A/N: Here's chapter 25 my loyal readers! Thanks for all the fantastic reviews on the last chapter everyone! Unfortunately, I've been a terrible person these days and haven't come across the time to respond and give personal thanks but I promise I'll get around to it this upcoming week! Life's been so demanding lately... and I've been ridiculously busy. Of course, that's no excuse.

As for the chapter, things are heating up now! It definitely paves the way for all future chapters and could be the beginning of a major turning point... Maybe. But that's for me to know and for you to find out. Enjoy!

'John…' Ringo mused inwardly, the name just managing to penetrate the building thoughts within his head. 'John… John… Johnny… John… Lennon…'It dawned on him suddenly,'Wait… John Lennon…? Beatle John? …Their John?' He nearly slapped himself, '…Jesus Christ, Ringo, how many John Lennons do ye' know?' Ringo turned finally at the resulting upheaval and followed Paul just as he took off in the direction of the broadcast. They broke through a particular crowd of people and surely enough right in front of them was the aforementioned Beatle lying face down on the building's linoleum floor. "John!"

From that moment on, the steadily escalating chaos surrounding them faded into the background, resulting fear nearly bringing it all to a complete mute. John. Johnny fell and Mal was nowhere to be seen… Where was Mal? Hadn't Mal been with him? None of this made remote sense. And Ringo suddenly had an overwhelming compulsion to tend to the problem himself in the absence of anyone helpful. Before he fully gained awareness of what he was doing, he was beside the unconscious Beatle in an instant, frantically calling his name and shaking him with an amount of vigor he almost didn't think himself capable of.

"Give him room, fer chrissakes!" Paul was shouting at the people that had moved in for a closer look. His supposed polite label had shed for the time being; no trace of it to be found at the onset of the impending situation. If not for the circumstances behind it, Ringo would've openly shown just how proud he was.

Dropping beside John himself, Paul was able to help Ringo get him onto his back with the little bit of space that they had to work with. "Mal! Where's Mal!" he was yelling now.

"Mal…" Ringo found himself echoing, "Mal!" His voice rose clear above the turmoil-enclosed atmosphere like an unnatural siren of sorts.

"John, c'mon, love… Answer me…" Paul pleaded, tapping the unconscious Beatle's face ever so lightly. There was a slight groan from the guitarist followed by a fluttering of eyes. "He's coming 'round!" the bassist breathed out in relief.

Taking a look into the hazel orbs momentarily basked in skepticism and disbelief, Ringo found he was graced with what might as well have been a front row seat to his mate's thoughts. 'How many bloody close calls would they be able to take before luck stopped being a factor?' the bass player was more or less thinking. Ringo wasn't a mind reader but the inquiry was plain as day.

Just as suddenly, Mal pushed through the wall of surrounding people, Eppy behind him, twin looks of fear enveloping both their faces. "What's happened? Where's John?" Eppy was the first to demand. The latter question went verbally unanswered as his eyes managed to find their own solution to it.

"What's happened now?" Mal asked, repeating the first of Eppy's two questions. He sounded tired as though he'd just gotten through the battle of his life to get to them.

"He fainted!" Paul relayed quickly, "But I think he's coming 'round now…"

"He's coming around?" several people began to echo repeatedly. It was then when Paul and Ringo remembered that they weren't alone in their endeavors but under the company of several helpless spectator in the form of the lovely press breathing down their backsides. Neither was enthused with the rediscovery.

"He's coming around!" The collection of words traveled throughout the surrounding crowd like a series of ripples on a lake. "Can we talk to him? Can someone tell us what's going on? If you could take a moment—"

Mal felt the muscles in his jaw tense. "Now's not the time!" he bellowed, impatiently pushing silence on everyone. The stunned, resulting state of shock lasted only moments before all clamor escalated once more, this time with even more perseverance; a feat the Beatles didn't think possible.

Mal was getting irritated.

