A/N: So I think I could be speaking for a lot of you when I say : "It's about freaking time you updated, ya slowpoke! I thought you said you were back!" Too extreme? No? Not extreme enough? Haha well regardless of what your thoughts may be, here is chapter 31. FINALLY! And it only took me about half a year! Maybe more. I don't know. I think I've lost track by this point. Seriously though, I've had extreme writer's block and a lot going on in the background. BUT, I couldn't bare to keep you guys waiting any longer. So to hopefully please you amazing lot, I made this one EXTRAAA long because honestly, I feel like it's been MUCH too long since I've written such a long chapter. So, enjoy! :).

He felt like he was suffocating. Drowning. As though the very air he craved was being expelled from his lungs and there wasn't a molecule left in the world to replace it. It was possible he was dying… or that some kind of a murder was taking place. But who's? His? His murder? His murder. How odd. Murder. Mur. Der. Had the lead guitarist been capable of making a sound, he might've chuckled aloud at the fact that such a word had such unpleasant qualities to begin with. The more he mentally dwelled on it, the less sense it actually made. It was as though he'd singlehandedly reduced it from an actual word to a mere collection of sounds. Murr-der. The murder of him. The murder of George Harold Harrison. Quite the name by the way...

But what had he done to deserve such a fate? Who would want him dead? Had he done something wrong? Had he killed someone first and in turn had to face the same doom? While the lead guitarist had always firmly believed in justice, he could hardly begin to comprehend such a heavy topic as what could easily be perceived as hundreds of characters in white materialized out of nowhere and began swarming him; each and every one of them presenting themselves in a more menacing manner than the last. All of them ominous threats to his very being— or rather what was left of it at this point. Who were they? Perhaps they were aliens… He'd heard claims of alien abductions from various questionable people before. Of course, he'd never really been that much of a believer but… what if there'd been actual sincerity behind these stories all along? What if it were all true and happening to him right now? What would aliens even want with him to begin with? Last he checked, he possessed nothing of true significant value. He was but a lowly musician… A lowly musician struggling to make his place in the world amongst other musicians of similar caliber. What could it be then? What could they want? Perhaps they wanted his talent. But if so, how would they go about extracting it from him? Would they stoop as low as to simply suck it from his brain? Was that even a remote possibility? What were aliens even capable of? Whatever it was, George was only sure of one thing. He wasn't about to find out. No way, no how.

As if right on cue, as though they could read into his most private of thoughts, one of the mysterious figures in white dropped its face into his line of vision and proceeded to place a plastic cuplike object over his mouth. 'A brain sucker,' George absently mused. But why try and access it through his mouth? Could one even get to the brain from the mouth? Pure madness, all of it. Regardless, the guitarist impulsively launched himself into defensive fight mode, desperate to save what was left of his altered mentality. Punches were thrown left and right eager to make contact with anything within his reach. Simultaneously, he kicked out his legs in a blind struggle to gain more ground. Muffled yelps were heard signaling the beginnings of an upheaval at his creation.

"Looks like he's awake!" one of them reported in what sounded like genuine surprise.

"Well no shit. What the hell's wrong with him?!"

"He's delirious! What else would it be?" someone snidely responded.

"Well, what do we do?"

"Give him a sedative!"

"Are you sure that's the absolute best route?"

"Do we really have a choice? Just do it. Now!"

All at once, his right arm was pinned down with a seemingly inconceivable amount of strength. He tried to fight back but his bearings were once again, starting to slip from his conscious grip. Feeling suddenly weighed down all over again and exhausted beyond belief, he could only lay still as an extreme buzzing began to fill his ears. Mind control. They'd resorted to mind control. Resulting dizziness, claimed him sending his world into an automatic carousel ride.

Still struggling to seek some form of justice, he tried to mumble some kind of verbal protest at whatever ears were willing to listen but the words never made it past his tongue. There was a sudden sharp pinching sensation in his arm to follow and almost instantly everything faded into a muted, blurred haze of blended color. 'What the…' He continued to fight even then. Continued to fight to fend it all off. But the absence of light and sound was winning. Clearly it had the upper hand. Down. Down. Down he fell through a spiraling, fading whirlwind of colors; haunted by nothing more than the sounds of extreme silence harnessed by the inner mechanisms of his screaming brain. He was lost. Lost within his own head it felt like. Only it didn't quite make sense. How was such a thing even possible? Aliens. They had to have played a part. They'd managed to shrink him somehow and trap him within his own mind where he could be a victim of himself forever. Forever. Forever was a long time.

