A/N: Well I'm on my way out the door but I did promise Chapter 26 to a few people by today. Sooo here it is. It's kinda long and most likely not perfect as proof reading was kind of done in a hasty fashion so forgive me! Also, thank you all for your wonderful reviews for the last chapter! It amazes me how you've all managed to stick out this long and winded story for so long! Love you all :).

Supplementary finishing touches were applied in what seemed like a record amount of time and additional flu meds were supplied for George whose condition seemed to be on its own road to deterioration in a fit of coughs and wet sneezes. Seeing as there was no real evidence linking his illness to John's, Epstein was still resolutely under the impression that simple prescription medication might remain of some help for him even if they were no longer an aid for John. While George had willingly embraced the meds with gratefulness, there was this inkling that had been weighing for hours now beneath the minds of Paul, Mal, and Ringo, that they weren't having the necessary effect that they should be having by this point. Still, they fought to keep this growing knowledge to themselves not wishing to upset their youngest into believing that his symptoms would soon be destined to mirror the current ones that plagued their rhythm guitarist. That would be a recipe for disaster.

Conversation, for the most part, had been kept to an abnormal limit as, even now, no one felt up to talking. Even Eppy had been strangely quiet and out of the way as the Beatles went about their business preparing themselves for a conference they truly wanted nothing to do with. Currently, they focused on the mental aspect of their preparation, each of them feeling that they could stand to unwind within the restless environment they had unwillingly created for themselves. Cigarette packs were since uprooted and a stash of pot was uncovered by Paul who'd managed to discreetly seek out a source within the building from an unnamed member of the Beatles' entourage. George's tired eyes had lit up at the sight of the green gateway to bliss. To him, it meant the possible annihilation of the nagging, intensifying ache tearing through this head. Ringo had looked ecstatic for the sake of pinning down and calming his spiraling nerves. The latter had been what had initially convinced Paul to partake in the mini transaction. His own tumultuous feelings had reached the point of no return a million times over and he wanted desperately to bring them back to earth.

Paul found himself rolling two joints; one large one for him and Ringo to share and a mini one for George, who'd been a bit demanding with his older mates about not wanting to be left out of the loop over a stupid illness. John didn't want any. While Ringo had slipped into paternal role, sternly advising him against participating in his customary habits being as sick as he was, it was the rhythm guitarist's willingness to comply that led Paul to confirm just how hellish he had to be feeling… not that it hadn't entirely been obvious up until then.

"I think that I must be dying," John had added somewhat jokingly in the face of all the shock he'd received on the subject.

"That's not funny, Lennon!" Ringo had yelled with such intensity, George had nearly fallen from his seat.

"Truthfully, we're all dying, y'know," George had mumbled nonchalantly albeit darkly as he attempted to regain what had been left of his own composure.

"He's right," Lennon had responded with a wearied nod, "Jus' some of us faster than others."

"Cor blimey," Ringo had grumbled, hating the change of subject with a passion, "Leave it to the bloody realists to put things into perspective."

No one had spoken after that; the room, as was becoming the common theme, plunging into more brooding silence. Conversation having left off on such a dark subject, Paul found he could hardly handle this level of quietude. To the optimist in him, it wasn't the least bit comforting. Lately, there had been nothing soothing about the silence, as meditative as it was supposed to be. It let in all fears imaginable that one could easily construct within the powerful tool that was the mind.

John on the other hand, found solace in his own corner of the loveseat he shared with George and promptly fell asleep; the increasing quickness of his meetings with unconsciousness still proving frightening in the opinions of his mates.

George took a hit from his own joint and listlessly looked over at the fellow guitarist following the gentle snores as they began to ease out from him, "Perhaps, it wasn't so great exposing 'im to all this smoke," he murmured, ironically polluting the air himself as a cloud of smoke flowed out with his words. He coughed shortly after, his face contorting subsequently into a temporary fit of pain.

"Well, perhaps 's'not so great fer ye' neither!" Ringo snapped, impulsively reaching over and ripping the joint from his mate's protective hand. He abruptly put it out in the ashtray they'd all been sharing. "You've 'ad enough. Way more than we should've allowed fer."