All at once, an overabundance of security kicked into high gear as a swarm of additional policemen and guards filed into the room to help those struggling to perform their jobs. Orders were shouted out and slowly the reluctant press were corralled to another room at the command of regulation. Few went willingly, resulting in an even noisier uproar than what was already deafeningly present.

"Blimey, 'e's shivering like mad!" Ringo murmured apprehensively, his attention never leaving John's form even in the all the stirred up commotion.

Mal nodded, his eyes glazed with concern. "You all right, Johnny?" he asked, allowing himself finally to approach the fallen Beatle. The young, listless rhythm guitarist was shaking— chills that were utterly nonexistent what seemed like mere seconds ago, intensifying rapidly in progression as they ravaged his body. The road manager knelt down beside him next to Paul and placed a hand to his forehead. Moderate heat, as had been the case for most of the day, rose to greet the backside of his hand. Mal fought back an impulse to let out an automatic sigh of relief as his temperature seemed to be right where it had been last he checked. Hot but, no hotter. And though Lennon didn't seem to be any warmer than he had been at any point of the day; he was still rather feverish— consequently still a cause for alarm. And judging by the amount of chills he was suddenly stricken with, it didn't seem his temperature had any immediate intentions of dropping. More likely, it was probably on the rise as chills would often get around to unveiling. This could mean a couple of things. Either the fever-reducing medications were no longer working or the illness was simply taking a turn for the worse. Either way, it wasn't right and Mal wanted answers now more than ever— from the hospital and if possible from the illness itself. "Ye' all right?" the road manager went on to ask again as the woozy Beatle ultimately moved his sluggish gaze towards him.

"Why's everyone shouting?" John mumbled. He made an effort to lift his head off the floor only to fail miserably as Paul forcefully settled a firm hand against his chest abruptly ending any progress.

"Easy, John!" the bassist barked, not unkindly, "Y'just fainted!" he then added under his breath, "Again."

John blinked reactively and groaned yet again, shutting his eyes momentarily. He looked even more knackered than even moments ago.

"Are you all right, Lennon?" Mal persisted, determined to get some sort of direct response from him even if it killed him.

Opening his eyes again and lifting his imprecise gaze to him, John managed a feeble, nearly nonexistent nod in his direction.

"Just sit tight and allow it to wear off," Mal stated, "It's never pleasant coming out of a fainting spell… especially considering that ye' came out of one not too long ago."

"I think he's all right," Brian verified, trying his best to have some sort of influence on the outcome of the incident.

Mal wasn't taking any unnecessary chances. These fainting episodes were taking place much too lavishly and too closely together at that. "Let's get him to the dressing room," he insisted, "Where's Geo?"

Geo… Right! Ringo opened his mouth about to portray forth that he'd shamefully lost track of him in all the lunacy when just as suddenly, the lead guitarist conveniently eased out of the woodwork, Beatles head of security, Ira right behind him. He looked worn out and even a little battered as though the press, prior to their untimely exit, had just tried to make a feast of him.

Ira moved to talk to Eppy and Mal while Paul tuned into George's presence. "George! Ye' all right?" he hurriedly crossed the scene towards him and proceeded to brush down his disheveled hair and clothing, "Where'd y'go?"

"I got left behind and caught up in all the madness as a matter of fact!" the lead guitarist responded irritably pushing him away, his words coming out slightly breathless all the while, "John… how is he? What happened?"

"See fer yourself," Paul stepped aside so George could take a gander.

Harrison's eyes widened as he took notice of Mal and Ira helping to get Lennon to his feet. "What 'appened to him?" he demanded weakly.

"Passed out," Ringo bluntly murmured, his words quavering more than he'd intended.

"Again?!" George whispered in practical shock.

Paul nodded solemnly. "Fucking madness. All of it. But let me tell ye'. If Eppy and Mal think they're going to keep putting these occurrences on hold fer the greater benefit of the public, they've got another think coming."

