A/N: AND chapter 33 is FINALLY up! Do what you do. Read, Review, etc :))

Also, be sure to check out my new story if you haven't already. It's called 'I Don't Want to Spoil the Party'.

-Naturelover

"And they lived happily ever after… the end."

Paul smiled to himself as he furtively looked on from across the room. What he'd perceived to be a young girl, a mere tot rather, sat cozily and lovingly wrapped up in the arms of her grandpa; her bright and hopeful blue eyes wide in the ever-present aftermath of a compelling, magical tale well told. The bassist had heard the entire story from beginning to end. And he'd seen the priceless reactions of the animated little girl as she'd clung to every last word; fantasizing it all in that creative little mind of hers. Time found her to be at that whimsical age, often ruled by utmost innocence. That age where magic existed. Where rainbows were slides and clouds were castles of a kingdom far, far away. Where happy beginnings and happy endings were potentially all there were to life. Simpler times. When a child felt safe, protected, and loved. Paul remembered that mindset quite well… It had seemed to exist well into his early teens, abruptly ceasing to exist when he'd first learned the fate of his mum… The world became much too real as a result and just like that, a world full of vibrant color had faded to muted greys, accented only on occasion by the blackest blacks and the dullest whites.

Frowning now at the uncovered memory, Paul gave his head a slight shake, rejecting and letting the wandering thoughts gone bitter draw to an end before any sadness attached could fully grab hold. Truthfully, there'd been enough talk about the frailty of life lately to last him well into next year. He needn't add to it. He needn't think about his mum's demise in a hospital while two of his best mates were— Bloody hell… Why couldn't he stop? Just stop already! Stop thinking!

The cloud of contemplation lifted, leaving behind, as it would, a reality much too bare and real in its wake. It suddenly occurred to the bassist that every single person that surrounding him, little girl included; was, more or less, there because of a loved one. It was intriguing what one could fail to take notice of when their very own world was falling down all about them. It was as though for a period of time, not one soul existed outside whatever distressing matters were presenting to one's self. And they'd simply shut off; hearing what they wanted to hear and seeing what they wanted to see. And just like that, time ceased to any longer be a factor. Disaster would do that to a person. And the hindered mind, would do whatever it could to adjust whether dulling the senses or shutting down completely…

The waiting room doors swung open without warning drawing Paul's complete attention at once, and a tall, distinguished, doctoral looking man entered; his eyes urgently seeking out a particular family of interest. Having sought them out in a matter of seconds, he crossed the room to meet them with whatever updates he may hold. At that point, Paul looked away, leaving the family to their private matters regarding their own fate. Whatever it was going on with them, he hoped it would turn out for the best. Surely, the unfeeling universe could allow that much. Surely, it had some positive tricks up its sleeve. When life seemed keen on taking turns for the worst, as it often would, didn't it make sense for the good to eventually balance out the bad? Paul liked to think so. It was sort of like when he'd lost his mum… Less than a year later, he'd met John. Their union had been a stepping stone leading to the official birth of the Beatles and the rest was history. A classic example, in his utmost opinion, of the good balancing out the bad. There was some sort of philosophy attached to such a belief. Yin and yang and all that… A rather comforting concept… for the most part…

Unless… in this instance, the bad was intent on balancing out the good… The good being, what the band had as a whole, the bad being… the untimely hospitalization of half the band at the hand of some rogue virus… Their resulting brush with death… Their— Paul frowned prominently. Christ… would someone have to die for this so-called balance? The bassist sighed defeatedly. Once again, as though he'd merely invited it to do so, his mind was at it again, freely wandering the abyss of his deepest, darkest fears.

How long before he'd gain news on John and George's conditions, anyroad?Maybe some actually news would set him straight. But what would the news consist of?Were Johnny and Geo okay? Would they be okay?Would they even make it through the night? Fucking hell… He'd be mad as a hatter before he'd even find out. An unexpected tear trailed down his left cheek. Frantically, the bassist swiped at it, refusing to fall victim to it. Blimey. How could everything have come down to this? How had every-bloody-thing gone so far to shite? No. Shite was an understatement. Everything had gone beyond shite. Whatever the bloody, fucking hell that was.

Eager to distract himself, the bass player began tapping a finger rhythmically on the arm of his chair. He was quickly becoming restless, he realized. And all the sadness churned up by all his worries were getting harder to keep at bay. Keeping to himself at such a crucial time, as it would, was only beginning to mess with him. And Ringo wasn't even awake to help matters any. He wished he'd had his beloved Hofner. The bass guitar would always come through in helping to ease his mind and pass time. Sometimes, it was the closest he could get to the concept of magic. It was his ticket into that world coveted by the little girl across his room. His very own magic carpet.