The chaos had died down for the time being and decisions courtesy of the 'clearheaded' were being formulated much to the remaining half of the Beatles' dismay. A meager hour had passed and the band had yet to even hear of George's condition let alone receive an update on John's. Resultantly, Paul and Ringo, more so Paul, were crawling out of their skins with worry forcing Evans to discover the hard way that they had no true intentions of abandoning the premises let alone their mates. While the road manager had known all along that it would be near impossible to drag the stubborn boys away from the source of their utmost concerns, he wasn't in any way prepared for the onslaught of the irreversible staged sit-in adamantly thrown in his face by Paul in particular. Paul; the Beatles' bassist who, while cheeky at times, was on any given day often the steady voice of reason rather than mayhem. Most shenanigans in turn were left up to the overly bold John Lennon who'd always exhibited a bit more of a mischievous, rebellious streak than any of the others. The fact that Paul had readily shifted into his defiant shoes went to show as a whole, the very extent of just how wrong things were shaping up to be. They needed to reset. The entire band needed some form of reset. And what better way to receive said reset than through the sleep they all desperately craved...

"We promised them we wouldn't leave …" was Paul's calm but inflexibly placed logic, "It was the last thing I said to George, really before everything went to complete shite..."

Mal sighed heavily. Every emotion he'd been feeling as of late was beginning to close in on him. Now he was certain he was beginning to feel suffocated. And still he had to maintain some form of control over everything for the sake of the remaining boys. "I'm sure he wouldn't hold it against you if you left for the sole purpose of forty winks, Paul," he sensibly attempted to rationalize.

"That's beside the point, Mal!" the bassist unexpectedly retorted, his sudden outburst causing the road manager to draw back in alarm. "You didn't see the look of relief on his face after I made such a promise. I did! Nor did you see the look of terror he'd been harboring beforehand! We..." He gestured frantically to the strangely quiet drummer seated beside him, "We did!" The amount of clear adamancy restricted to his impossibly large, passion filled doe eyes was enough to speak for both Beatles present.

Mal's eyes outwardly portrayed as much sympathy on the subject matter as they could yield. "I understand, Paul," he tried again, taking extra care to keep his voice level in fear of setting the edgy musician off even further, "But—"

"No you don't understand!" Paul irritably interjected, "George is our youngest and he could die! He could die and John... he could..."

"He won't die, Paulie..." Ringo quietly put in, "Neither of them will. I wish you'd stop saying that."

"How do you know, Ritch?!" Paul shot at him.

"I just do..." was the drummer's dull response.

Mal frowned at him. While the drummer was speaking the words that Paul needed to hear, the motive behind them didn't seem to be sole optimism. While he'd been laden with worry as was cast from his eyes, he seemed oddly distant. On a separate plane from the here and now, it seemed. Not at all like his usual outgoing and optimistic self. Of course, with everything going on, it was perfectly justifiable... But that didn't make it any less unnerving. Mal was certain he'd regret prying but the atypical mood emanating from the drummer was all but settling. "How do you feel on the subject, Ritch?" he found himself asking, "I know you have Paul here masquerading as your own personal spokesperson, but you and I both know that you're more than properly equipped with your own mindset and thought process to go along with it."

From a spectator's point of view, the drummer's lackluster eyes hardly had what energy it took to lift them from the confines of the floor to the eyelevel of his road manager. "...Everything's fine..." he murmured flatly on command, his voice hoarse. His face startlingly drained of color, lacked all the traces of spontaneous emotion that would otherwise automatically radiate from him with ease.

"They need us!" Paul countered, turning to face the drummer with growing disbelief at his projected nonchalance on the subject. "You of all people should know this!"

"Of course they need you, Paul," Mal tried yet again to reason. His eyes full of increased wonder, narrowed as he analytically continued to take in Ringo's less than comforting appearance, "They'll always need you. However, I just don't think any of this is grounds enough to remain here overnight. You're clearly knackered. We're all terribly knackered and in desperate need of sleep," He paused allowing his gaze to briefly lock with Paul's, "I'm not sure how either of you are feeling on the matter but these chairs..." He paused to gesture to the collection of plastic waiting room chairs all about him, "I don't fancy trying to make a bed out of them."

