A/N: Well here's chapter 24 finally! I REALLYYY apologize for the long wait. Seriously had the worst case of writer's block I've EVER been faced with. But thanks for continuing to follow this story and if this particular chapter's unbearably horrible, ya know why :). Haha, read up loves.

The Beatles could always tell when they were nearing a point of destination. First, the amount of people in a proposed area would increase significantly and dramatically. And if that weren't enough of a sign, their ears would soon serve as reliable sources of backup confirmation. Currently, the Beatles didn't need their ears to do the talking. The amount of insanity that overwhelmed their eyes was enough to foretell just what exactly it was they were getting their hands and feet into. People were everywhere, each and every one of them crammed into every last square inch of the site arranged specifically and carefully for playing host to the four young lads from Liverpool. It was as though the entire state of New Jersey had been tipped off about their impending press conference and everyone had willingly dropped all things that would otherwise have been deemed of obligatory importance to witness their arrival. It was as if the public's need to confirm with their very eyes that it wasn't all some form of an elaborate hoax was overbearing, therefore making it 'mandatory' to achieve bystander status.

Judging by the way things were developing thus far, it somewhat set the Beatles' minds at ease to see that the particular setup that accompanied this press hotspot was even more security-sound than even the airport was. The fact that things would probably surge to unfathomable levels of madness seemed inevitable. There was a lot of crying going on here. Flat-out bawling. Those who didn't have their emotion on such a physical level of display were in catatonic shock, it seemed, and many had fainted at the sight of their limo alone. Deafening didn't even begin to sum up the atmosphere here either. Even with the windows closed, the Beatles could hear these endless cries of pleasure as though there was merely nothing separating them from the repeated verbal assaults; as though there wasn't a closed in vehicle keeping them out of the immediate noise pollution. George couldn't help cringing at the feared thought of actually having to take on such a crowd behind this audibly torturous mess. Despite this being the norm, it somehow seemed so unfathomably ominous… all of it. Mal had casually warned the band of such potential happenings, revealing to them that due to existing circumstances, an anticipated increase in barmy behavior from fans was expected, resulting in a mandatory increase in security to balance it all out.

"You must understand," he had elaborated from his seat across from the Beatles, "This is brand new territory for you boys. Your fans here have never had the chance of gaining a gander at you in any way other than on the telly. This is probably all they've dreamed about. Things are bound to get as hectic as was your first time in America!"

"It still doesn't make this any less unnerving," George had muttered, gesturing tiredly out the window from where he had sat nuzzled up in his claimed corner of the limo.

"Unnerving's quite the understatement," Paul had surprised everyone by commenting.

As it turned out, Mister Public Relations wasn't looking any more forward to this up and coming event than anyone else was. Surprise, surprise. Perhaps he wasn't a robot after all, George had found himself musing after the fact. With a scoff, he wondered vaguely what such a turning point regarding their bassist' deteriorating self-assured-pre-fan-greeting-behavior could possibly mean for everything that was in store. He shook his head as he contemplated it, his gaze hypnotically fixated out the window at the wild sea of people that seemed to consist of the entire region of this new and foreign state. For all he knew, the entire region was here. The potential revelation did nothing to ease his viewpoint of things. This was madness. And he couldn't blame Paul one bit for finally wiping that perpetual 'everything's-fine-and-dandy-even-if-it-isn't' fan-pleasing grin from his face.

From day one, George had never entirely been on board with the whole irrational idea of their fans being so captivated by them. Sure they were a band and sure they were musically inclined, but they were still people for crying out loud. Neither he nor any of his band mates were so different from any one of their fanatics that any obsessions should need to be formed by anyone let alone fans. George knew he was the most humbled of all the Beatles. It was a known fact that John and Paul, on any given day, would often bask in all the glory of attention they'd receive. Even Ringo would get his kicks from it. But George, he just couldn't seem to wrap himself around something so puzzling, mindboggling, and, dare he think it, disturbing. He couldn't seem to get himself past wondering what it was that four lads from Liverpool could possibly have done in less than a lifetime to deserve so much endless love and attention. It would always set him a bit on edge; though more so today than usual. Truthfully, he was dreading this event something terrible along with every additional one that hugged the horizon. Maybe it was because he was starting to feel like complete shit… Maybe it was nagging feelings of dread eating up every living cell of his brain. He knew already that Lennon was on board with his current thoughts and feelings but he had to wonder if anyone else could truly and fully relate.