George nodded just to give a response but his mind was elsewhere. What did John have? What did he have?

Brian, Mal, and Ira were still lost in some sort of grave discussion while an isolated John stood off to the side looking physically sick over everything that had just taken place. Paul strode up towards him cautiously at first but then with more purpose, "How're ye' feeling, mate?"

"'M'tired…" John murmured, lifting his gaze from the floor to his mate, "I'm a burden, y'know."

Paul narrowed his eyes at the unanticipated origination of his best mate's forthright and disparaging words, "No one's said that, Johnny… have they?"

"Not in so many words… but it's true." John mumbled, his eyes seemingly staring through Paul.

"No, it's not!" Paul countered, his voice taking on an escalating tremor for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he absolutely hated to hear John put himself down as he often would and had been doing more and more frequently.

"But I am… Been a burden me whole life… It's why me mum didn't want me, y'know." The rhythm guitarist's eyes fixed themselves on Paul's finally and the bassist caught the presence of tears in his red-rimmed eyes.

John sniffled, rapidly blinking them away and just as quickly his raw emotional display was shut off, that maddening characteristic façade of his assuming its rightful place. Though Paul had always been able to see through such guises, it would often require some work, even for him. But this time around in as little as a single glance, he found he could see right through this particularly poorly-crafted one. See right through to those conflicting emotions stirring up turmoil within his brain, made more prominent by whatever illness was affecting him. John was miserable. And when John was miserable, John would often let his darkest thoughts run away with him. Most recently, his darkest thoughts hadn't entirely been rational. And it worried Paul just as much as the illness itself did.

"We'll discuss it later," Eppy concluded, wrapping up whatever conversation had been taken place between him, Mal, and Ira, "Let's go."

Mal nodded in stoic agreement and began to usher everyone forward. One by one, the Beatles moved on, Paul and Ringo pausing to shoot each other nervous glances. Ringo wondered if Paul was thinking similar thoughts as he was by this point. For the bassist's sake, he hoped not. His mind had taken a particularly gloomy somewhat irreversible turn. With a heavy sigh, he turned away and plodded off after Mal who was leading the way with John held firmly by his side.

The press had thinned out dramatically by this point due to extensive intervening of security. The few left over, ruthlessly and unashamedly continued their endless battle to get at them. Able to better handle a smaller quantity of such a mob, leftover security had no problem stepping in to keep the pesky nuisances at bay and off their backs. Watching the scene as he walked on, Ringo found himself wondering when exactly desperation, for these people, had begun to supersede dignity. A few even went as far as to get right into their faces desperate to overcome and weasel their way around the ignorance the Beatles were otherwise tossing their way. Others literally attempted to section one or two them off at a time from the remainder of their band. It was always John they were going after. Knackered, sick, feverish, vulnerable John Lennon… Lennon with all the stories. The holder of all the most recent, newsworthy blunders. But Mal had a firm grip on him to each their immediate dismay. And a threat for anyone who dared try to get in the way.

Eventually, they escaped to a strictly exclusive portion of the building and were all able to relax slightly as the chaos disappeared into the background. Still, no one spoke. It was almost as if they were afraid to disrupt the silence they'd been craving for what seemed like hours on end. Or maybe they were stuck in a bit of perpetual shock from the recent happenings. The latter was more like it, Ringo had readily concluded. Paul's face, having initially been shattered at the earlier sight of John on the floor at the mercy of yet another bout of sudden unconsciousness currently mirrored nothing but overbearing concern. George's face though flushed considerably, had since increased in pallor; a phenomenon that could either verify extreme trepidation or the presence of illness slowly working its way through his body. Perhaps it was both. John's face was most frightening of all. For the most part, it resembled a complete pale and blank slate. Zero emotion ran through it. Zero emotion claimed his vacant eyes. He looked every bit the zombie status that Ringo had earlier felt obligated to compare him with.