George started to argue but Paul quickly intervened, "Ritchie's right," he stated simply only half tuned-in to his two mates. His attention remained diverted as he presently continued to eye John in a growing state of uncertainty. The fellow musician had slipped into the realm of sleep in what seemed like a record amount of seconds. Out cold like the snuffing out of a half-full moon at the onset of an unexpected midnight shower. Though he had witnessed this happening too many times recently, he wasn't any less baffled by this. Half-moon. Paul thought the comparison was perfect. Lennon normally equipped with the strong presence of a full-moon, now remained at meager half-moon status. By the looks of it, he was well on his way to crescent moon status. Paul frowned at this. 'What would come after that?' he dared to wonder, 'No moon?' No moon… no moon… No John… Paul shuddered, mentally berating himself for thinking such deranged thoughts. "Shut up, Paul. Shut up. Just shut up!"

"Paul?"

Paul jumped at the sudden permeation of Ringo's voice into his commanding thoughts. "What?" he asked dumbly.

"Are ye' really telling yerself to shut up?" the look on the drummer's face was a mixture of pure shock and slight amusement.

Paul was caught off guard. Crap. He'd said that out loud? Bloody hell, what was in that pot? "No, I… was… jus' letting me thoughts run away again…" he floundered for a lack of better response.

"With or without ye'?" Ringo managed to joke, a small grin claiming his face.

"Huh?" the bassist questioned, his own embarrassment clouding his sense of understanding.

Ringo dropped his grin, his eyes hardening with concern as he took in Paul's amplified confusion. "All right?" he asked.

Paul found a grin in place of the disappearance of his mate's, "I'm fine, Ritch. Possibly insane but I'm fine."

Ringo remained skeptical, but able to capture the earnestness in his friend's eyes, he backed off.

Paul gradually returned his gaze back to John, realizing suddenly that his breathing seemed a bit shallower now as opposed to the deep even breaths that would typically otherwise accompany a Lennon-slumber. Convincing himself it was the marijuana making him paranoid as it sometimes would, he managed to convince himself that his eyes were more or less playing tricks on him. There was one fix for such impediments. More pot. Paul and Ringo, minus George at Ringo's persistent scolding, relit the remainder of their burnt out joint.

"Don't go getting too messed up now," Brian scolded them from across the room where he'd sat listlessly for the past who knew how long in isolation, "It's almost time to make an appearance. Perhaps you could take the bit of time left to finish anything that needs finishing."

"I'll tell ye' what needs finishing," Ringo commented with an idle yet over embellished grin, "The rest of that cheesecake sitting in the corner. So kind of the building staff to think of us, really."

It was the marijuana no doubt, reawakening and amplifying his desire for edible satisfaction. Paul couldn't help wanting to laugh.

"…Those finger sandwiches don't look too bad, neither," Ringo added.

Eppy rolled his eyes as the eldest Beatle rose dramatically from his seat and made a beeline for the assortment of treats. Paul rose and followed him, deciding he was developing a bit of a hankering himself.

The Beatles had been picking at the abundance of food over time that had been presented to them during Eppy and Mal's random order of business that had led to their earlier disappearance. For the most part, only Paul and Ringo ate while John and George stared repulsively at them, neither of them seeming to have much appetite. Paul had already assumed beforehand that John wouldn't have much desire for food. He'd hardly had an appetite for what seemed like days now, but now that George was actually beginning to refuse food, as well… That, in itself, was an earth-shattering development… Pure unusual… Unnerving… Unsettling… and all the other un-words that fit such criterion…

"Y'sure yer not hungry, Geo?" Paul currently demanded of the lead guitarist as he returned to reclaim his seat near him, "There's still some cheesecake, y'know. And while it's not New York style as y'seem to 'ave acquired a taste fer, it's still cheesecake." The bassist playfully outstretched a hand and waved a rich wedge of it beneath his mate's nose trying to stir up some of those shut off senses within him. He'd been hoping that the bit of marijuana he'd smoked had been enough to revive at least part of the eminent gourmand residing within him.

"I told ye' I don't want the bloody thing!" George snapped, brutally shoving the plate away, deflating Paul's hopes in an instant. The cake slice upset by the younger musician's brash reactions nearly toppled from its perch where it would've ended up permanently joining the lower half of Paul's attire. So much for that theory.