On a lighter note, signs were everywhere on display as they often would be at places of their anticipated arrival. 'I Love You!' George had been able to make out on several occasions. Most were followed up by McCartney's or Lennon's name, but it warmed his heart to some extent to see that there were signs scattered in the mix portraying love for him and Ringo, as well. Most depictions grouped them all together, some went as far as to demand hand in marriage. Some were even disturbingly vulgar in suggestion— the majority of those strictly for Paul and John. The lead guitarist couldn't help a fleeting feeling of wanting to laugh at the extent of the way these people seemed intent on portraying and fantasizing about them. It was so ridiculously, utterly unreal.

The limo came to a halt alongside a curb where their destined pathway began. Thrilled screams seemed to increase in volume, sounding ironically as though someone or several people rather were being murdered. Of course, that was a preposterous comparison— somewhat. Though innocent lives probably weren't being robbed from what he could tell, George couldn't help morbidly thinking that murder was taking place, anyway. Murder of his once wholesome hearing. Murder of his entire skull; once functioning and intact.

"Don't move until I say so," Mal spoke suddenly, his stern voice everything enough to revive George from his derange reverie. The lead guitarist pulled his attention from the commanding window scenes and saw that their road manager was preparing himself to exit the limo in order to fulfill his established ritual of verifying the presence and preparedness of security.

"We know, Mal!" Paul and Ringo chorused, seeming more alert now that hype-induced adrenaline had begun to take them over. George grimaced at their blended voices, wondering where they'd gotten their adrenaline from all of a sudden. Whatever the source was, it had skipped him altogether. Heat did too apparently. He was bloody cold and the others didn't seem to be all that bothered by it. Even John seemed all right in his soundly sleeping state. Then again, the amount of red-hot fever burning his body from the inside out wasn't the easiest to overlook.

"Well, it's my job to make sure that everyone properly understands their rolls considering the monster we're about to be faced with," Mal took the time to hurriedly explain. Without another word of rationalization, he urgently exited the limo leaving behind Eppy and the band and additional feelings of dread.

"Monster…" George mumbled, sticking a finger into one of his ringing ears, "He's not so far off, y'know. This is possibly the most threatening monster I've ever been faced with."

Paul smirked in slight amusement but didn't laugh off or dismiss the absurdity of his words as other situations might have found him doing. George had the feeling it was simply due to the fact that somewhere deep within him, he actually agreed.

"Yer not stepping out too, Eppy?" Ringo asked, turning to him.

Eppy shook his head, "I'll be escorting you boys inside the moment Mal clears me able to do so."

"Hopefully sooner than later," George muttered, fighting off a visible shiver, "It's a bit chilly in 'ere, really. Wish I had me coat."

Paul turned to him with an arched eyebrow of projected concern, "Are ye' really cold, Geo?" he questioned bluntly in disbelief, "It's got to be near 85 degrees in here!"

George shivered again, his inescapable misery beginning to get the best of him, "Hate to break it to ye' but it doesn't quite feel that way, Macca," he muttered grudgingly, "I've found more warmth in a London rainstorm."

"It's supposed to reach 95 today, I think," Paul revealed, a thoughtful look overtaking him as he attempted to confirm the bit of information in the back of his mind, "Heard it on the telly back at the airport."

"And that means what to me?" George irritably snapped.

Paul shrugged, "I don't know… that y'must be sick because it's bloody warm out. 95 is bloody stifling, really!"

"95? Celsius?!" Ringo exclaimed, Paul's projected forecast finally sinking in. He looked suddenly horrified at the thought, "Bloody 'ell, we'll burn to a bleedin' crisp!"

