John!" Ringo found himself straining to shout whilst struggling with all his defensive might to fight him off. His attempted struggles weren't working. Effort was always futile when faced with the nuclear bomb that was the physical side of Lennon's anger. He had the upper hand. More than the upper hand. "Lennon! Please…" he managed to choke out.

"Ringo… what are ye'… Jesus Christ, Lennon!" Ringo recognized Mal's voice behind him at last. There was a resulting panic to which he was growing decreasingly aware of. A strange buzzing had begun to claim his ears and the cabin no longer seemed to hold the brightness it once had. He was… suffocating…

Just as he was sure it was all about to go dark, fingers were forcefully pried from his neck and the weight was pulled off of him. Eventual light began to surpass the impending darkness threatening to overtake his vision.

"Ritch! Are you all right?!" Eppy demanded; his voice loudly resonating air as it often would whenever he was struck with panic.

Across the aisle, Paul stirred in reaction to the sudden manifestation of the manager's projected voice. "What's going on?" he asked, his dozy gaze landing first on Eppy and then Ringo. His eyes widened copiously as he intently drew in Ringo's face, startlingly almost bluish in color. The drummer was gasping profusely as though he couldn't quite get enough air into his lungs. "Rings?" he gasped, sleep's stubborn grip expelling itself from his mind as the intrusive realization that something was truly wrong sunk in, "Are you all right?"

"He's fine," Eppy responded without turning to look at him, "Just had a bit of a mishap is all."

"Mishap?" Paul hastily found himself questioning, "Well, what happened?"

No one responded and the bassist was left to attempt to figure things out for himself. As he turned to look about him, he was suddenly aware that Lennon was no longer where'd he been prior to his dozing off. Where was he? "Where's John?" he asked impulsively as Ringo began to hack uncontrollably.

Still focused on Ringo, Brian pointed towards the head of the jet.

Slowly, as though afraid of where it might lead, Paul followed the indicated direction of his manager's index finger towards his source of inquiry. What he saw made his eyes pop and his jaw drop. The distant not to mention frightening scene untangling itself before him was everything enough to bring the blood racing through his every vein to a complete and frozen halt. John was there all right. John was there, complete with his deeply flushed face, disheveled hair, and eyes wild and unfocused. John was there… and under restraint… by Mal; every last part of him looking as though it wanted desperately to break free and tear ferociously into the road manager. He didn't even look like John at the moment. What the fuck had happened? This had to be some kind of a sick and twisted joke. It wasn't any hidden secret that Lennon was capable of such behavior. But even this seemed to be in poor taste for him. Then again, Lennon most certainly hadn't been in his head all day…

"What's he doing? What's happened?" Paul asked, his voice, once robbed by the revelation of his eyes, finally recovering itself.

Again, no one responded. Bloody hell… Paul turned to look beside him. George was still sleeping. Probably for the better.

"That's it, Johnny… yer all right now," Mal currently coaxed, drawing Paul's eyes back in their direction. John had stopped fighting finally and looked to be in a near stupor. Even with the spiraling exhaustion waiting on the wings to fully claim him as it was, the amount of confusion on his face fighting to make itself known was overshadowing. Overwhelming.

"What happened?" the rhythm guitarist croaked emotionlessly, his detached gaze fighting to meet Mal's.

"From my standpoint, you awoke, thought Ringo was someone else, and tried to choke 'im."

John's impossibly haggard face whitened several shades before falling a considerable amount at the onset of the revelation. "I what?"

Mal nodded worriedly, confirming the guitarist's fears, "I think it's time I give ye' something more for that fever of yers. Something to tie ye' over until I can finally arrange for that doctor to double check yer condition. I'm a little worried about you," he reluctantly revealed, his words hanging portentously in the gloom-filled air.

John said nothing, his lack of response showing entirely how guilt-ridden and sick he was over what had nearly transpired.

The color had returned to Ringo's face by now and his breathing had returned to normal. Aside from some redness around his neck, there were no present sign of the recent struggle or 'mishap' as Eppy had dismissively so chosen to put it.