"Easy, mate!" the bass player protested, hurriedly backing off, "I don't want to wear the cake, I just wanted to know if ye' felt up to eating! Y'could stand to eat something, y'know."

"Why? Am I too thin fer ye'?" George glared up at him in such a leering and unexpected way, Paul felt himself shrinking away from him altogether. He hadn't failed to notice how unpredictably moody the lead guitarist had been steadily growing over the hours. It was practically a remake of John. At times, he was practically a remake of John.

"While yer at it," George continued disdainfully, "Anything else about me y'don't like, yer royal highness? Me eyebrows, perhaps? Me smile?"

Paul backed away even more, his body tensing into defensive mode as he gave his utmost attempt at trying to come to terms with whatever it was his mate was testily throwing his way, "Take it easy, would ye'? I'm not sure what it is yer even on about! I never—"

"Don't bother me…" George interrupted hoarsely, "I wrote that song fer a reason, thinking maybe y'gits could learn to take a bloody hint."

Paul frowned but stalked away, nonetheless, deciding it was possibly best to fulfill the young guitarist's desires for the time being. "Jus' wanted to see if ye' wanted some cake 's'all it was…" he muttered self-protectively as he distanced himself, "No reason to lose yer bloody knickers… Christ." He uttered the last part inaudibly, not wishing to escalate a fight he had no intention of starting in the first place. How had such a violent turn of conversation even manifested? Of course, George could build a temper as well as the next bloke, but this was completely unheard of. Completely unlike the lead guitarist by all means. Paul heaved a heavy sigh. By the time this was all over, he might need to be examined himself… By a psychiatrist. In a padded room.

"Paul, what 'appened?" Ringo inquired, catching his mate's scowl as he passed him by. His mouth having been filled with cheesecake at the time, his words were hardly comprehensible.

"I must be mad or something," Paul mumbled without so much a glance in his direction. He made his way over towards the food table and hastily shoved half a finger sandwich into his mouth.

Ringo followed him back over to the table, waiting patiently for a form of elucidation but none came.

After what seemed like a long while filled with agonizing, seemingly aimless ways to pass the time away, Eppy was able to take a step back, taking in his band as a whole, and deem them presentable for the public eye. Paul wondered vaguely what means of judgment he was choosing to go by and whether or not he was legally blind. John, awakened now by Ringo's hand, looked like death itself barely warmed over and George was undeniably beginning to take on more and more of Lennon's symptoms from the day before what with all his repetitive coughing, sneezing, and unexplained moodiness.

"I apologize for the additional ten minute wait," Brian broadcasted briskly, following his quick visual examination, "It appears the press was in need of a bit of extra time for preparations of their own fancies."

"We're used to the wait, by now," Paul muttered distractedly. He was eyeing Lennon again. The guitarist still seemed to be breathing rather shallowly even in a conscious state.

"Yes, I suppose you are," Eppy proclaimed with a small smile, "Ready now, boys?"

He received various responses, all of which entirely too low-key for his liking. He stood back and eyed them all skeptically, his arms crossed over his chest in pronounced disappointment. "Well, don't look so excited," he retorted.

George's miserable sneeze was the only response he received even then.

Eppy shrugged dismissively, "Well, I suppose ye' boys will feel differently once you get out there, slip into your element, and start talking. Up and at 'em now."

In no particular order, four unenthused Beatles rose from their seats and followed their adamant manager towards the door; Paul shaking his head all the while in profound, unshakeable disbelief. Somehow, by all means, this entire thing was wrong. Immoral. Everything was wrong. Still so wrong. Neither Lennon nor Harrison would be able to take much more even dealing with something that seemed as minor as a press conference. John barely had a thing left in the tank and George— What would it take to get Brian to see what was happening here?

"There's nothing we can do," Ringo softly stated, coming up behind Paul as he exited through the dressing room door, "Do yerself a favor and go with the flow fer now."

"Easier said than done," Paul sighed, his gaze combing the linoleum floor as he walked, "I'm bloody sick of people telling me how it has to be. It doesn't have to be any particular way but the way that's right. I've this feeling…fer a while now. Doesn't seem to be going away…"

"What is it?" Ringo asked, quickening his pace so that he was right beside his mate.