Paul laughed at the blatant alarm showing on the drummer's face, "That's Fahrenheit, love," he clarified for him, "Do us all a favor and keep yer knickers on."

"Americans and their bloody Fahrenheit…" George mused contemplatively. He shivered yet again, "Still don't think it's quite that warm out, though."

Ringo turned to him with a frown and after looking him over a moment and taking note of the small tremors coursing through his body, settled a hand across his forehead, "Ye' sure yer not feeling bad?" he asked worriedly, "You've got the chills pretty awful. It's 'onestly not that cold in 'ere that anyone should be shivering quite as much as y'seem to be."

Paul nodded in agreement.

"How's he feel, Ritch?" Eppy asked, glancing to George with more concern than the lead guitarist was keen on receiving.

"Pretty feverish, the poor lad…" Ringo sighed worriedly, "Kinda reminds me of how John felt yesterday, hours before he passed into the land of delirium."

George scowled at the news. "Don't be bloody daft, Ritchie! That's got nothing to do with anything!"

"He's not so daft, Harri," Paul quietly murmured, "We'll most definitely be keeping our eye on you."

George made a face. "'S'there any way we can speed up the hands of time to get through this stupid day?" he grumbled.

"I wish we could, love," Paul sighed sympathetically. He looked suddenly worried but turned away before Ringo could catch on and question him. George's frown lengthened.

"I think we should wake John while we're at it," Eppy suddenly declared, sitting up and glancing at his watch, "Mal should be commanding our attention any moment now."

Ringo frowned, turning his attention from George towards the notably comatose rhythm guitarist. He'd been sleeping soundly since the limo had departed the airport. "Wake John?" he questioned softly, taking an immediate aversion to the idea, "Again?"

Brian nodded, "And if you're worried about the unfortunate reaction you received last time while on the jet, you shouldn't be. Mal's taken care of all his medicinal needs."

Paul sharply scoffed, fixing Brian with a sudden and impulsive glare, "So naturally ye' go on assuming that everything's hunky-dory now that our rhythm guitarist's all drugged up?" he sneered with uncharacteristic and unexpected menace.

"Tell me, Paul," Eppy muttered, turning to face him with as calm a demeanor as he could portray in the face of his growing anger, "What would you do in such a pressed and demanding situation?"

"Take him to a hospital and forget the rest," Paul answered without missing a beat, his large, earnest eyes burning into Eppy's with all the challenge in the world.

"So the conference get's done away with?"

"The conference, the show, the whole bleedin' tour!" Paul harshly elaborated, "John had a seizure, Eppy! A seizure! And a second ago, he tried to strangle Ringo because he didn't recognize him! Ringo! Sweet Ringo who'd just as soon walk away from a fight to save a friendship rather than cause it to escalate," The bassist shook his head in still present disbelief towards the extent of the earlier happening, "Open yer eyes, Brian! I get it. I get how y'see things. Lennon's breathing, he's talking, he's functioning fer chrissakes! But that doesn't justify fer a second that everything's okay. It's not okay! 'S'not! It 'asn't been for…for god knows how long now… And me…I can't sit 'ere and watch this. I-"

"Paul!" Ringo cut in, his blue eyes widening in alarm.

The bassist shook his head, waving off the drummer's attempt at diverting his attention. "It's making me mad… 'S'making me—" Paul's voice broke unexpectedly, and wiping away un-fallen tears from his cheeks, he defiantly shifted his gaze out the window, away from the eyes he knew now burned into his back.

"Paul…" Eppy's tone had softened tenfold now, "Have faith, Paul. John will be…" There was too long a pause before the manager tried again, "John'll be fine. He's a tough lad."

