A/N: Here it is: Chapter 28! :)) Thank you ALL for the wonderful reviews and support you keep giving! You're all SUPER amazing.

Hospital waiting rooms were terribly unpleasant. Tense, frightening, gloomy, dark. Insufferable places. A drag. No one ever wished to be crudely crammed into one but at the same time, they were highly necessary if one was keen on seeking out the news on an ill or injured loved one or gravely awaiting the summoning hand of a potential caretaker for the better benefit of their health— or lack thereof. Currently, the heavy-hearted Beatles were caught in the midst of both apprehension-spawning categories. Testing, which had consisted of a terribly undesirable and painful spinal tap, had been done on all three of them, and now they struggled with half a mind anxiously awaiting their yielded results while the remaining half of their mind was stuck waiting out any figment of news to be uttered on their beloved band mate. Concern and fear had claimed complete control of their being. Nervous habits had eased out of the woodwork as a direct result and inadvertent snappy remarks and comments were being made all the time as levels of worry and unease fluctuated continuously and sporadically. It was a situation they weren't quite accustomed to and not one of them had the faintest idea of how to properly handle it. Not the Beatles. Not Eppy. Not even Mal.

Mal had yet to make an appearance since the Beatles' arrival to the hospital and it was revealed to them after a while of prolonged wondering that he was in a different portion of the hospital currently undergoing the hellish testing that the band had just seen themselves through. Doctors had summoned Eppy just shortly following the revelation and he'd disappeared into what might as well have been a trap door, leaving the band under the watchful eye of their head of security. While the three Beatles were gratefully out of the woods in terms of such testing, their minds were far from set at ease. They still had their pending results serving as a constant presence and Lennon's unaccounted for condition was endlessly bearing just as heavily on their souls. It didn't entirely help matters either that the nagging consequential physical pain stemming from their brutal testing was still ever-present, plaguing their bruised backs with every twist and turn they made— helping to make their wait even more uncomfortable. Ringo especially, couldn't stop grimacing and groaning in discomfort, his reactions proving irrationally bothersome to his observing mates.

Paul, who was barely in a state of handling as it was, could hardly begin to corral what was left of his waning patience. Each grimace and groan courtesy of his mates— all of which should've awakened his empathy, only served as wedge driving a ridge between him and every ounce of tolerance he was remotely capable of. The results were unpleasant and Paul knew it. Still he couldn't find the control he needed. More so, he didn't want to. As far as he could see, not one of them had a thing to whine about, except maybe George. The pain was unbearable at times but they were still better off than John was. Even George, miserable as he was, was better off than John. For now…

Ringo finally whimpered one time too many and Paul found himself irrationally losing his temper, the last of his tolerance evaporating at the instantaneous portrayal of his frustration, "Fer chrissake, quit yer bloody squirming, would ye', Ritch?! Yer bloody making me uncomfortable!"

"Well, 'm'not the one drawing eyes," Ringo casually responded with a flicker of a wince, gesturing casually to the audience of patients and patients' loved ones all around them, "This is a waiting room, love." He grinned cheekily despite the pain still present on his face.

Paul glowered at him, "Just stop," he muttered irritably.

"Well, I can't right 'elp it!" the drummer petulantly responded, defensively coming to his own rescue, "It 'urts like mad!" He shuddered, recalling the still much too vivid memory of the seemingly unethical medical procedure, "Bloody needle easily rivaled the size of me entire body in case ye' weren't aware!"

George sighed wearily from his slumped position on the other side of Paul, his eyes drooping tiredly as he made a feeble attempt at massaging his temples, "I remember it jus' fine on me own along with everything else they did," he muttered drearily, "Didn't realize things would get so bloody invasive."

Ringo shrugged. "All they did was stab me with a bleeding needle the size of the Eiffel Tower and take me vitals… Said everything was normal as far as they could tell."

"Well, congratulations… would ye' like a bloody medal while yer at it?" George muttered, his own petulance growing as he glared daggers at the drummer.

"What did they tell ye', Harri?" Ringo asked, hesitantly overlooking his heated look.