Paul shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Y'never do," Ringo whined, momentarily pouting, "Y'know, Paul, it'll only continue to eat at ye' the more ye' bottle it."

"I don't think ye' understand, Ritch…" Paul dropped his voice several decibels, "It's gonna eat at me no matter what." With that said, the fellow musician quickened his own pace, leaving Ringo behind to attempt decipherment of his cryptic words as well as to contemplate his own disorderly thoughts.

A shadow conformed to Ringo's eyes shutting out the perpetual sunshine within them, "I understand all right, Macca…" he inaudibly murmured darkly in his direction, "I understand more than y'know."

"Let's go, boys!" Eppy urged impatiently, hastily cutting into the drummer's thoughts as he guided the band along with his overly animated hand gestures. The dull roar of conversing, antsy reporters could be heard as they neared the room staged for their conference.

"Sod off!" Ringo felt like shouting at him as he walked past. Of course, he held his emotions in check. Three short-tempered Beatles were more than enough to deal with. He must have done something right because Brian felt the need to pat him on the back.

"Atta boy, Ritchie!" he beamed at him.

Ringo flashed a halfhearted smile at him despite the murky, apprehension-fueled cloud growing beneath its surface. Somehow, he was a bundle of nerves at the onset of this particular publicity event; a nervous wreck in anticipation of everything that awaited them. But… all the same, it didn't seem to be the conference itself though that set his mind askew. He could rightfully tell that much. What it was exactly, he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was simply being aware of everything that could possibly go wrong during said conference that had the drummer swallowing back rather large, repeated lumps in his throat. If so, it was a right shame of him to waste time dwelling on such things as he'd been on and off all day. That was a pessimist's job. Certainly, it wasn't the job of an influentially, positive drummer. 'We've been over this, Ritchie!' Surely, he was being silly. Daft… 'That's what you are, Ritch…' Ringo tried to grin at his formed self-observation but his endeavors towards lightening his recently acquired way of thinking had failed. Mentally confirming the extent of his insanity wasn't nearly enough to hold off the fretful feeling of unease that had been washing over him for a good portion of the day. It wasn't enough to hold off whatever the hell was happening now. His heart rate was rising, his legs beginning to shake… He was on the verge of a panic attack it felt like. And he hadn't the slightest inkling as to why…

Situated outside the door that gave way to the press conference, Mal's eyes widened as he set them on the approaching drummer, "Ritch, ye' all right?" he quickly inquired, worry instantly permeating his voice, "Ye' look pale!"

Ringo managed a nod despite the fact that his entire body felt as though it was beginning to take on the consistency of jelly, "Jus' a bout of nerves, I think," he responded shakily.

Mal nodded supportively and with a pat on the back, ushered Ringo in through the door. "Deep breaths," he called after him. He turned just as John approached, trailing lethargically behind his older mate. Mal immediately worried. "How're ye' doing, Johnny?" he asked.

John blinked blearily as Mal spoke up in front of him.

"John, ye' all right?" the road manager demanded abruptly.

John blinked again, failing to respond. There was an echo. A really strange echo.

"John!"

John turned to him sluggishly.

"Okay?" Mal asked.

John managed a nod despite this nagging echo disrupting what was left of his permanently distorted hearing. It was all he could muster up the strength for as they were ushered into a rather small room filled with reporters, courtesy of a very anxious Eppy.

As they filed further into the room, Paul turned to look behind him at his best friend, "Let me know if this gets too overwhelming okay, Johnny?" he pleaded, "I can hurry it along. I know ye' don't feel well."

Thud… thud… thud. John groaned fuzzily. His head was bloody pounding excruciatingly with a vengeance. Like drums summoning forth his demise. Drums with a newly acquired resonance. Loud enough that it drowned out most everything with its accompanying increasing pressure.

"John?"

John frowned at him. What was this echo all of a sudden?

"John?" Paul repeated; the simple use of his name loaded with an impossible amount of concern. "Did you 'ear me, love? You all right?"

There it is again. John found himself giving his head a shake, trying to drive away the ghostly reverberation that had evidently taken reign over everything… It didn't work. The echo was still there. And his head ached worse than ever now. It screamed for a pressure release but… he couldn't seem to find the release valve, as evasive as it was. John nodded, nonetheless, even tried to smile but didn't answer.