"Don't y'think I know how tough he is?" Paul snapped, his gaze still fixated on the calamity of the outside world, "I've known him longer than anyone 'ere. He's tough but he's not invincible. I can't—I don't want to… I don't want to see…" His voice trailed off again, probably for the better. He'd more than likely end up bawling like some bleeding nancy boy the way he was carrying on. It most certainly wouldn't be his proudest moment and not the sort of mess he wanted to plunge himself into moments before he would have to face his fans. He didn't want to see something happen to John… was what his mouth had openly wanted to proclaim before his mind had hurried to shut the door on such words. Why had he chosen not to go on and say them? It seemed it would set reality in stone. John was his best friend. His mate. He didn't know what he would do if ever faced with the disaster of losing him.

"Jesus Christ…" Eppy muttered under his breath. But he said nothing more on the subject, knowing now that something most definitely had to be done. Paul was right. There really was something wrong with Lennon, wasn't there? And ignorance wasn't bliss. Sure it made things seem like they were okay for the time being within one's mind, but it didn't dare to help erase what was truly happening outside… in the real world. In the real world, John was very sick and getting sicker all the time. In the real world, George was getting sick, possibly just as sick… In the real world, this was all happening. Happening in the land of reality where one's life mattered as much as one's death. Still, it was such a risk to just throw away everything he'd sank loads of money into. They would need to hold on just a bit longer. Get through the conference at least, which would allow more than enough time for him and Mal to figure out what it was they were going to do about things.

A knock on the window startled them and Paul turned just in time to catch Mal frantically beckoning to them, "Let's go!" he was impatiently mouthing through the glass.

Eppy surfaced slowly from his daze in a manner similar to a sleepy bear emerging from its den in the middle of a January thaw, and jumped to sudden attention, "Right!" he announced as though all was suddenly right with the world. He shook off the forlorn mood that had wrapped itself thickly around his mind and plastered on the most genuine smile he could muster, "This is it, lads! Brace yourselves… Things are guaranteed to get a bit disorderly."

Paul started to open his mouth with a biting remark but Ringo quickly jumped in as though sensing the foul string of words the bassist was about to free from the barricades of his mind. "Nothing we can't 'andle, I'm sure!" he asserted confidently with a feigned grin.

Paul scowled at him but backed down, nonetheless, turning his attention instead to his still slumbering best mate. "It's time to wake up, Johnny," he found himself coaxing, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm it would normally hold.

John faintly stirred but showed no immediate signs of waking. Paul heaved a flustered sigh and began the long drawn out struggle of waking the rhythm guitarist. It shouldn't be so hard, he found himself thinking all the while. It should never be so hard!

John came to rather sluggishly this time around, one startlingly lackluster pupil reluctantly greeting the natural lighting of the world.

"That's it, Lennon," Paul kept on persistently, "Rise and shine."

John cautiously opened his other eye and scrubbed gingerly at his face, intensely flushed from deep sleep and the persistent presence of fever, "What time is it?" he croaked, taking a moment to glance jadedly about him once his eyes had adjusted enough to the lighting.

"Never mind that. How're ye' feeling, love?" Ringo jumped in.

John's eyes glazed over momentarily as he attempted to mull over the answer. "Head's throbbing…" he murmured after a while.

"Badly?" George asked, turning towards John with piqued concern as well as wonder.

John looked as though the mere habitual act of thinking was becoming harder by the minute. "Heavily…" he whispered. He caught sight of the wild, surrounding scene unfolding beyond the sheet of glass he'd slept against, opposite George, "Where are we?" he asked, his words slurring slightly together from what the others hoped to be drowsiness.

"We're at the site of the press conference," Brian informed him with a bit of a sad smile, "I know you don't feel well but… do you think you'll be all right to go through with it?"

The blank stare John presented him with, gave way to a weak and wavering smile, "Of course!"

"You're going to need to make your way from here to that building over there," Eppy pointed out the window, directing Lennon's wearied gaze with his hand, "Think you have it in you?"

"I'm John Lennon, love," John stated overconfidently, his smile, growing more impish by the minute, still in place. He was still slurring his words quite notably.

