A/N: Well it's been FARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR too long since I've updated this story! It might take a while for the reality to sink in but... don't let your mind deter you! This is real life.

I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE for the delay of this chapter! As much as I regret to admit, I'd lost interest for a while in this story. BUT as luck would have it, it seems like OVERDUE inspiration is finally picking up again! Bear with me! I'm determined to bring this one to an eventual end!

Also, sorry if it sucks. Honestly, I'm starting to get sick and my brain's not working as sharply as it should.

-Naturelover

"Oh, now our wellbeing's of top priority?" McCartney had viciously spat into the driving rain, his words like cutting knives digging into the skin of their unsuspecting recipient, "Why, Brian? Is it because tonight's concert's at stake?"

"I've canceled the concert," Brian heard himself responding, the meekness of his own voice resonating in his head as the eye-opening conversation replayed presently within it for what may as well have been the thousandth time since initial transpiration.

"Oh?" Paul had done very little to hide his contempt towards him, those hazel eyes of his, glowing embers of fire as he'd defiantly stared him down, "Now the gloves come off. No choice, huh? And the tour?"

"In limbo until I hear of John's condition."

"Right. Wouldn't think that you'd 'ave the nerve to make such a big leap."

"I'm doing the best I can, Paul," Brian had tried his best to convey; as though such words should've had what it took to make everything all right. As though the minor verbal bandage should've had the power to fix the gaping hole in their tiny little world crudely ripped open by consequence. "You must understand that."

"But look where it's gotten us so far," the band's bassist went on to coldly inform him, "John's possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody 'ell will even come of George!"

The worst of the conversation remnants buzzed through his mind, and Brian shuddered reactively, the icy truth chilling him from the inside out like some alternate form of spontaneous combustion. It still hurt. After all this time, it still hurt. And it was bloody ridiculous how much it did. While time supposedly healed all wounds, it didn't work nearly fast enough. While Paul had meant well; while he'd simply been in the habit of speaking his mind, it wasn't enough to take the edge off. Fingers were pointed and he, Brian Epstein, was in the line of fire; chest bare as one by one guilt-seeking ammo found its way to his chest and into his heart. And why shouldn't he serve as a target? After all, he was responsible. He was the one solely at fault. He was the cause of all this. Of everything. And now with all continuously falling apart around him, there wasn't a thing he could do to turn it all around. He couldn't backtrack. He couldn't reverse time. He couldn't opt out of his present existence and patch up the segments of the past in which everything had begun to go so horribly wrong. Had he been granted the chance, he would've changed everything. Done it all differently. Perhaps, he wouldn't have pushed John so hard when he'd been feeling so poorly. Perhaps if he'd shown the slightest bit of empathy, he wouldn't have ended up falling so ill. And then maybe in turn, George wouldn't have succumbed to the same fate either. But second chances didn't exist. Life wasn't some movie. What was done was done.

And it would seem that karma was now out to get him. As expected, it was out to punish him for the monster he had unwittingly created. The ugly monster, disguised as everything that had inadvertently been allowed to spin out of control at his stupid, stubborn hand; his own cruel taskmaster hands that had been driven by his foolhardy determination to persevere. To carry on through thick and thin. To let nothing get in the way of his band. His creation. The Beatles and their destined call to fame. The insensitive monster created by his undying will to be the very leader he'd truly believed deep within his heart that the Beatles not only wanted but most definitely needed. Evidently, his judgment had lacked precision to begin with. Clearly something, more so everything had gotten lost in translation. If it hadn't, all consequences could've easily been avoided. Instead…

"…John's possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody 'ell will even come of George!"

Paul's words would follow him everywhere.

Perhaps, if Brian had simply listened to the bassist's endless list of heartfelt concerns rather than his own demanding ones, perhaps if he'd only taken the time to listen to Ringo's plaintive reasoning and even Mal's for that matter… there was a chance, not a great one, but still a chance nonetheless, that things might've turned out differently. For the better. And then maybe they wouldn't be linked to some waiting room of some hospital of some country that wasn't home.