The smile, the façade, it was fake. Paul concluded knowingly. This was all fake. It was pure madness.

The Beatles got into their seats and adjusted their microphones accordingly, three of them testing the sound quality and making proper height adjustments. John didn't even lift a hand towards his mic. Feeling oddly more out of it than he'd been, he found slight interest in the wooden table… Wood could be so strange the way it was often filled with cracks and crevices and yet could somehow maintain its smooth appearance and feel. He'd best get a closer look… John lowered his head to the table and left it there… his heavily aching eyes closing on their own. Thud… thud…thud… pounded his head.

"John, wake up!" Paul hissed too suddenly from beside him.

The rhythm guitarist jolted to just in time to hear the beginning introduction to what was destined to take place. He didn't mean to, but resting his head lazily into a propped up hand, he began to tune it all out, the constant thudding in his head seemingly taking control of everything…

"John? John?"

Mum? John lifted his heavy gaze and his mother materialized in front of him, a worried look on her face as she held her microphone in place, eyes fixated on him. No wait…this wasn't right… 'Seeing things again, Lennon?' Stu? John shook his head and momentarily squeezed his eyes shut, willing the insanity to stop. When he reopened his eyes, the room had returned to normal. "John," Paul was calling him now, "Are you all right?"

"Huh? Y-yeah…"

"Answer the reporter, then."

John brought his eyes to the reporter who had supposedly spoken; the one who'd once resembled… his mother was it? He found he strangely couldn't remember. What was he doing again?

"John!" the reporter barked, managing to regain full command of his attention, "I asked you how you were feeling today."

Right. "I—" He frowned in confusion as the evasive question slipped from his mind once more. What was it again? "C-can you repeat that?" he quavered sheepishly.

"How are you feeling, John?" the woman repeated slowly and hesitantly.

John stared at her in bewilderment, her words this time having been fading in and out in the continually loud pounding of his head. What? He turned to Paul, "What did she ask?"

"She asked you how you were feeling," Paul whispered back, "They all heard about New York." His eyes narrowed in concern, "Are you all right?"

John ignored Paul's question and turned his attention back to the mob in front of them, "I might be under the weather but I'm still above ground. Gotta count fer something don'tcha think?" he responded, whilst struggling to embrace what was left of his well-known cheekiness. What? Was that the best he could do? Laughter filled the room, nonetheless. Thud… thud… thud… his head continued to heavily pound…

The reporter smiled genuinely but gave off the affect that she knew more than what he was telling her. Was it that blatant? John frowned. Had he become so transparent that reporters could now see into him? "I admire your spirit, John. On that note of your health, I guess my next question to you would be whether or not you think you'll be able to perform tonight."

"I'll be there with bells on, love," John stated with just the slightest hint of a smirk, fearing internally that his façade would crack even more, "You just make sure you're ready to rock and roll." Where were these words even coming from? His head? His mouth? Had he even spoken them? The resulting laughter that rippled through the room hurt his head and ears. While it took everything in him to keep the Lennon-smirk in place and to refrain from whimpering, he was beginning to feel horribly detached.

"There's that loveable personality we know and love," someone dared to say. Know and love? They didn't know crap…

John didn't even bother with a witty remark, nor did he try to answer any more of the questions that were directed at him. By the looks of things, Paul seemed to have a good handle answering questions for the both of them and for what seemed like the first time in the history of first times, John didn't feel up to trying to overshadow or outshine him with wit and charm…

Voices blended together after a while and a wave of dizziness mixed with nausea gripped the rhythm guitarist, threatening dangerously to remove his mask completely and flip his world upside down… Unreality gripped him and dark spots began to cloud his vision… Please don't pass out…please don't pass out… The adopted mantra seemed to work and the spots disappeared, leaving an incredibly heavy feeling of illness and pain in its wake… But his head… thud, thud, thud…

"All right, John?" Paul's whispered voice permeated the woozy haze that plagued him. The bassist had noticed, after a while, the guitarist's growing silence and needless to say, it sort of frightened him.

"I need some air, I think… Macca…" John murmured, his voice coming out feebler than Paul had ever heard, "…Don't feel too great… really…"

Paul frowned, realizing that the guitarist was looking a bit green, "Head on out and get some. Take one of the others with you. I'll get this wrapped up."