Ringo shrugged forth his continued indifference, his face still lacking animation, "I don't know... I've managed to make due. Everything's fine, y'know."

The sternness melted briefly from the road manager's face as he additionally took the time to study Ringo's positioning on the single chair he currently occupied. He had simply drawn his knees up and rotated to the side so that his head rested easily on the back of his chair. Despite what he was readily insinuating, the drummer looked far from comfortable. Rather than outwardly calling his bluff, Mal instead made an effort in giving him the benefit of the doubt, "You're also much smaller than I am, Ritch," he tiredly pointed out.

"Then shrink," Ringo responded lightly.

The absurd words were pronounced with such casualty, Mal found himself having to repeat them several times within his head just to make sure he had heard right. He had to have. There was no way his mind was remotely capable of making up such a thing. "What?" he questioned uncertainly.

"Shrink!" Ringo sharply repeated, his eyes narrowing petulantly on the tall road manager, "'S'not that hard. Alice could do it, so can you. Figure it out."

"What?" Mal repeated for lack of better response. He turned to look at Paul who simply shrugged in return. Everything about the bassist's bewildered facial expression signified that he hadn't the slightest clue what the drummer was on about. Mal turned back to Ringo, "Ritch, you're not entirely making sense..." he stated, slight worry beginning to surpass his initial confusion, "I can't just shrink..."

"Y'could if y'were in Wonderland..." Ringo insisted, a feverish light springing life back into his blue eyes. As the road manager continued to stare at him in utmost confusion, the drummer found himself regarding him with a disapproving shake of the head, "Johnny would be right disappointed in yer lack of imagination, Mal!" he admonished, "'Aven't ye' read the book? There's also a film if ye' 'aven't quite mastered the art of reading."

"I don't understand what this has to do with anything..." Mal frowned. Again he looked at Paul as though he were every bit capable of deciphering the drummer's cryptic speech.

Again Paul shrugged; this time out of sheer incredulity.

"Everything's possible in Wonderland..." Ringo absently went on to explain, "No one 'as t'get ill... Johnny and Georgie are perfectly fine, y'see... I didn't watch Johnny deteriorate and collapse before me very eyes... and Georgie... I didn't contribute at all to his collapse... I didn't make him... I didn't make him..." He broke his words off abruptly and for a moment he looked as though he'd break down crying. Just when his spectators were certain he was about to do so, he impulsively lifted his head with a small smile to display. "I didn't make him," he repeated with an air of finality as though he was determined to guard everyone against any opposing thoughts they may or may not have.

Mal frowned at his projected claim, curiosity as well as apprehension on the subject beginning to seize him. "Ritch, you don't believe you had anything to do with George's collapse, do you?" he seriously pressed, stooping down in front of his seat so that he was at eye level with him.

"I don't know what yer on about, Mal," Ringo responded with a dismissive wave of the hand, "Here in Wonderland, no such thing 'as happened! Georgie's fine, y'see! Everything's fine!"

"But... this isn't Wonderland, Rings..." Paul asserted.

Ringo turned to shoot him down with a glare, "It is too, Paul! It's me very own Wonderland. I'm Ringo in Wonderland."

Both Paul and Mal exchanged frowns. Was he barmy? Had the drummer gone mad?

"It doesn't much matter whether or not y'choose to believe," Ringo went on; his tone growing startlingly more detached by the minute, "None of it matters when y'focus on the positives in life, really. In fact, it's a beautiful day here in Wonderland. In the real world, John's practically on his death bed... and Georgie's fast approaching his... but 'ey... the sun's shining now. The rains have passed and the sun is shining..."

Paul frowned, struggling to assess the pintsized musician's mental state of being. "Rings...?" he hesitantly questioned, anxious eyes probing him, "Are you all right, love?"

"The sun is shining, Paulie..." Ringo repeated, his eyes slowly gravitating towards him, "Nothing can get to ye' while the sun is shining. Not illness... not worry... not... nothing... Yer practically invisible— invincible..." He finished his statement with a grin for punctuation, but the action normally natural in materialization seemed oddly strained as though it didn't quite fit his face.