This… virus… this thing, whatever it was, there was a small chance it might've been easily treatable in its earlier stages had it not been allowed the time to take hold and steadily worsen. But unfortunately the manager would never know for sure. None of them would ever know for sure. Not now. It was too late now. Brian had been flying far too high at the wrongest of times refusing to be weighed down by it all. And as a result, he'd missed out on logic entirely.

Looking back, all it would've taken were a few canceled shows while he sought professional medical attention from a worthy hospital like should've been priority in the first place. Now in the aftermath, it all seemed so painfully simple. So the Beatles wouldn't have been able to perform while John was on the mend, so what? Worse things have happened at sea. At least there could've been some kind of structured chance that all of what was happening could've been subject to much better control than what currently lay in place. Maybe in all that time that John was getting sicker, he could've been getting better. And maybe with him in the hospital, George wouldn't have been in close quarters with him destined to fall to the same fate. Maybe. But again, he'd never know. How unfortunate that it was too late. Bloody hell… It was entirely his fault, wasn't it? Him and his stupid, stubborn pride. Because now…

"…John's possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody 'ell will even come of George!"

Pride was a complicated thing and resulting stubbornness; even more a complicated matter. Complicated like everything most often was. Complicated like the world at its worst. Eppy shook his head in disgust. When had it all started going wrong? And why had he ever let it come down to this?

Perhaps, it had all begun with that doctor. The band had been everything but happy with his work from the get go… and what had he, as manager, chosen to do about it at their first sign of dissatisfaction? a thing in all his selfish glory. Unfortunately, accompanying memories were just as vivid as the initial making of them.

"How's 'e look, doctor?"he remembered nervously asking, following John's very first appointment at the onset of his initial downfall.

"His throat's showing some minor irritation,"the doctor had responded without even the slightest bit of sympathy,"But it's nothing that a few lozenges can't help to soothe."He'd then proceeded to reach into his medicine bag for a thermometer before turning to face John, "Hold this under your tongue, Mr. Lennon, if you will."

And Eppy had watched with only a slight bit of discomfort as John submissively obeyed, doing exactly what was asked of him. The manager should've known then that it was a surefire sign of rapid was a lot of things...but willingly obedient to a pompous, undeserving bastard wasn't one of them. "101.7,"the doctor had flippantly revealed with an irrational lack of concern despite the severity of the drastically elevated temperature he'd just uncovered.

Eppy blatantly remembered thinking that to be absurd on the spot. It had taken everything within him to keep from entering panic mode. From that moment on, he'd been foolishly desperate. Desperate to comply with anything it would take to get his rhythm guitarist back up to par. Even if it meant listening to that quack of a doctor that clearly had no real interest in neither John nor the rest of the Beatles.

"I'd like to prescribe some fever-reducers,"the doctor had gone on to announce, taking his attention from John and applying it solely to him,"If he starts taking them now, he should be okay by tonight."

It had seemed too good to be true even then. But desperate as he'd been, Brian had been willing to try anything.

"There's not much I can do for the cold he's developing as we haven't the technology to properly eliminate viruses. He'll simply have to consume plenty of fluids, rest when he can, and let the illness run its course. Lucky for him, the strain seems a bit mild in my eyes."

Paul from the start had been a bit more skeptical, a bit more suspicious of everything he'd dared to speak. Rightfully so at that."But how can ye' be sure a cold is all it is?" he'd demanded, "Haven't you any tests to run? He's got a 102 degree fever fer crying out loud!"

"I'm one physician, not a full hospital," the doctor had snapped, wasting no time in berating him like he'd been no more to him than an uneducated whelp, "This is my diagnosis to give! I'm not sure how things work in so-called Great Britain but last I checked; here in America, physicians, not musicians are allowed to diagnose."