Paul tapped idly on the arm of his chair some more before catching suddenly some pronounced movement out of the corner of his eye. Confused, not to mention startled, he turned to discover that not only had the afore-thought of drummer awoken but he was now struggling to unfold his skillfully contorted body so he could sit up. Bloody hell, had the older Beatle gone psychic? Had he heard his distress?

"Rings, I thought y'were soundly sleeping!" Paul choked out in surprise before rising to help the floundering drummer untangle himself.

"No such thing, love," Ringo responded, his voice partially clogged with the little bit of sleep he'd managed to get hold of. He succeeded finally with the help of Paul and stretched his limbs out in all directions before repositioning himself comfortably within his seat. While it was evident he seemed much more alert and in tune with his environment this time around, the revelation did nothing to disguise the fact that he still looked absolutely dreadful. "So I take it, we're heading back to the hotel?" the drummer croaked after a while. "Thought I heard Mal talking... then again, I might've been dreaming..."

"You weren't," Paul confirmed. He stifled a yawn, "We're headed back. And perhaps, rightfully so..." He paused, taking time to thoroughly look his older mate over, "How're ye' feeling?"

"Bloody knackered..." Ringo sighed lethargically.

"At least yer not on about Wonderland any longer," Paul responded cautiously, "You were starting to frighten me a bit!"

"Wonderland?" Ringo echoed, "What do y'mean?"

"You kept talking about how you were in Wonderland... and how you were rightfully separated from all things depressing... like Johnny and Geo..."

Ringo furrowed his brows in confusion, "I did?"

"Y'don't remember?"

The drummer shook his head.

"Maybe y'were in shock, then," Paul frowned, "Mal was right. Y'sure y'feel okay?"

Ringo shrugged, "Aside from this headache... and being knackered... I think so..."

Paul nodded in agreement, willingly taking his word for it though not without ample skepticism. "I hope so."

Ringo wearily ran a hand through his hair, heaving a quavering sigh from deep within him, "I might feel a bit better after a bath, as well..." he added.

"I'm right there with you..." Paul chuckled. He grabbed hold of his shirt collar and lifted it to his nose, sniffing at it, "I'm right certain me scent is starting to take on a life of its own."

Ringo stared at him momentarily before decisively mirroring his actions, "Actually, I think that's me yer smelling," he broadcasted with a brief but hearty laugh. He winced fleetingly as an unexpected flicker of pain dug into the front of his skull, all smiles subsequently dropping from his face in the aftermath. "But yer right…" He paused, taking a moment to rub circles into his forehead. "I'm pretty knackered meself and… me 'ead's really starting to ache something awful."

"Perhaps Mal has some painkillers with yer name on it," Paul relayed, studying him with even more concern than before.

Ringo shrugged. "Maybe... but between Johnny and George, it wouldn't surprise me if we've run out." He gazed past Paul, his eyes locking on the double doors of the waiting room exit. "Isn't that Alf?"

"Our driver?" Paul asked.

"Were ye' expecting any other Alfs?" Ringo deadpanned with a sardonic roll of the eyes.

"You could've just said yes," Paul muttered, not quite in favor of having fun poked at him especially in a sarcastic fashion. Especially when it was everything Lennon would've done and probably would've even said. He fought back another encroaching tear wanting to fall at the revelation and rose to his feet.

Ringo followed suit, rising to his own feet with a low groan. His movements were less graceful, however, and he ended up stumbling slightly before falling back into his seat as a head rush chose that very moment to descend upon him.

Paul frowned at this, "You all right, Rings?

"Got up too fast," Ringo responded nonchalantly, some truth planted in the statement, "That and I 'aven't really eaten today…"

"Well y'should probably find the time to eat, then," Paul instructed, extending a hand down to the drummer in a premade attempt to get him up and standing.

Ringo tiredly nodded his agreement and made the effort to grab at it, "I wanna hold yer haaand…" he sang softly, playfully.

With a chuckle, Paul tightened his grip around the drummer's hand and yanked him back to his feet. "Y'sure you're all right?" he demanded skeptically, once he was standing on his own, "Y'seem rather pale still…"

Ringo nodded once more, this time having to grab a nearby wall for support. Standing, even with help had left him strangely winded. "'M'fine, Paul… prolly jus' feeling a bit off because I'm so bloody knackered and hungry…"

Paul shook his head in disagreement, "No… we've been over this…" Without warning, he laid the back of his hand across his older mate's forehead. The results nearly caused his heart to jackhammer out from his chest.