John nodded and stood up, his face paling way more than it should have with the effort. Paul turned and summoned Ringo who'd been seated on the other side of John closest to the exit, "Go with 'im," he mouthed discreetly, "He's not feeling well; needs some air…"

Ringo understood and trailed John to the exit, stopping temporarily to reveal to both Eppy and Mal the circumstances of their premature departure. Both looked instantly concerned but neither protested.

"I'll be right there," Mal told them, "Don't do anything to attract attention to yourselves before I arrive."

Ringo nodded and continued off in pursuit of John. He found the young guitarist tugging on the heavy doors to the back exit and straining visibly with the effort. To the side, a security guard stood as if debating in his mind whether or not to stop or help the determined guitarist. The sight pained Ringo, especially as he came to terms with the desperation in his friend's face. John hated appearing and feeling weak and this just took the cake. "John, maybe we should wait for Mal, anyway," Ringo told him, "You know how he feels about us going outside undisguised without body guards!"

"Why'd ye' come then, Ritch?" John snapped, turning to face him as he gave the door one finally yank. It flew backwards finally and John stumbled back several feet in a daze before gravitating towards the fresh air, the outdoors had to offer. The guitarist was shaking by the time he got outside and Ringo's frown continued to lengthen as he wondered if it were from pain or the surfacing of his pesky chills which, as far as Ringo could see, had been ongoing all day, much worse than yesterday's. John was going downhill fast. Ringo could undeniably see it. Paul could see it. He was sure that that George, Eppy, and Mal could see it. He had this overwhelming, foreboding feeling that before the night was up, there was a large chance that their band leader could be condemned to a hospital, even if it was due to Ringo's own desire. The drummer had been threatening to call the paramedics since John's initial first turn for the worse what seemed like days ago. The feeling to do so had recently become overbearing… Overwhelming…

There was the distinct and sudden sound of retching and Ringo glanced over catching his mate just as he doubled over; brutally expelling small amounts of liquids from his insides onto the pavement. Alarmed, the drummer rushed to his side. Not sure of what else to do, he found himself soothingly rubbing his younger mate's back in calming circular motions. John heaved and heaved and heaved… each convulsion bringing up even less than the last… And by the fifth or so time, not even bile was escaping him… But still he painfully heaved and heaved, his entire body breaking out into cold sweats…

Ringo frowned as he took this all in… Lennon was still losing entirely too much in the way of fluids…

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, John lifted his upper body and fell back a short distance against the brick wall of the building behind him, his head practically slamming against it in all his strenuous exertion. His face no longer had that dreadful green tint to it but he was still dreadfully pale and haggard looking, even more so than before.

"There, that feel better, love?" Ringo questioned empathetically, his worried eyes taking in his mate's worn-down appearance.

John shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. "Hurts…" he mumbled semi-coherently.

"What hurts, love?"

There was a slight bit of hesitation before John responded; his eyes blinking back tears of exhaustion. "Everything…"

"Here let me clean ye' up a bit…" Ringo fussed, his antics beginning to mirror the father that John had longed for. If he concentrated hard enough… he could even see his father… Really, he could… But how could that be? Wasn't he dead? No wait… that was his mum… His father was…

"You all right?" Ringo was staring hard at him now.

"You look like… someone I know…" John mumbled disjointedly.

"Who?"

"I…" John blinked and gave his head a shake. He couldn't see it anymore. "I don't know…"

Ringo frowned and reached for a conveniently-placed handkerchief in his pocket and proceeded to wipe bile from John's chin and eventually the sheen of sweat covering his entire face. Then, balling up the mess, he proceeded to toss it into a nearby trash can.

John's entire body convulsed painfully and for a split fearful second Ringo thought he'd heave again. "Here, Johnny, let me…"

John waved him off, his body convulsing once again, "Jus' hiccups…" he murmured tiredly. "It seems I've 'ad too much t'drink… again…" He grinned animatedly at his own words but it failed to reach his tired and tormented eyes.

"Let's get ye' some water, then," Ringo stated. He started towards the back doorway they'd earlier escaped from expecting John to follow but instead the worn out guitarist defiantly dropped to the squatting position where he stood.