George grumbled grudgingly, continuously glaring back at both his mates, "That I 'ave a fever and extensive tests might be needed," he mumbled morosely, his mood clearly remaining on its one-way track to surly and beyond, "What the 'ell else were ye' expecting they were gon' tell me? That me mum's the bloody queen and everything's suddenly hunky dory?"

Ringo frowned, finding he was nearly rendered speechless by the lead guitarist's blunt, sharp-edged wording. Somehow, despite the vagueness and lack of verification behind the content of his declaration, he felt even less at ease. Immediately, he shifted into mother-bear mode, a lesser known side to him that had been presenting itself even more than the drummer in him lately, "Can't ye' see that it's going to be all right, love?" he asked, grasping to the last bit of hope his small-framed body was able to produce.

George gave a feeble shrug of indifference towards his mate's need to boost his self-assuredness. Before he knew it, he was wearing the fakest grin he'd ever constructed. "Sure!" he responded mockingly, doubt-filled eyes narrowing vehemently on him, "Until it's me own turn to collapse, that is."

Ringo could hardly blame him any longer. Their youngest had seen far too much. Still, he couldn't seem to suppress his prolonged determination to continue believing that things would in fact, turn out okay. From his line of perspective; what was there to look forward to without hope? Nothing but simple, plain, bleak reality. "You'll both be okay," he stubbornly whispered, the statement falling just short of inaudible, "Both you and Johnny, whether or not ye' choose to believe it." He and Paul, they'd make sure of it. They'd take up the cynical slack— spun by the ailing half of the band.

Judging by the scowl Paul was currently wearing and had been wearing for a good portion of the past hour, Ringo wasn't so sure he was on the same plane of faith as should've been predestined. Taking in the additional far-off look shrouding his eyes, he couldn't help vaguely wondering what was capable of bringing such mental anguish to his face. It was possible that it was strictly John-or-George-related, but if so, the scowl seemed hardly necessary. If anything, he would think a portrayal of a frown reflective of sorrow and worry would be more appropriate… Not blatant anger.

"What's the matter, Paul?" Ringo bluntly found himself asking, driven by a sprouting need to ensure that his mate was coping all right.

The facial expression harbored by the younger musician only proceeded to harden in place of a response.

"Paul?" Ringo persisted. He suddenly had an uncontrollable need to know that somehow the remainder of the day would go smoothly for the rest of them or what passed for smoothly by this point. If such a thing were to occur, he couldn't have steady, balanced Paul cracking up as well. It already seemed that all odds were running against him enough as it was.

The bass player still didn't respond, forcing the drummer to rethink his mild approach. Frowning, he impulsively reached out and grabbed his mate's arm, "Paul!" he sternly exclaimed.

"What?!" Paul turned on him with such anger, Ringo found no other action suitable than to recoiled immediately.

The drummer swallowed hard before replying, "Paul, what's the matter?" he asked feebly.

"What's the matter…? What's the matter…?" Paul echoed inserting cynical scoffs in between. He brought his rock-hard gaze to settle on the docile blues that belonged to his mate, "You'dliketo know what the matter is, Ritch?"

Ringo nodded hesitantly, swallowing hard once again.

Paul shook his head as though the drummer were foolish for wishing to proceed into what might as well have been labeled no man's land. "So be it…" he mumbled. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before reluctantly beginning the elucidating explanation his mate waited for with bated breath. "Y'know how long Brian and Mal 'ave been keeping Johnny's condition a secret?" he asked slowly, darkly.

Ringo furrowed his brows and shook his head, his eyes achieving utmost solemnity. "No…" he hesitantly responded, "but I've the feeling I'm about to find out…"

He'd barely finished speaking before Paul started up again, his eyes burning with a form of enragement that hardly seemed characteristic of him."They knew about it before the press conference," Once going, he couldn't seem to put a cork on the waterfall of words as they tumbled from his mouth, "They knew beforehand that Lennon was in need of hospitalization. Did they take matters into their own hands?! No! They let it come down to this!" The bassist frantically flailed his arms all about him, gesturing to the world as a whole, "This!" he repeated for blatant emphasis. He started to sob quietly, "Jesus Christ…"

"Paul, I'm sure none of this was done on purpose," Ringo softly responded, his eyes heavy with sympathy.