"What, Paul? What is it?" Ringo asked, picking up on his bout of concern. He made a show of attempting to gauge his own temperature, jokingly feeling his own face.

"Ritchie…" Paul mumbled slowly, worriedly, "You're still warm…"

Ringo arched an eyebrow, "Still? What are ye' on about; still?"

"I checked earlier while you slept. You were a bit warm then and yer still warm now. I think you've got a bit of a temperature…" They couldn't seem to catch a break! Why couldn't they catch a bleedin' break already?!

"They cleared me free of the virus so it can't be that," Ringo protested, cutting unwittingly into Paul's frantic thoughts.

"How do y'know it can't still be that?" Paul challenged, narrowing his eyes upon him.

Ringo grinned, "Because, Paulie… in order to have a virus, it has to be present within yer body! Common sense, really…" he added teasingly.

Paul rolled his eyes, completely overlooking his mood-lightening humor. "Well, 'm'not taking any chances!" he adamantly informed him, "I'm finding you a doctor and yer getting yerself retested!"

"Don't I 'ave a say in this?" Ringo whined. The test had been hell the first time around. Never mind actually going through it again, "I 'ave a weak immune system! I was bound to come down with the George's lurgy eventually!"

"And what if it's not the lurgy?" Paul retorted.

"And what if it is?" Ringo calmly threw back, "Geo did 'ave it prior to this… whatever it is they're calling it… He could've passed it on t'me sometime last week and it's jus' catching up t'me now!"

"Yeah?" Paul countered, "Well John had thought he'd caught it as well… initially. And where is he now?"

"Paul, listen to me. I'm. Fine. Now let's go home. Alf and Ira await."

"Home is miles away, Rings..." Paul sighed.

"Right. Let's jus' go, then."

"Fine." Paul reluctantly relented. As they began to cross the room, the bassist found himself turning back briefly to take in those still confined to the waiting room. Stopping momentarily, he closed his eyes and silently wished them all the best of luck. No one deserved to be there. No matter who they were. He really hoped it would be smooth sailing from here on out. For John, for George, for Ringo, for everyone. He especially hoped he'd be able to see his mates again.

Ringo was asleep again, the second they were situated in the car. Whatever was going wrong with him, Paul hoped he would be able to sleep it off. It was bad enough with John and George in the hospital. If he were to add Ringo to that list, he didn't know what he'd do. It might be everything enough to push him over the edge of the steepest cliff, never to be seen again.

He wondered vaguely where Eppy and Mal were. He just wanted to get home. To sleep. To forget about reality for a while. As long as they were MIA, however, they were all forced to wait in the parking lot, confined to the car for their very own safety. There was nothing left to do but stare out the window at an untouchable world.

It had stopped raining at least; the earlier storm having moved on, leaving behind a heavy fog set on nothing short of polluting the land with its raw and sullen grip. It swirled about almost hauntingly, bathing the entire outside world in a dreamlike… haze. Through it all, the hospital looked even larger and even more ominous in his line of vision as it loomed at a safe distance, its cold and clinical essence seemingly cut off from reach. While Paul had been somewhat happy to have been escorted off its premises, he couldn't help feeling that the whole act of departure was bittersweet. Sure he was closer to getting the sleep he so desperately craved in a bed he so desperately needed, but if it meant leaving half their band behind, well… it didn't feel entirely right. Even if it was logical, as Mal had attempted to help them see.

"Well, at least they have each other," the bass player assured himself aloud in high hopes of helping to alleviate some of his feelings of guilt and worry. Sure they were stuck in some foreign hospital in the middle of a country that was far from home but… at least they had each other… even if they didn't know it. He supposed it could've been much worse had life allowed it. John and George could've been separated. The Beatles could have no idea where they were even being kept. One or both of them could be dead. The list was infinite.