Eppy tried to start a conversation just to shake the remaining grips of disaster from the air, but he didn't get very far. No one responded. No one felt up to talking.

"Here's the dressing room," he murmured after a while. Reaching into his pocket for the key, he hastily inserted it into the lock and gave it a twist to unlock it. As he moved to pull it open, Mal jumped to the head of the group to give the inside of the room a quick scan with his eyes. "All set," he announced, proceeding to enter first.

Paul followed next, and then George. George who literally seemed weighed down by a growing urge to sleep, poor thing. John entered behind George. He was shaking like a leaf, his chills having abated over the past several minutes, suddenly back with a vengeance.

"Let's get you to a seat…" Eppy sighed, proceeding to direct John's attention towards a nearby loveseat located near a collection of couches. "Sit," he ordered. He turned to George, "You too, Harrison. Can't 'ave you passing out, as well."

George nodded, emitting a hoarse sounding cough, and sat on a couch already claimed by Ringo.

Driven by complete exhaustion, John obediently followed Harrison's lead and sank into a seat, himself. His eyes, laden with exhaustion, fell closed instantly. Paul took a seat beside him to which the violently trembling guitarist failed to even acknowledge. "John, love… Ye' sure yer feeling up to this press conference?" he found himself sympathetically asking.

Eppy's eyes narrowed on him in an instant, "As much as I hate to say it, he doesn't have much of a choice, Paul…" he reluctantly intervened, "None of you do. When I first agreed to this press conference, the main plea was for you all to be there! That's what was paid for."

"Look at him!" Paul threw back, "Look at George! I just don't think we can afford to wait until after—"

"There will time to figure things out after the fact, believe me," Eppy stubbornly insisted, "We're handling it as I speak."

'Handling it how?' Paul started to argue but, Eppy interjected, "Times diminishing!" he announced to the band as a whole, clapping loudly to capture their attention, "We've got some urgent preparations to get through! Let's get moving! The sooner we get through all of this, the better for John and George."

Paul scowled at this but said nothing more to contradict the persistent arm of the law laid down by Eppy.

"Where's our change of clothes?" Ringo asked, desperate for a lighter change of topic.

Mal pointed to the back of a nearby chair where he'd not too long ago draped the items of clothing Eppy had chosen for this particular publicity event. "There," he informed him, "They've been properly tagged so that way you'll know which belongs to whom."

"Brilliant." Paul mumbled, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

Mal glanced at his watch with a sudden sense of compulsion, apprehension beginning to reign down on him, "I have an important order of business to attend to," he announced after a small moment of silence. He hurriedly turned to Eppy before anyone could comment on his words, "Brian, I think it would be best if you accompanied me."

Eppy quickly nodded. "Right. Well, err… lead the way," he whispered somewhat reluctantly. Following Mal's lead, he paused to face their band just inside the dressing room door, "We shouldn't be long," he took the time to inform them, "And when Mal and I return, we expect that you'll all be set for the conference, no ifs, ands, or buts." With those strict words to live by, he let himself out into the hall behind Mal, failing to take into consideration the air of mystery they'd left behind. The importance and magnitude of the task lying directly ahead trumped everything and anything.

Neither manager found the need to converse as they made their way about the place in search of the nearest pay phone. Both had entirely too much plaguing their minds. Both felt much too compressed by the weight of it all.

Mal, for one, couldn't stop replaying the entire unraveling mess within the confines of his mind. The entire past day and a half had been like a suspense-filled movie. One would watch nerve-wracking scene after nerve-wracking scene pan out, but one had no control over what had happened or what was destined to happen. The past and future as a result were set in stone and there was zero room for manipulation. Worse, there was no way to turn off the movie and to stop the inevitable from taking place. One could play the waiting game, as he himself had been doing thus far; claim the roll of Sherlock Holmes and gradually uncover detail among detail along the way. One could simply turn a blind eye as a way of muddling through incident after incident. One could hide willingly behind false smiles and laughs or in contrast, resort to unexplained anger or sadness at yielded 'end' results. There were over a million ways of coping with and trying to make sense of things. Mal had been coping for too long now. If he didn't find a way to gather some answers soon, the outcome of this 'movie' certainly would not be good. He was almost certain of it.