"Aren't ye' coming?" Ringo asked, "Ye' should come, Johnny. I'd rather not leave ye' out here in the open by yerself."

"I'm a big boy," John responded dully, "Plus 'm'sure the big bad security man will keep an eye open," he muttered after the fact, select words crudely interrupted by the repeated, rather violent, possessive spasms tearing through his chest.

Ringo still looked doubtful but nodded, nonetheless, "Well, I'll be back, then. There's some water back in the dressing room."

John didn't respond as Ringo hurriedly slipped away.

By the time Ringo returned with a bottle of room temperature water, John was nearly asleep where he had left him. "I brought y'some water, John," the drummer announced, making sure to rouse him from whatever stupor was waiting to claim him. From what he could readily observe, this wasn't the greatest time or place to slip into oblivion.

John blinked indolently and turned to look at him.

"Water," Ringo emphasized.

John hiccupped with such force, his head smashed brutally against the wall he'd found support in. "Jesus Christ, you all right?" Ringo asked. Under normal circumstances, he might have laughed but somehow he felt sorry for his mate. His mate. The tortured soul that had been to hell and back on too many occasions throughout his short life. The tortured soul that was John Lennon.

Not wishing to remain outside for too much longer, Ringo bent over to carefully help his mate to his feet before leading him over towards the safety of the closed back door in case there was a chance they'd have to make a run for it should any unruly fans make an unanticipated appearance. Unscrewing the cap himself, he quickly handed him the open bottle of water, "Drink," he ordered, "Y'need it."

John grinned fleetingly at him before obediently taking the bottle and sipping it mercifully and excessively. He did this several times, but nothing seemed capable of putting away the sporadic jolts ripping through his body.

Ringo looked worried. "Y'sure it's jus' a bout of hiccups? Yer not gonna 'eave again, are ye'?"

John lethargically shook his head in spite of the sickening ache, further enhanced by all recent actions, beginning to take up space within it, "I'll be all right…" he murmured dismissively.

"Y'sure, John?" Ringo asked, looking up at the younger Beatle.

John nodded, somehow managing a slight smile in his direction.

But the pain was still there, engraved into his form, ever present and aggravated by just the simplest action executed by the guitarist. He wasn't fine. This wasn't rocket science. Bloody fucking hell, it wasn't rocket science…

"I need t'sit…" John murmured, his eyes clouding over ever so slightly. Still hiccupping occasionally, he slid to the ground outside the backdoor, seemingly without a care to be had. Ringo found himself glancing around frantically in fear that fans would pop out of the woodwork and sweep in on them like a satanic army of some sort. And here they were, a pint-sized drummer and an ailing rhythm guitarist very alone, quite defenseless, and at the mercy of… well… everything… They might as well be holding up a neon sign that called in all fans from all the cracks and crevices of New Jersey. They'd be mobbed in a matter of minutes… seconds even…

"Does that feel any better?" Ringo asked, turning back to John finally after forcing his fears to rest somewhat. The guitarist had his face in his hands and was rubbing frantically at it as though willing away all traces of pain. Feeling increasingly worried, Ringo took a seat beside the guitarist.

"Idunno… 'M'so hot…" John practically whimpered after a while, a chill ravaging his body once again. Ringo took one look at his deeply flushed face and clamped his hand down on his forehead. Instant waves of fiery heat rose to greet him. This wasn't good. John was burning up an insufferable amount and his chills, a known sign that his temperature was still climbing, had yet to subside. This wasn't good at all…

The door opened behind them and John having settled most of his weight upon it, nearly fell backwards. "You guys all right?" Paul's voice seemed to appear out of nowhere, "Mal wants us all checked into the hotel for some rest. Worried about John, no doubt. He's even convinced Eppy to cancel the rest of the events till show time tonight."

Ringo's face was downcast as he turned to face Paul, "Johnny's not doing so hot, Paul…" he whispered to him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he just vomited not too long ago… and he's really burning up! I almost feel he needs to be in a hospital…"

Paul frowned, "I'm going to get Mal…"

"No one's getting Mal…" John murmured weakly, forcing himself to his feet without the slightest bit of help. His hiccups had subsided somewhat by then, "I'll be all right…"

Paul shook his head, gazing worriedly in John's direction and then all about them in a fit of fear, "Come 'ead, then, Johnny. We should really get you out of 'ere before the fans show up. They already know something's up. You walked out in the middle of a televised press conference."