Blinkered bigotry. That should've been the means to an end right then and there. Instead Epstein had let the insufferable bastard walk all over them. He'd let them talk down to his band as though they'd been every bit deserving of such treatment. Worse, he'd even given poor, sick John a scolding when the outspoken rhythm guitarist had only been standing up for what he truly believed in. Rightfully so, as well. Even in his feverish state, the rhythm guitarist had had more of a sense of what was right and wrong than Brian, himself, had even tried to exhibit throughout the entire endeavor. How could he have allowed himself to be so blinded? And to make matters worse even, he'd voluntarily allowed his improper behavior to carry on even further into the day. Such a distasteful display, really.

"Among these are some uppers," he remembered explaining to John as he handed him his medication, "Should be enough to get you through the night."

Uppers. He couldn't believe he'd even thought that to be enough. Lennon had been blatantly out of it by that point. Much too out of it for uppers to even have been a factor. And here he was, Brian Epstein 'trusted manager' doling them out like golden keys to the universe. As though they were a permanent fix-all. John had looked absolutely god-awful too. Sicker than Brian had ever seen him. Still, he'd refused to believe anything was truly out of the ordinary, choosing to remain trapped in the land of oblivion.

And when the delirium had next taken over, that should've been everything enough to shatter the delusion he'd created for himself. And John, as result, should've been hospitalized. Instead, what did he end up doing? He'd called in that quack of a doctor again for a second time to have him fill their heads up with additional nonsense. Nonsense that Brian had been so eager to believe because he'd wanted more than anything for things to smoothen out and improve. He'd wanted so much for things to finally start working in his favor that he'd been willing to risk it all just to ensure that the show would in fact, go on. That nothing could stop the Beatles. In his eyes then, that was the quickest route to the title of manager greats. What he'd failed to realize was that he'd somehow gotten sidetracked, ending up not as a great manager but a master slave-driver who'd unwittingly succeeded in driving his entire band into the ground. And now serving as the worst of consequences, half his band was forced to pay in a way that he'd never wish on his worst of enemies.

"…John's possibly fighting for his life and who knows what the bloody 'ell will even come of George!"

George… he should've known that he'd been coming down with John's illness from the start. The youngest member of the Beatles was so susceptible to such things that necessary precautions should've been taken. He'd failed there too. Brian presently brought a hand to his face and scrubbed at his tired eyes. He'd do anything to take both their places right now. For all he knew, he was most deserving. He had earned a place in one of those terrible hospital beds. Not George. Not John.

"Mr. Epstein, are you all right?" a male voice faded gradually into the endless chaos that was his mind.

Brian blinked and stared straight ahead, a blond man in doctoral attire clarifying before his tired eyes. Oh right. Dr. …something or other. He'd been somewhere in the middle of conversing with him. And he'd just been informed about… George's… misfortunes… Regrettably… What an unexpected sucker punch that had been. Strange how it now seemed like it had all taken place hours ago, rather than… he glanced at his watch… minutes. The Beatles' manager forced a smile, nonetheless, the halfhearted gesture falling short of his eyes. "Yes, I'm fine."

"Is there anyone you need to call at this time in regards to Mr. Lennon and Mr. Harrison? Maybe you should think of calling in their families."

Family… Brian heaved a tired sigh… and just how was he supposed to explain to them what he'd done to their loved ones? Surely they'd never trust him with them again… And the Beatles as a result may as well cease to exist! Abruptly, Brian brought the initial thought to an end, mentally scolded himself for allowing the manager side of him reign of his thoughts. And at such times! How inappropriate of him! It was no wonder Paul had spoken to him the way he had earlier. Never mind the Beatles. The Beatles could wait. The band could wait. It was time to focus solely on John and George and what was best for them as individual human beings. They were individual after all.

"Mr. Epstein?" the doctor interrupted briskly, unknowingly cutting into his scattered thoughts.