"Are you sure yer all right, Rings?" Paul found himself asking for what seemed like the thousandth time since Eppy had returned to his seat.

"Yeah… I'm fine, Paul," Ringo responded, with yet another smile to offer him. He'd offered him a smile every time the bassist had dared to question him but now he was quickly growing tired of the whole ordeal. He was fine for chrissakes. It was John everyone should be tuned into. John. John was the one that… Ringo couldn't even bring himself to add to the mental statement he was about to make. He'd wanted to go to John and sit beside him, let him know that he hadn't hurt him… not really… But Eppy had advised him against it.

"John's fine under Mal's supervision," he had told him, "I'd rather you just let him rest."

But John was not fine. Ringo had been able to see it clearly in his face after Mal had bluntly let on to him what had just taken place. Lennon was internally tearing himself apart. He was mentally beating himself up… Reverting to his self-destructive ways… He didn't need to be left alone. He needed assurance… and then reassurance on top of assurance.

The drummer wasn't sure how much longer he sat staring remorsefully at John, but eventually, his racing mind slowed down enough so that sleep could take him away from it all. Time was lost as a result and before long, they were on the very verge of touching down in brand new territory.

"We're here boys!" Eppy cheerfully called out, "Look alive!"

Both Paul and Ringo stirred from the renewed bit of light sleep they'd somehow been able to catch. John and George didn't move.

"Up and at 'em, Johnny, Geo!" Brian gleefully persisted as the jet began its graceful descent from the upper levels of the atmosphere, "Welcome to New Jersey!"

"New Jersey?" George sat up suddenly and scrubbed sleep from his eyes, "Already?" He cleared his throat, hoarse from sleep.

Already… Ringo nearly scoffed out loud. If he only knew what had gone on that entire time he'd been asleep. Lucky bloke. Or was he lucky? Ringo glanced to him with a bit of present worry. Was the fact that he'd slept through everything a sign of deterioration? He couldn't take much more of this bloody transcending rubbish…

"Time flies when y'manage t'sleep it all away, Geo," Mal commented casually, glancing to him with a bit of wonder, "How're ye' feeling?"

George thought a bit before managing a shrug, "All right," he croaked. He frowned at the way his voice continued to present itself, "I… think…" he added. He coughed and attempted to clear away the rasp. The stubborn rasp won out, launching him into an unexpected coughing fit.

"Easy, Geo!" Paul exclaimed in immediate surprise, giving him a gentle reactive pat on the back. His own eyes, almost green in the ambient lighting of the jet, were full of concern as he studied him all the while, "All right, love?"

George found himself gagging in a forceful effort to stifle the afflicting cough attack. Eventually, he vigorously cleared his throat, the act ending the fit once and for all. His eyes were watering and his cheeks a fiery red as he lifted his resultantly pounding head to take in all the worried eyes staring at him in pronounced worry. "I-I'm all right," he hoarsely assured everyone, wincing at the sound of his voice.

"Lozenges," Eppy announced assertively as though they were the main source of all healing power, "We'll 'ave to get a hold of some. Perhaps, there will be some available at the conference! You'll be all right for the conference, Geo, won't ye'?"

"'S'just a bit of a scratchy throat, really… and a slight bit of a 'eadache…" George replied, trying his best to pass it all off as only a slight insignificance.

"Has the aspirin taken the edge off any?" Mal asked. His eyes though scrutinizing held a bit of nearly imperceptible apprehension within them.

George knew what he was indirectly indicating with those troubled eyes of his. This was a lot like yesterday's situation involving John. The headache… the sore throat… How long before he- The lead guitarist forced the ominous thought to terminate itself with an involuntary shudder. Thinking about anything on those terms, made it seem all the more inescapable… predetermined… fated.

"George, is the aspirin helping or isn't it?" Mal repeated urgently.