Mal specifically remembered John's caretaker freely informing him that he'd be in contact with any news, good or bad. Several hours later, the road manager still had yet to hear anything on the escalating subject. It was possible that the hospital hadn't yet reached a conclusion, but all the same, this prolonged waiting game wasn't helping in the least bit to slow down the severity of things. Thankfully and luckily enough, the hospital had left him with a contact number complete with instructions permitting him or any legal stand-in to contact the hospital should any problems arise or if any related questions or comments on John's behalf should surface. It was as good a time as any to take the official 'leap of faith' and receive the bit of information that would either set his mind at ease or shatter the world of everyone about him. It was as good an excuse as any to find out what the bloody hell was wrong with John.

The search for a pay phone ended quickly as one of the conveniently-placed devices posted on a long stretch of brick wall among many others came into view. Any hesitation was quickly exceeded by determination as Mal hastily moved to remove the phone from its holder, cradling it professionally between his shoulder and ear. Making minimal eye contact with Brian, he mechanically removed a piece of paper from his pocket and glancing occasionally at it, went on to dial the number he'd been given. Soon, he was waiting with as much patience as he could muster for anyone to pick up.

Following several frustrating transfers courtesy of hospital personnel, he was finally directed to the correct line of intended contact. "Hello?" someone briskly spoke into the phone line's other end.

"Is this Dr. Bradford?" Mal carefully and politely inquired into the receiver.

"Yes. Speaking?"

"This is Mal Evans calling on behalf of a patient that was left in your care most recently. John Lennon?"

"Ah yes. Mr. Lennon," Dr. Bradford verified, "I was just about to contact your point of destination, believe it or not. It's convenient that you've chosen to call instead. Allow me to pull his chart… It'll be just a moment."

"Not a problem," Mal responded automatically.

How is our patient doing?" Dr. Bradford casually asked. There was the distinct sound of papers rustling as he made the effort to seek out John's medical chart.

Mal heaved a sigh. "Poorly, I'm afraid. He's been passing out quite a bit— at the drop of a hat, really… And his temperature's been on the rise all day. He can't keep a thing down and he seems to be having a hard time with recollections that would otherwise come natural to him…" More rustling papers filled his ears and Mal wondered whether or not the doctor was listening any longer. Regardless, he kept on talking. Silence was the enemy. Silence allowed for the unsettling to take up residence within one's mind. "Sometimes he doesn't know reality from fantasy…" he went on, "And… more recently… he… he's had a seizure…"

"Seizure?" the doctor questioned, alarm claiming his voice.

"Yes."

Dr. Bradford paused a moment, "I was afraid things would transpire to this point."

"What do you mean?" Mal asked.

"Here it is," the doctor revealed finally, having located John's medical chart.

"Well?" Mal prodded urgently and expectantly, unable to keep his growing impatience at bay any longer, "What kind of an outcome are we looking at here?"

Dr. Bradford hesitated temporarily. The mood on his end of the line seemed to change entirely. "I'm not sure how to tell you this, Mr. Evans," he stated after a while, his tone achieving sudden graveness.

Mal couldn't keep his face from responsively falling, "What do you mean? What is it?"

"Radiology has confirmed some serious swelling of the membrane surrounding his brain and spinal cord due to some form of bacteria— an inflammatory infection of sorts. I'm still waiting on confirmation from the pathology lab for what type of bacteria we're dealing with. He might be in need of a spinal tap to further verify all uncertainties. Judging by the way that things seem to be leaning, if he's not under medical care soon, from what I know of such conditions, the consequences could be dire."