Paul couldn't control the rapidly escalating feelings of shock in regards to the drummer's recently acquired thought process. "But what on earth are ye' on about, Ritchie?" he desperately pried.

"You'll see," came Ringo's carefree response, "Ye' all will."

Mal looked as though he was debating whether or not to draw closer to him for a better look at him for sanity's sake. "Is he feverish or something?" he asked instead, shifting his perplexed gaze to Paul once more.

The bassist briefly considered the possibility before quickly acting upon it, cautiously moving to settle his hand against the drummer's forehead, skillfully aiming beneath his thick golden brown bangs. He left it there for several seconds before gradually pulling it away, visibly perturbed by the yielded results. While his forehead was a bit clammy, it didn't seem any warmer than usual. "I don't think so," he reported, his tone projecting his rapidly increasing confusion.

"When's the last time he's eaten? Had anything to drink?"

Paul shook his head in shame as the realization that he wasn't entirely sure dawned on him. "I don't rightly know."

"I reckon he's exhausted on top of it all..." Mal sighed, readily drawing his own conclusions from the bassist's answer or lack thereof, "and add emotional, psychological trauma to the mix..." his voice trailed off, "It rather seems he's gone and trapped himself in a state of shock."

Paul couldn't control the anxious feeling that willingly overtook him. "Will he be all right? Does he need to see a doctor? What can I do? What can we do?"

Mal's eyes widened at the barrage of questions thrown at him courtesy of the blatantly apprehensive bass player. "I suppose it would be wise to get some food and liquids into him as soon as possible... and then he should probably get to a proper bed where he can gain a decent night's sleep."

"'M'not hungry," Ringo sullenly mumbled. The feverish light had left his eyes once more, only to be replaced with gloom, "Eating won't bring 'em back..."

Paul frowned at the unexpected instance of sobriety his mate was suddenly exhibiting. What had happened to Wonderland where everything was fine? Rather than question him on it and risk further damage, he addressed the more pressing issue at hand. "Ye' 'ave to eat, Ritchie!" he stated imploringly.

"I don't 'ave to do anything," the drummer sharply affirmed, his newly acquired, not to mention uncharacteristic difficult manner succeeding in throwing both Paul and Mal for a loop. He tiredly lifted his eyes to Mal, the change in angle revealing to the road manager for the first time the terribly dark circles that were permanently etched beneath them, "Can't I jus' go to bed? I'm right knackered and me 'ead aches..."

Paul showered him with a look of concern before turning to Mal who nodded submissively. "Very well, Ritch. Back to the hotel it is then." He smiled weakly in an instance of relief and gratitude. Perhaps, dragging Ringo and Paul back to the promise of a warm bed at desperate times wasn't as impossible as he'd initially tricked himself into believing.

"Shouldn't he eat something first?" Paul asked.

"Aye, but he should sleep more than anything," Mal sagely relayed back to him, "Just in case he's beginning to come down with something, I'd rather him have the chance to sleep it off."

"Coming down with something?" Paul echoed frantically, his stomach dropping at the frightening possibility, "You don't think—"

"I can assure you that it wouldn't be what John and George have," Mal quickly cut in, dismantling in a mere instant, the source of the young musician's concerns, "He tested negatively for that. Remember? As far as I know, we all did."

"What about Brian? Where is Brian?" Paul questioned, realizing right then for the first time that the manager was nowhere to be seen and hadn't been for quite some time now. He glanced about the large room, finding he couldn't locate him anywhere.

"He's fine," Mal assured him, "If I know him, he's somewhere out and about, more likely harassing a nurse for some answers."

"I wonder if he knows about, Geo..." Paul wondered softly, his voice having dropped several octaves at the surfacing thought of his youngest mate.

"I'm sure he does by now..." Mal spoke with alleged confidence, "It's probably what's been keeping him all this time."

Paul nodded, just to give some form of an answer. "We should probably find him then. The longer we keep Rings from sleep, the less at ease my mind will be."

"I don't think that's a concern any longer, Paul," Mal responded quietly. He quickly gestured towards the drummer, uncovering in the open, his freshly sleeping form.