Eppy, blushing significantly at Lennon's chosen way with words, didn't seem to notice. Love. Concentrating on trying to hide his growing blush, he moved over-exaggeratedly to open the limo door. Had he been able to hold his gaze on John's face a moment longer, he might've taken notice of the resulting commanding wince induced by the noise pollution he'd inadvertently let into the private calm quarters of the limo cabin.

"Let's give this your best shot then," Eppy murmured, struggling to remain focused on the task at hand.

Wincing still an incredible amount, John, closest to the designated path, gravitated lethargically towards the open door and began his exit; immediately shielding his eyes against the extreme sunshine bearing down on the surrounding pavement. Each ray of light was like a heated dagger for his burning and aching retinas. He took his first shaky step in the intended direction of travel, fighting off the growing nuisance of flash photography all the while, and down he went. Face first.

"John!" Eppy jumped out of the limo after him.

Clamoring in escalation, the others started to jump out after him, surprise and worry momentarily surpassing logic.

"Stay back!" Eppy ordered of them, somehow finding the time to fear for their safety should a sudden riot break out.

Three-fourths of the Beatles froze in their tracks.

John didn't react even as Eppy proceeded to desperately jostle a response from him. "John… you all right?" the manager timidly found himself croaking worriedly. There was a sudden escalation of noise from surrounding spectators. Security shifted into overdrive.

"Bloody hell, Lennon… When does it all stop…?" Brian whispered pleadingly. He hastily eased John onto his back, exposing his face to the world as the others worriedly looked on from a safe distance. John reacted limply and lifelessly, looking to have had the wind brutally knocked from him. Frowning deeply, and not knowing quite what else to do, the manager blindly began tapping his face with light repeated slaps in desperate hopes to generate some form of response. Any form of response. The rhythm guitarist was much too pale for his liking. "Bloody hell…" Eppy sighed again as Mal and several others rushed to the scene of misfortune.

"What happened?" Mal demanded, kneeling beside John without hesitation. The road manager immediately went to work contributing forth his own attempts to bring him round.

"I don't know," Eppy murmured tiredly, "…He just fell…"

John groaned suddenly and coughed; the much anticipated response nearly passing inaudibly in all the surrounding ear-splitting noise. He grimaced subsequently at the resulting pain the action brought to his body and groaned some more.

Mal lowered his inquisitive gaze from Brian back to him, his facial expression meanwhile hardening to pure concern, "All right, Johnny? Can you hear me?"

John coughed again and opened his eyes finally with pronounced reluctance.

Mal repeated the first of his two questions, "All right, John?"

"…Fine…" the guitarist hesitantly murmured, his face displaying as much confusion as had been the 'norm' on this particular day.

"Can you get up? Can you walk?"

John shook his head to clear it and squeezed his eyes shut a moment in a struggle to remember as well as gather his bearings. "Yeah…" he mumbled after a while, looking a bit more coherent now in regards to what had just taken place.

"Let's get you up then." Both Mal and an additional security guard helped to guide his upper body off the pavement and within moments, he was back on his feet, though lacking a considerable amount of stability. "Steady now." Mal found himself whispering in as calming a manner as the shock of the unforeseen situation would let him. He worriedly placed a steadying and supporting hand to the back of the shoulder closest to him, "All right?" he asked again.

John nodded, the action bringing great pain to his face.

Mal heaved a sigh, "I should hope so," he murmured wearily, "Go on then. Let's get you in. I'm right behind you."

John looked oddly unsure of himself as he obeyed Mal's orders.

"I'm calling the hospital and demanding to know all they have on John as soon as we get to that dressing room," Mal took a moment to briefly whisper to Epstein, "It's been long enough." He didn't bother waiting for a response from him before turning to follow behind Lennon.

Eppy's face held all the fear in the world as he watched them walk off. He quickly snapped out of it as the reminder that time was in fact still ticking down claimed his attention. "You're next, Geo," he whispered quietly, "You all right?"

"Brilliant…" George mumbled. But Eppy could see through the surfacing ruse. The lead guitarist looked like a petrified baby deer. As he moved to greet the sunshine and fans, he broke out into a wince similar to what Lennon had melted into at the initial introduction to the noise.