Brian looked up again, his gaze having dropped to the linoleum floor at some point within the past moment. It was so pristine, the floor; in all its pure-white glory. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost forget where he was. Almost. The manager blinked abruptly and allowed the doctor to fall back into focus. "Y-yes, just give me a moment!" he anxiously implored, the nature of his statement blaring out for all to perceive, just how unsettled he was about things. It was rather odd, really. He was usually more composed in professional situations of the like.

The doctor nodded once and took a step back out of sheer respect. "Yes, as you wish," he responded automatically, his professionalism remaining intact. "But I must advise you, the sooner you make this decision the better."

Had it been in his disposition to do so; had his upbringing been different, Brian would've given the man a piece of his mind. But that wouldn't have helped matters in the least bit. He'd just have to settle with the known fact that hospitals were often cold, clinical places… and at times that included their staff.

Brian sighed, his mind shifting into overdrive for what may as well as been the millionth time within the past five minutes alone. Who was he to notify? Who was he to ring? Who had the right to know what was going on?

Perhaps if he took the time to think and break it all down into smaller bits.

…In regards to John… he would surely have to alert his wife Cynthia Lennon… and of course, his aunt Mimi Smith…

Brian's heart quivered apprehensively at the mere thought of having to ring John's aunt. He knew for a fact that not only would she be hard to inform of her nephew's unstructured decline, but she'd have a few choice words for him as well. It had taken everything in the astute woman to trust John in his care in the first place and Brian was certain she had never fully made the commitment either. Still she had chosen to give him the benefit of the doubt and now… he'd have to burden her with… The manager allowed the depressing thought to slip away, his bottom lids filling with a wetness he couldn't quite control. To inform anyone that their loved one was in hospital struggling to hold on to dear life was a feat that no one was ever truly equipped for. Mimi's reaction alone to such dismal news could quite possibly be everything enough to kill him, even through the telephone. It was probably wise he ring Cynthia first that way if Mimi did somehow manage to get her hands around his neck, she'd have at least received the news beforehand.

And Cyn… Sweet Cyn would be no easier to notify. Especially since the dedicated blonde already had her hands filled to the brim with Julian. He could imagine her reaction already. Hearing as she collapsed upon herself in a fit of tears, no one to hug her or make her feel better about things. The mere thought alone made Brian's heart want to break in two. A lone resulting tear trailed down his left cheek, threatening to set forth the dam that held his remaining emotions in check.

…He'd have to do his best to convince her; both her and Mimi, that John would in fact, be all right. That he was fighting with every ounce of his very being.

And if he'd managed to survive that whole ordeal, he'd ring George's family next. George for the time being was in better shape than John. Possibly because he'd been hospitalized in a more timely fashion. Still, informing George's loved ones wouldn't be any easier than notifying the loved ones of John's.

In regards to George, Epstein would have to ring both his parents; …his father Harold and his mother Louise… and in one way or another, find a way to tell them about the youngest of their four offspring. Where would he even start there? And in addition, he couldn't forget to fit Pattie Boyd- his significant other into the equation.

Brian sighed… how could he move forth with this when he was the sole cause of all of it? How could he be the one to bear the bad news? Should he leave it to Mal? Could Mal better handle this?

'Don't be bloody daft, Brian! It's your responsibility,' a tiny voice in the back of his mind asserted, 'It's the least you can do.'

The manager nodded after allowing himself a moment more to fully analyzing what it was he was up against. And then he looked up, his tear-blurred eyes rising to the level of the doctor once more. "I'm ready," he boldly told him; in some way managing to keep his voice from breaking mid-statement, "I'll do it. Show me to a telephone at once before I lose my nerve. Please!" he added, so as not to come off rudely.

After all, what did he have to lose? The end result was bound to be terrible and emotionally draining regardless of whether or not he chose to inform the families of John and George himself or leave it for Mal to tackle. To sum it all up, he was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. He'd brought this on. All he could hope was that, he as the messenger, wouldn't end up deader than he already was on the inside.