"Like it matters by this point!" Paul snapped, his voice erupting full force into a hoarse growl, "Brian told me how serious John's condition is. He could die, Ritch! Bloody 'ell, he could die!"

The sympathy vanished and Ringo's eyes narrowed mechanically on his friend, the instinctive action fueled by surging disapproval. He was suddenly fed up with all the negativity carelessly being thrown about the band. Especially from Paul in the face of a particularly desolate George. Didn't he know he had to be strong? It was his duty. It was their duty to be strong for the sake of both their mates. Strength went hand in hand with hope which was all they had. "You shut yer gob, McCartney!" the drummer barked out before he was even able to gain the slightest bit of control on his spontaneous actions. Had he not been so frustrated, he might even have been a bit surprised by his own force. "That's quitter talk! What Johnny needs is fer us to be there fer him," he hastily explained, "How do y'think he'd react to yer practically killing 'im off?! How should George take this?" He shot a glance to George. Their lead guitarist was staring at them, his eyes wide with what could easily have been read as fear. Ringo knew he was dwelling on Paul's most recent outburst. 'He could die, Ritch! Bloody 'ell, he could die!' Such lively spirit, McCartney.

"Me mum died in a hospital, Ritch!" Paul responded almost plaintively, his words escaping in choked painful sounding bursts, "Forgive me for fearing for the life of me best mate, as well!"

"Well, miracles do 'appen, Macca," Ringo sighed, softening his voice and allowing the empathy that came natural to him to regain its forward flow, "You 'aven't been Lennon's optimistic voice of reason all these years fer nothing. He'll be fine. He has to be." He drew in a deep shaky, feeling the painful emotion deep in his heart, "Look at me!" he frantically urged his mate, "Odds 'ave been against me me whole life but… I'm alive, aren't I? I made it through! I'm a bloody walking, talking miracle! Jus' ask me parents! The stories they could tell ye'…"

Paul said nothing.

So Ringo went on in almost too frenzied a manner, his eyes just as feverishly animated as his words, "Jus' last month I was in the hospital but I healed up nicely in no time at all! See how miracles 'appen?"

"You had tonsillitis, Ringo. You ad' yer tonsils removed. Y'weren't dying." Paul muttered flatly.

"…Right…" Ringo murmured, after nearly too long a pause. He sounded different now. Hurt. Offended. McCartney could've kicked himself for the ruthless string of unfeeling words having just poured from his mouth. And all the drummer had been trying to do was put things into perspective for him.

"I guess I don't much count fer nothing then," Ringo mumbled, his words barely audible. He smiled sadly and turned away, "Well, now I know…"

Paul remorsefully lowered his head, his shoulders sagging in disgust directed at himself. Already anger was eating at him. Already he was losing control. Control that he'd barely had to begin with.

"The fuck's wrong with ye', Paul?" George snapped, making a failed attempt to sit up in his seat. He flailed miserably before giving up altogether. Despite the flare-up of pain in his face, his glare held steady.

"I didn't mean it…" Paul murmured. Ringo's words were the furthest thing from the truth in the bass player's eyes. The drummer meant the world to him. He meant the world to all of them. The three of them; him, John, and George, had been undoubtedly beside themselves with extreme fear and worry that fateful day following his unanticipated collapse during a photo shoot. His high fever at the time had led to hospitalization which had eventually led to the removal of his tonsils when the cause of illness was confined to their swelling. It had been a mess having to perform with a replacement that lacked all the charm and charisma the drummer radiated with so much ease. He counted for everything. He mattered more than words were even capable of depicting. Paul really could've kicked himself for trapping himself in his own selfish world and hurting Ringo's feelings in return. "Ritch, I'm sorry!" he blurted out ruefully, "I really didn't mean it. 'M'just worried… and I guess I don't handle it in the greatest way. It tends to consume me rather…"

Ringo searched his band mate's eyes for the genuine spark that would set his words in stone. "John'll be fine, regardless of what they find, Macca," he solemnly revealed after a while with a small smile, the hunt proving successful, "We'll all be fine."