"Blimey!" Paul whispered subsequently, a small smile of slight amusement gracing his own worn out features as he allowed his eyes to follow Mal's gaze. How Ringo had actually managed to fall asleep in such a contorted position was beyond him. His resulting smile was short-lived, however, as he meticulously allowed his eyes to further sweep the petite musician over. While he'd discreetly made it his duty to keep an eye on the drummer specifically preceding George's collapse, he realized now with a bit of growing remorse that in all the recent happenings he'd all but entirely kept true to his self-directed obligation. If he had, there was a number of things he would've happened to take notice of by now, starting and ending foremost with the older Beatle's physical appearance. Not only did the poor thing look flat-out exhausted as he'd looked a good portion of the day, but he was pale all over now. Completely washed out. In all honesty, he didn't look to be quite the definition of healthy even in his sleep. But then again, he hadn't exactly looked that great to begin with, especially since their initial confinement to the hospital. Stress could and would do that to a person. But if this was simply stress rearing its ugly head, why did he feel as if it were so much more? Why did he feel overly concerned for the wellbeing of his mate? Paul sighed. Sometimes he wished he was equipped with the ability to channel his overly perceptive ways and shut off the apprehension that would otherwise attach itself. "He doesn't look very well, does he, Mal?" he found himself speaking up on the subject, nonetheless, his worry-soaked thoughts finding a verbal outlet.

"Not entirely," Mal agreed, concern of his own coloring the edges of his voice. He frowned, looking as though he was sensibly weighing out every possible outcome on the presenting subject in his head "Do me a favor and help me keep an eye on him, would you, Paul?" he asked, after a while. His eyes were tired and worn, telling stories all their own. And just by looking at them, Paul could readily conclude what he had in mind. No more Beatles were about to be hospitalized on his watch.

Paul nodded his affirmation after a moment, pledging his loyalty as quickly as his brain would let him. "Y'didn't even 'ave to ask, Mal."

Mal briefly smiled his appreciation before finally rising to his feet. "Good." He grew instantly serious before glancing to his watch. "Now let me see if I can track down Brian so we can get out of here at once."

Slight admiration filled Paul's being as he stared up at him. Within a mere matter of seconds, the road manager had gone from protective to businesslike in a way that made it seem that he had simply flipped a switch somewhere within his brain. Maybe he had.

Mal stared back down at him in confusion, completely oblivious to what was running through the bassist's mind. "What, Paul? What is it?" he demanded, automatically fearing the worst.

Paul shook his head, "'S'nothing, really. It's jus' rather amazing how you always seem so put together! So on top of things."

Mal dismissively waved off his words though not without taking the time to dwell appreciatively on their flattering qualities. "You'd be amazed how responsibility can drive a bloke to remain intact. It's nothing you wouldn't be able to do if you had to."

The bassist in turn waved off his modesty, "Play it down all ye' want. It doesn't make it any less admirable."

"Well thank you, Paul," Mal replied softly, his words genuine. He glanced briefly to the still sleeping Ringo before shifting his tired gaze back to his watch. "I'd better chivvy along then. I suppose we'll also need to find the time to ring Cynthia and Pattie, and the families of course..."

Any remaining traces of lightheartedness struggling to remain in the vicinity vanished on instant. "Right," Paul quietly affirmed, the realization sinking in with him as well. They still had to spread the unhappy news.

"I know what you're thinking, Paul," Mal stated, looking at him, "But it's only fair we let on to them by this point... especially with Johnny in ICU..."

Paul nodded unenthusiastically. However fair it was, it was one more thing to set reality in stone. His eyes darkened suddenly, "Mimi too?" he asked.

"She is John's aunt, is she not?" Mal inquired, his gaze beginning to take on a more quizzical aspect as he continued to stare at the bassist, "Last I checked, that qualified as family."

"Well yes," Paul quickly responded, "but she won't be happy we've allowed things to transcend this far without notifying her."

Mal seemed to grow even more exhausted just thinking about the ordeal he was likely to be faced with. "Maybe so but it's only fair that she knows of her nephew's condition."

"Just brace yerself for the onslaught then," Paul warned, half seriously, half teasingly, "If I know Hurricane Mimi, which I do, she won't go easy on you." Hurricane Mimi? he mentally echoed. What on earth would make him say such a thing in the face of such a serious matter? For a laugh, his brain clarified for him. Find reason to laugh and the world won't know you're hurting. Too bad it wasn't funny. Too bad it bad the quip had gone wasted, never to meet its objective.