George struggled to conceal the startled tremor that proceeded to course up his spine at the abruptness of Mal's words. "A bit," he avowed finally, struggling to perfect his most reassuring smile, "I'll be all right… It'll kick in eventually… at some point." And all will be fine as had eventually panned out with the lurgy… The lurgy… Something dawned on him right then. He'd already had the lurgy, hadn't he? Bloody thing had managed to take over much more of this tour than he even cared to remember. So what was this current virus beginning to wear on his body? A cold? A separate flu virus? But what if it wasn't? Could one get back an illness after giving it away? If he'd gotten Lennon sick in the first place, could Lennon then return the favor with the same illness? It didn't seem likely and it didn't seem like anything he'd ever personally experienced before. Did John even have the lurgy? If not, then what did that mean for him? George shuddered again against his will.

It was then when the lead guitarist realized that John was no longer seated next to Ringo as he'd been before he'd fallen asleep. Instead he was up front beside Mal… evidently still fast asleep. Had something taken place while he'd been busy lost in his own kip? What could have happened?

"Allow me to make that verification on yer behalf, Harrison," Mal presently stated, startling George from his uninvited reverie.

"What verification?" George asked, turning his attention back towards him.

"Whether or not you're feeling as proper as ye' even let on," Mal responded without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Before George knew what was happening, the band's road manager had risen to his feet despite the rules binding them to their seats and stooped down in the middle of the aisle that had separated the Beatles two by two. George braced himself knowing now the sequence of events that were about to unfold.

"Y'don't 'ave to shut yer eyes, Geo, I'm only checking your temperature," Mal gently revealed, a small amused smile panning out across his face.

"I find that 'elps with the suspense," George responded without missing a beat.

Mal chuckled and allowed the lead guitarist to carry forth with his self-comforting ritual. Gently, while deftly balancing himself on the tilting floors of the descending jet, he applied to his forehead, the back of his hand.

"Well?" George questioned, cracking an eye open. He hated suspense, especially when it involved him. He'd rather things just be in the open. Life was less stressful that way…

"You've still got a bit of a fever…" Mal revealed reluctantly. He looked worried for a moment before managing to get his emotions under control. "I've really got to schedule that appointment with a doctor," he muttered.

"Which doctor?" Ringo inquired, "Surely not that quack that dealt with John yesterday?"

"Not unless y'wish to fly him out from New York," Mal turned to face him with a lighthearted but apprehensive smile.

Ringo made a face, "He can stay there."

The jet hit the runway with a slight jolt and skidded along for several moments at a time before coming to an eventual and gradual halt.

"Well, that's our cue!" Brian merrily stated after a while, "Stay close, boys, and get ready to greet yer fans! Remember, this is yer first time in New Jersey so it's important that you look alive!" Without waiting for the response that he knew he was unlikely to get anyway, he rose from his seat first and signaled animatedly for all to begin evacuation. One person at a time, the jet began to unload, the entourage first, then Eppy, and eventually the Beatles; John having been awoken by that point. Mal brought up the rear.

The security was far from at a standstill here. In fact, the Beatles were certain they had never seen so many security guards in one setting before, even when compared to New York! What could it mean? Were there simply more people here or were they just more likely to get out of hand? George sighed heavily as he glanced down from the top of the jet's stairwell. With their luck, it was probably both…

"It'll be all right, Harri," Paul confidently cajoled him with pronounced optimism as though sensing his heavy mood, "We'll be out of this mess before we all know it. If y'didn't already know, the Beatles are capable of anything."

"That might be so, but no one said we were invincible," George responded matter-of-factly.

Paul shrugged, and started first down the stairs, failing to even flinch in the slightest as excited cries rose up to meet him. George began to wonder if the bassist was possibly half-robot in his ability to remain routinely unfazed in the face of such noise and insanity provided regularly by their adoring fans. Already, the racket was killing him and he'd hardly left the jet yet. This must've been how John had felt yesterday… Probably how he still felt… George found himself shuddering yet again at the ready-made comparison in his steadily throbbing head. Such thoughts weren't what he needed at the moment. Things were getting out of hand enough as they were. Remaining uninspired by Paul's attempt at providing encouragement, the lead guitarist took in a deep, slightly painful breath before daring to follow gingerly in his footsteps.