Despite the drummer's stubborn determination to remain positive, Paul could tell he was no longer on board with what he was trying to convince him of. His eyes were beginning to betray him as though they'd forgotten their duty of upholding and instilling proper amounts of assurance in the questioning faces of those around him. It was highly possible that he'd never been on board to begin with but had been desperately scraping the bottom of the well of hope for too long now in search of something substantial. Sure he'd broadcasted his optimism in as confident a manner as he was normally capable of but it no longer stopped his eyes from bearing his soul. It no longer stopped the fear from shining through. And why should it? This was all so foreign. So unnatural. So unearthly. There wasn't a thing that the drummer was capable of saying that would change anything in even the slightest. There was nothing Paul could say either. The bass player was in frantic need of change. He wanted answers… He wanted a reversal of time.

McCartney heavily sighed. "I sure hope so, Rings…" he mumbled finally to the words of his mate. "Hope the same fer Geo, as well," He glanced to George, about to question how he was feeling only to find that the guitarist had managed to slip into a fitful bit of sleep; the onset much quicker than would've been settling.

Ringo followed his gaze, surprise driving the subsequent reaction from him. "Cor…" he whispered.

Paul shook his head sadly, "Something's definitely off … and I'm not so sure it's any different from what we're already dealing with…"

The words hung in the air like a dense, ominous fog. And this time it was Ringo's turn to lower his head in resulting fear for the situation. Perhaps, there was only so much hope one could hide behind before it began to cloud reality. Had he learned nothing from watching Eppy succumb to the same mistake over the past day and a half?

Under circumstances of the norm, whenever things would escalate to such extreme levels of dissatisfaction, one of them would take the time to put things into perspective for all of them and their world, gone astray, would be righted once again. All it would take were a few uplifting words to place them back up at the toppermost of the poppermost. Sometimes these motivational words would originate from Paul, sometimes from John, and sometimes from George and Ringo, himself. All were capable of speaking the correct words of wisdom— when the scenario seemed readily redeemable, that was…

Somehow though, these circumstances weren't in the least bit normal so naturally, no one was capable of mentally weaving such verbal magic. It was like being presented with a song to sing, but not knowing all the words… or choosing to write a report on a specific book, but not knowing the outcome of the book of topic. There didn't seem to be enough dialogue readily available this time around; even by the hand of a particular bassist known for his endless spewing of hope-motivated words. Or a particular drummer who would sometimes take up the bassist's slack when his words weren't enough. It wasn't that the words didn't exist, they simply weren't fitting. There was no real way of applying them. What was there for him to say to help make things right when they were increasing in wrongness all the time? That things would pan out just fine? While his mouth seemed constantly intent on providing such blind optimism, how could he possibly know? How could he achieve any form of allied insight when it seemed all possible odds in possession of the universe were against them? How could he turn a blind eye to the fact that things were falling apart and there wasn't a thing he could do about it? But that was what was happening here. The John he knew and loved was at what seemed to be the point of no return and the George he knew and loved was quickly fading away and… all he could do was watch. Watch helplessly as the sky fell all about him.

Feeling suddenly at an uncontainable loss under the suppressive hand of melancholy, the drummer found himself drifting on a one-way track towards his most distant past. A past that had been filled to the brim with more illness and grief than he'd ever wanted to remember. 'Odds 'ave been against me me whole life…' he heard himself proclaiming, his mind echoing the words he'd spoken earlier. 'The stories they could tell…'

All the times he'd been admitted to the hospital began to flicker before him like a defective film projector rattling through the remnants of a slideshow. He saw it all successively; each transient memory as solid as reality. Watched it all unravel from the grave reactions of the doctors who had loyally watched over him to the breakdown of his loved ones into a myriad of tears as they'd stood in his hospital room at the reception of news unkind to their ears. He had no possible way of having witnessed this but somehow he could even see his parents as they sat up in the waiting room many a night, eagerly awaiting the news on whether or not their only child was going to survive the night. Suddenly for what seemed like the first time in his life, he knew how they all felt… Through John… through George… even through Paul…

'…but I'm alive, aren't I? I made it through! I'm a bloody walking, talking miracle!' Every single day was a miracle— for everyone; weak or strong. His mum had told him so, a long, long time ago. 'See how miracles 'appen?' That should be enough to see him through. Shouldn't it?

A/N: Hmm... where there's a calm, there's always a storm to follow... or IS there? Stay tuned my friends and drop a review when ya can!