John dizzily nodded despite barely hearing Paul's words and took a shaky step towards the door that the bassist distractedly still held open. THUD, THUD, THUD screamed his head. …It was then when the relentless pain began to engulf his entire being to the point that he could hardly focus on nothing else. A bit of panic surfacing beneath all the haze that layered him, his dilapidated mind made its final attempt at seeking out any form of release. THUD, THUD, THUD his head continued to pound defiantly into oblivion. There was none.

He was sinking into murkiness… Drowning. Dizziness and unreality joined forces, playing with what was left of his waning mentality. Waning… like the moon in the sky. His head swam… His entire body throbbed. John wondered vaguely if this was how Stu had felt before he went. He could see him now. Plain as day. Grinning maliciously in his direction. No wait. That wasn't Stu… that was… Mimi? "Finally, you've gotten what's coming to ye', y'little twat!" she proclaimed in a voice that wasn't hers. It sounded rather like Cyn's… John shook his head— or at least thought he did. His wooziness increased. He needed air. Had he forgotten how to breathe? Instinct working overtime, the rhythm guitarist made one last effort with what energy remained to get in one more breath. He'd failed again. And Mimi/Cyn… whoever she was laughed. She laughed and laughed and laughed shrilly the sound of her cackle taking on a more maniacal aspect with each assertion of pleasure. John sank to his knees.

"Y'never should've been born," a somewhat familiar voice asserted itself. The rhythm guitarist was able to gather enough of his rapidly fading vitality to turn his head ever so slightly towards its source. He wasn't even sure if he was upright any longer. To his decreasing capacity of surprise, his younger Teddy Boy self glared back at him spitefully and arrogantly, "Julia's said it on more than one occasion and so 'as yer piss-poor excuse fer a father. Y'don't realize it now, Lennon," he sneered maliciously, "but yer about t'make the world a better place!" All at once, there was a sudden flash of blinding light… then… darkness. Distantly, a voice could just be heard dancing along the edge of nothingness. 'La la, how the life goes on…'

"John!" Ringo's muffled voice managed to permeate the madness… But he was so far away now… in a different realm it seemed… an entirely different universe altogether… The pain was even beginning to fade…

Paul looked over just as John pitched forward, halfway in through the door. "John!" he breathed, his voice barely coming out a whisper. Feelings of fear were menacing and overwhelming. With as many warning scares as John had given over the course of yesterday and today, this one seemed oddly final. This was one was critical… He just knew it.

"What happened?" Ringo asked, turning to gaze at Paul before dropping down to the guitarist's side.

Paul didn't answer. Couldn't answer. This was all wrong. Everything in its entirety. He wasn't even aware of even having moved but somehow he was right at John's level, using his body to block the door from closing on him. Somehow he'd gotten right next to John and was calling him, tapping his face, pleading with him to wake the bloody, fuck up. The Beatle's face was deathly pale, having paled progressively beneath flushed cheeks since the dawn of the day. How could he… how could they not have seen it coming enough to stop it? This was all wrong… "Joohhn!" he gave his last shout his all. John didn't flinch. Didn't move an inch of his normally animated face. Wronger still. Why was this all so bloody wrong?

"John, John!" Ringo was right beside him on the opposite side, elongating and elaborating on the bassist's single-name mantra. Paul looked up at him, his heart heavy with fear. "Call the paramedics! Get Eppy and Mal, now! He's not breathing!"

Just like that, the half-moon the bassist had been desperate to cling on to had vanished.

A/N: There it is, the climax you've all been waiting for. Sorry if it's poorly written in any way. Like I said, I kinda hurried through proofreading. But, there's always room for improvement I always say. Stay tuned if ya can to find out what's next and until then, review my loyal readers!

ALSO when ya get the chance, head on over to GoodMorningSunshine55's page to check out our collaboration story :). It's expected to be updated soon! Love the reviews over there so far! Thanks to all who have shown love so far. It may not seem like it but it really helps us authors gain inspiration and a will to keep writing :).