John was in a considerable daze as he descended the stairs next, lagging slightly behind George. He was a quarter of the way down, when he unexpectedly lost his footing. He would've tumbled down at a startling and uncomforting speed, possibly taking George, Paul, and Eppy out along the way had Ringo not reached out to help steady him. He'd been keeping a close eye on the rhythm guitarist, anyway; taking note of all the small things that pointed towards the blatant fact that he still felt quite off. Most alarming, was the undeniable pallor that just wouldn't leave his face. He was dreadfully and permanently pale; a recently acquired hue that proved just as unnerving as his illness itself. Even beneath that equally persistent, feverish flush, he was much too pale; his appearance practically mirroring the characteristics of a zombie. To further strengthen such comparisons, those unnatural, prominent, sickly bags beneath his dull lackluster eyes, along with an unsettling absence of that vibrant Lennon spark practically settled it, leaving little if any room for debate…

"This way, Johnny." Ringo called from behind him as they began the trek through wild and unruly fans towards the airport entrance.

John blinked, "What?"

Ringo smiled gently, "You'd probably fare better following the band, not the fans."

John turned to give his surroundings a gander right then, taking notice that the back of George's head had somehow manifested into that of a long-haired redhead. "Oh… he shook his head to clear it, "I know… that…" After searching a while, he was able to seek out the guitarist located directly to his left. Practically right in front of his nose yet he'd allowed himself to get sidetracked… Maybe it was all the bloody noise and commotion that surrounded them. His eyes and ears still didn't seem to be working quite right. Things were almost deafening at times…and sometimes they'd escalate to near blinding in which he'd literally have to stop just to get a grip on his bearings which were usually spinning about him by the point of escalation.

Ringo frowned, taking in his appearance with a bit of uncertainty, "Are you all right, love? You seem a bit out of it."

"Wouldn't be anything new…" John mumbled, gazing Ringo at with some remorse present.

Ringo could easily tell what he eating at him. He knew that the rhythm guitarist, as he often would, had reverted back to the troubling string of events that had taking place on the flight. "It's all right, Johnny," he whispered, trying his best to get him to see it similarly, as well.

But John shook his head stubbornly, "No… 's'not… all right…" he quietly responded.

"But it is!" Ringo insisted, "You 'aven't hurt me any!"

"What if there wasn't anyone around to bring me to me senses, Rings?" John asked, his emotionless eyes, markedly staring not at Ringo but apparently through him, "What would've 'appened then?"

"Y'can't look at it that way, Johnny!" Ringo protested, "Look at the positives!"

John scoffed bitterly, "M'not even sure what those are anymore. Open yer eyes, Ritch. I could've fucking killed ye'."

Ringo frowned, finding there weren't enough words in the dictionary to make this situation right. John was beginning to worry him more than ever now.

"There you are!" Eppy stated with utmost relief as his band filtered in through the New Jersey airport entrance. "I was beginning to get worried!" He'd sported a grin at the initial sight of them but the facial expression quickly faded as his gaze landed chiefly on John. The rhythm guitarist came across much too pale for his liking. "You all right?" he demanded, immediate concern beginning to take him over for the umpteenth time in only two days.

John nodded. Words were too hard to come by at this point. Really, he just wanted to sleep. He wasn't sure how it was remotely possible but he was growing more tired all the time…

Eppy frowned, finding he didn't believe him for even a second. Rather than address it though, he heaved a sigh and turned away. "Let's go, boys," he sighed, his demeanor changing to come across with an air of defeat, "You know the drill by now. The limo awaits."

The four Beatles lagged slightly behind as Brian rushed ahead, weaving this way and that like he had every idea where he was headed, where they were headed.

A/N: Yup. Stay tuned for chapter 24! Peace and Love.