"I wouldn't expect anything less of her," Mal casually affirmed, drawing his words from prior experiences with the 'no-nonsense' woman Lennon referred to as his aunt. He narrowed his eyes on McCartney in a blatant mix of disapproval and amusement. "But just how should John take to ye' speaking of his aunt in such a manner?" he challenged.

The bassist right then collapsed into a cheeky grin, "Well, for starters, he'd know better than to go around getting his knickers in a twist. I'm not one to mean things of the like. Mimi's nothing like a hurricane. Quite pleasant, really. Was simply searching fer a lark if anything." His face fell almost immediately in resulting embarrassment. "Sorry. It wasn't entirely appropriate considering the subject matter."

Mal chuckled in amusement. "You and Lennon are more alike than you'll ever know," he revealed truthfully. He stared at him a moment longer as though to confirm his beliefs before abruptly turning on his heels to leave, satisfaction having found him.

As the Beatles' road manager walked off towards the double doors that would take him deeper into the hospital, Paul felt his face resultantly give way to the first genuine smile of the past several hours. He wasn't sure why but Mal's choice in wording had succeeded in warming his heart, somehow helping him to feel closer to his best mate despite the unfortunate distance that had been crudely wedged between them. He'd been in desperate need of a good heartwarming especially recently with all weighing endlessly on his mind. "Ta!" the bassist gratefully called after him.

Mal paused just outside the door and turned towards him with a brief nod of acknowledgement. Settling a hand on the door handle, he opened his mouth once more. "I'll be sending the driver to collect you lads as soon as I'm able to get access to a telephone. Ira will escort you out. Be ready to leave as soon as he arrives. Brian and I will join you shortly after. Understand?"

It was Paul's turn to nod.

"Very well, then. Lay low and don't draw any additional attention to yourselves. The press is on the prowl without a doubt," Mal sternly instructed. He added a small assuring smile as though for the sole purpose of taking the ominous edge off his statement and before Paul could even blink; he was gone, having disappeared into the land of unknown.

Paul sighed pensively, watching as the very doors that so happened to guard the gateway to the missing half the band, slammed brutally shut behind him in a manner that seemed almost taunting in nature. 'Come see your mates, I dare ya!' Paul could almost hear it's mocking hinges squeak, 'Come see them suffer... Come watch them die...' The bassist shook away the obnoxious exaggerated illusion before impulsively turning his attention back to his still remaining, soundly sleeping older mate, "Well, it looks like it's just you and me, Rings..." he sighed wearily as though he were every bit capable of hearing him. A part of him, a large part really, couldn't help wishing he'd wake up. He was in desperate need of distraction. No one was better at providing such a thing than Ringo Starr.

Despite being guiltily aware that he was acting on selfish impulses, Paul deftly and tentatively extended a hand towards the drummer's shoulder, eager to jostle him awake. As his eyes simultaneously swept over his face, however, he lost the desire altogether and swiftly pulled his hand back. Ringo looked much too adorable to be woken up so unceremoniously. He rather resembled an elf of sorts, complete with the rosy cheeks. The rosy flush. Flush. Paul frowned as this most recent of discoveries sunk in. Earlier, the drummer had been so pale; there hadn't been a flush present. Definitely not like the one currently blinking him in the face. Frowning all the more, the bassist cautiously lifted his hand once again, this time using it to gently stroke the side of his mate's exposed cheek. As contact was made, he held steady hoping to get as accurate a reading as possible. A small amount of warmth rose to greet him. Small but still present, nonetheless.

Brilliant.

By the looks of it, Ringo was beginning to run some kind of a fever. Mysterious illness or not, it was the last thing Paul was in the mood to deal with. Bloody fucking hell. When would it end?

A/N: Hmm left a bit of a cliffhanger in there which means I'll definitely HAVE to come back and continue... :)! Don't worry though. Chapter 32 is already underway! Stay tuned for it my friends! Also, don't be afraid to drop a review on your way out. Also, like all my chapters, I'm not sure I'm satisfied with this one. So, keep in mind that I may come back and change a few things depending on how I feel about it.