Mal frowned, nervously twisting the phone cord around his callused fingertips, "What do you suppose he's got?"

"We're not entirely sure, Mr. Evans…" Dr. Bradford responded tentatively, "But the traits we've been able to pick up on, thus far, are reminiscent to a recently surfacing illness of a potentially dangerous caliber. If it is what we suspect it to be, he would need to be hospitalized! And those of you who've been in prolonged contact with him would just as well, need to be tested and given a vigorous dose of antibiotics for safety's sake."

"Christ, you speak as though he's got the plague!" Mal exclaimed.

"I can assure you that he doesn't," Dr. Bradford slowly responded, "Of that much we're certain."

"Well, could you give me an estimate then of what you think it might be? I'm not a fan of being left in the dark over such a serious matter. Are you or aren't you aware that you're dealing with a Beatle?!" Mal couldn't seem to keep his voice from climbing in all his growing anxieties.

"Yes, we are fully aware that it's John Lennon whose case we're handling, but I'm afraid that until I hear from pathology, I can't tell you much more," the doctor responded calmly.

"Can't you at least meet me a quarter of the way?" Mal pleaded, "Could this illness potentially take his life?"

"I've given you all that I can for the time being. Just consider getting him to the nearest hospital when you can," the doctor steadily affirmed after a moment's pause, "Believe me when I tell you that this has all the potential in the world to become a medical emergency! Even if our suspicions are wrong, I'd rather you be safe than sorry. There's a major one not too far from the area you're in. One of New Jersey's finest. Please consider having John examined there."

"Of-of course!" Shaking now, Mal sealed the vow and hung up the phone. Rigid as a board, he turned to face Brian, the words he was in need of relaying, failing to form on his seemingly incompetent tongue.

"Mal!" Brian found himself gasping in surfacing worry, "What is it? Y'look as though you've seen a bloody ghost!"

Mal shook his head, swallowing back strong feelings of anxiety. "As you know, I just spoke with John's hospital caretaker…" he revealed finally, "…The one that looked after him during his observation." His voice was barely audible as he spoke.

"And?" Eppy prodded urgently, "Is John all right?"

"They don't think so. They recommend that he's admitted to a hospital…" Mal explained monotonously, "They think that whatever it is he's got has serious potential to do him harm and anyone who's…"

"My goodness!" Eppy interrupted with a gasp, his eyes widening like saucers in his head, "And just what do they suppose is serious about all of it?"

"Well, they don't know exactly…"

"So all this on some whim, then?" Eppy challenged, the concern slipping from his tone, replacing itself with slight frustration, "When are they pushing this…?"

"The sooner, the better. Now even if we could."

"But the conference is in less than twenty minutes!" Brian exclaimed fearfully.

"Doctor's orders, not mine…" Mal tried to reason.

"I simply can't allow for anything out of the ordinary to take place until after the conference, at least. I'll see what I can arrange for after the fact."

"We might want to see about canceling tonight's show," Mal wisely suggested though not without reluctance, "It's no doubt that John's too sick and if he's this sick, it wouldn't make sense to—"

"One step at a time, Mal… Please," Brian nervously interrupted, "Now do me a favor and don't speak a word about this to John. I want him in the best frame of mind possible for the upcoming conference. The others too. They've got a lot of ground to cover."

"Fine!" Mal responded curtly, "But just so you're aware, this is a potential serious matter! Much more serious than any publicity event could ever be. It's your call. Do nothing and this escalates, I'm calling the paramedics regardless and ending this bloody madness. Money can always be replaced. Let me know when you figure out how to replace a life."

Leaving behind those sharp words to mull over, Mal walked away leaving behind a startled and frazzled Brian with a very important decision to make weighing heavily on his shoulders.

A/N: Don't be alarmed that there wasn't much George in here. He certainly will have his fair share of spotlight :). Also, I'll try and update next week or so. Until then, you know what to do :).