Every muscle in Eppy's body tensed as he took this in. "You'll be all right?" he asked again, fear creeping once again into his already too tense features.

George nodded with a bit of unexpected vehemence, "I'm not John, Brian," he growled, "I'm not about to meet any of his fates!"

"While that maybe so, that's not quite the point, Geo!" Eppy sighed. But he let the lead guitarist carry on with such self-protective words.

"Yer up, Rings," Eppy impatiently prodded him next.

Ringo eased himself out from the limo and started cautiously in George's path while Paul did the same behind him. Screams sounded on and on as they trudged on through the onslaught, like mountain hikers through an unexpected snowstorm stirred up by the will of Mother Nature. Signs were thrust in their faces, fans tried to grab at them.

George was more than thankful for the presence of the barriers designed to keep them all back. He was also thankful for the wideness of this particular foraged path especially following the unanticipated mishap of losing a sleeve yesterday to some fan due to the fact that the walkway hadn't been spacious enough to completely annihilate all forms of contact. They'd been funneled into this narrow space, therefore allowing for some barmy bird to grab hold of his sleeve. It was unpredictable occurrences of the sort that they were constantly up against. It was the unexpected happenings involving some of their dearest fans that would often discourage him and consequently proceed to set him on edge.

George wiped some sweat from his brow beginning to feel every ounce of discomfort the outdoors had to offer. He wasn't sure when the transition had taken place but suddenly it was much too hot beneath the intensifying summer sun. The pathway, despite its many positive attributes, was quickly growing brutal in other ways now. George hadn't quite had the chance to take real notice before but there was a slight incline to it. His legs were beginning to ache something awful as they took on the slope, as was his back… Even his arms were beginning to ache with the effort. And the noise… Each one of their fans had to have been equipped with a set of lungs that could rival the breaking of the sound barrier.

Eventually, the seemingly endless climb came to an end and he found himself on much sought out level ground. Fans were scattered everywhere now; each one of them apparently having nowhere else to look but directly at him and his band mates. Their eyes were trained on their every move as though daring one of them to trip or fall or create some kind of embarrassing blunder for the waiting press to tear to shreds. George hoped he wouldn't be the source of such a slip-up. Poor John had caused enough muddled lapses in the past day alone to last all four of them a lifetime's worth. Perhaps these people were all looking for some kind of hot and heavy Beatle shagging… Needless to say, they were looking in the wrong place… Every single one of them.

"George Harrison, won't you let me be your baby?" a distinct female voice questioned. The accent was peculiar… not quite like the New York accents he'd recently grown accustomed to, but peculiar just the same.

"I could be that 'nice teen date' you've been looking for!" she added suggestively, her accent weirdly beginning to sound less characteristic of the region and somehow hitting a bit closer to home.

Georgeturned with curiosity towards the source of the voice, his eyes eventually locking with the bird he assumed had spoken. She was strangely and startlingly familiar, he found. Recognizable in a way he almost couldn't begin to place. After staring at her nearly a moment too long, the realization unfolded almost instantaneously. Immediately, he felt ashamed he hadn't been able to make such a connection at a rational speed. The hair, the lips, the face, everything down to the very twinkle in her eye was strangely akin to— But it couldn't be… George found himself gaping dumbly in her direction. She wasn't here… She wouldn't be here in… Where were they again? -New Jersey… would she? No… she couldn't be. But it was… It had to be her. It was… George swallowed hard… Pattie! Pattie Boyd… But how?

Ringo crossed into his line of vision right then disrupting it completely. A transitory scowl of fleeting irritation crossed the lead guitarist's face at the inconvenience of the drummer's intrusion.

Ringo didn't seem to notice. "George, what is it?" he questioned urgently, a look of accompanying unmistakable wonder concealed within his blue eyes, "Why'd y'stop walking?"

For a brief moment, George was overcome by a nasty and overwhelming urge of wanting to brutally shove him out of the way so he could gain a better look at the bird who may or may not be Pattie. Before he had the chance to readily act upon it, however, it wore off leaving behind a bit of confusion and increased wooziness in its wake. George gave his head a clarifying shake, staggering dizzily as a result…

"George?" Ringo was staring at him more intently now, concern beginning to filter into his eyes. "All right, love?"

"I…" the lead guitarist allowed his voice to trail off as he attempted to, once more, seek out the mysterious bird responsible for the muddled mayhem building up within his brain. Wide-eyed, he found that she was nowhere to be seen. Had he imagined her?

"Geo, what is it?" Ringo urgently asked, struggling with increased determination to follow his gaze.

"Nothing…" George turned back to him, forcing a grin, "'S'nothing, Rings…" Just a bit barmy, it seems… Had he been hallucinating? He'd never hallucinated a day in his life but that bird… Pattie… She'd been right in front of him, plain as day!

"Well, let's get you in. Yer starting to look a bit peaked… Won't 'ave any more Beatles fainting on me own watch."

George hesitated slightly, allowing the words to process within his tired brain before managing a nod. At Ringo's beckoning, he made his way down the remainder of the designated path in pursuit of the looming entrance of the airport entrance. He eagerly anticipated the quiet that would drop upon them the minute he entered through its double doors. Perhaps he'd be able to think better. Perhaps, he'd lose sight of that haunting daydream that had somehow found its way into his mental space… Whatever the results would be, the moment couldn't come soon enough. He was worn out and even a bit dizzy…

The air-conditioned environment they were ushered into was pure ecstasy in comparison to the building heat outside. Unfortunately, not one of them was able to enjoy it in its entirety as they were abruptly introduced to the unanticipated gaggle of press that was deviously waiting just inside the doorway for their arrival. Almost immediately, they were swarmed. Pictures were taken; cameras and microphones were shoved repeatedly at their faces, questions asked… Ringo found himself actually wishing he was still outside… Though it had been excessively hot and overly rowdy… at least there'd been room enough to breathe.

"What is your first impression of New Jersey?"

"Are you excited to be here?"

"Explain to us, in a few words if you will, how it is that this particular venue differs from any other that you've been to within this country?"

Ringo couldn't keep a frown off his face. There were so many people all around them… so many heads… most of which much taller than his. None of which familiar. Ringo panicked slightly, realizing suddenly that he'd somehow managed to get him and George separated from the others. He'd lost sight of John and Paul and neither Eppy nor Mal were anywhere to be seen. As usual, when things started to deteriorate, they deteriorated much too quickly. Reporters continued to approach him and George at all angles. The poor lead guitarist was growing uncomfortable and beginning to shrink away from all the unwanted attention. Ringo felt sorry for him.

"All right, love?" he worriedly asked his youngest mate when he had a moment to do so.

"You've lost our way, 'aven't ye'?" George accused him in place of answering. He stopped walking suddenly and watched as the drummer turned repeatedly about himself in aimless circles.

"Who wouldn't lose their way in this place?" Ringo came to his own defense, "Turns out y'need a bloody compass to find yer way about 'ere."

"Ringo! Geo! This way!"

Both the drummer and lead guitarist turned, suddenly catching sight of Paul beckoning frantically in their direction. At some point, he'd surpassed them in the order that they'd exited the limo. Ringo emitted a sigh of relief and started towards him after taking the time to make sure that George was directly behind him.

"Where's John?" he asked.

Paul started to shake his head in uncertainty and was about to speak up on the detail when just as suddenly, an indistinguishably vague commotion broke out somewhere ahead of them in the surrounding mob. Various cries of what emulated shock followed immediate suit and then fear-filled clamors filled their eardrums.

Paul and Ringo froze and turned to look each other, "What the-"

"Beatle down!" someone screamed.

"Holy hell, it's John Lennon!"

A/N: Again I apologize if this was hard on the eyes. Writer's block is a terrible thing for a writer! I'll try to be quicker for the next chapter :). Until then, drop a review if ya can and continue to bear with me :).