With a sigh, Paul guided his gaze away from the window and swung it over to Ringo, taking him in once more. The drummer had fallen asleep upon entering the car so quickly, it had actually frightened him. And suddenly as a direct result, he'd been one with the past. Flashbacks of John. Flashbacks of George. All triggered at the drop of a hat. It seemed a bit overkill too, even to the mind of the bass player. After all, it was merely possible that the older Beatle was simply just rundown and tired. Stripped now of adrenaline and shock, the drummer's body longed for recovery and repair. Paul wanted so hard to believe this as it was too happening to him right then, but the events of the past few days, the events of even a few hours ago wouldn't let him. He couldn't for the life of him, get past watching John deteriorate in a matter of 48 hours. He couldn't get past George falling to the same fate. And he couldn't help himself. It was a real possibility that when it was all said and done… If things were ever allowed to return to normal, he'd end up worrying an incessant amount if any of his mates were to so much as sneeze. It was life-changing, what they were going through. It was unreal. Practically surreal.

The sound of a car door opening drew his attention, and disturbed by it, McCartney turned just in time to catch Brian sliding into the front seat. On the window directly in front of his face, Mal tapped slightly as some kind of notification before pulling open the attached door. "Looks like I'm riding in the back with you boys!" he announced with weak joviality.

Paul tried to smile as he scooted himself over, "Welcome, Mal!" he mumbled, somewhat surprised at how exhausted he sounded.

Mal frowned worriedly at him. "Why don't you try and get some sleep, Paul," he went on to suggest, "I'll even switch seats with you so you have the window as support."

Blinking blearily at him, Paul nodded. As he'd formulated in regards to Ringo, his own adrenaline was waning fast. And riding its coattails was the sleep he craved. He watched lazily as Mal exited the car once more before mimicking his actions. Then Mal scooted in closer to Ringo who'd awaken in the midst of all the commotion, while Paul took up his remaining side.

"Are we settled then?" Brian tiredly asked from the front seat.

"I believe so," Mal quickly responded, "Let's go shall we?"

"Home?" Paul sleepily murmured as the car proceeded to pull away from the curb. How he'd love for them to go home. To Liverpool. Where they belonged.

Mal chuckled softly, "Not quite, Paul. But as close to home as we can get given the circumstances." He cupped the bassist affectionately on the shoulder.

The strong touch waking him up slightly, Paul sat up once more and scrubbed at one eye, "Are John and George… Are they all right?"

"They are for the moment," Brian heavily sighed, "But John… he's in serious condition. There's a very real chance he might not make it through the night… they tell me…"

And all at once, Paul was wide awake, increasing adrenaline rocketing through him with all the gusto of a tsunami. "What are we doing leaving him, then?!" he shouted, his voice wild, frantic, "H-he needs us! H-he needs me! He's too young… He can't die! He can't leave… me! I…" his voice broke, "I-I need him…"

"He's not going anywhere, Paul," Mal quickly did his best to assure him, attempting to grab both of his shoulders for the sake of holding him still as he talked him down, "Our Lennon's much too stubborn for that! He's made it too far; he wouldn't dare turn his back on you now! On us."

"He's right, y'know!" Ringo optimistically offered despite the brunt of the news having shaken him up something awful. Crying, however, had been out of question for him despite how hard the tears wanted to flow. Paul was crying; terribly shaken from the inside out. Practically at the point of no return. Ringo struggled for control. Struggled to hold it together for the bass player's sake. "Remember what I told ye' earlier?" he ventured, his worn voice taking on a casual aspect.

Frenetic and beside himself, Paul shook his head.

"I told y'that miracles happen. And they do, Paul. All the fuckin' time."

"But… I can't take this…" McCartney whimpered desolately, shaking and crying. Shaking and crying, "Christ, I'm only one person and… I jus' I can't do this…"

"Y'can and y'will, Macca," Ringo told him, unsure of where it was such an order was even coming from. His ragged mind was barely holding itself together, how could he even begin to utter such demands? "It's all right to be scared," his mouth carried on as though a separate entity from the rest of his body, "But y'must know that in the end, everything will turn out fer the best. Everything will turn out as it should. In a few days' time when they get around t'releasing Johnny… and Geo, you'll see…"

"I wanna see now, Ring!" McCartney mumbled, his words almost completely obscured by plaintive sobs, "I wanna see now that they're okay! Don't y'think I should get a happy ever after? Don't y'think I deserve it?!"

"Well everyone should—"

"Why's the other half of me bleedin' soul dying, then?!" the bassist incoherently sobbed, inadvertently interrupting Ringo's words, "What's Brian on about, speaking such bollocks of 'im?! They took me mum away and now they'll take Johnny! My John. Beautiful John…"

Looking on as the bassist spiraled out of control at the hand of reality-altering shock, a servant to his overflowing emotions; the heavy hearts of both Ringo and Mal alike, fell. Broke. Shattered.

"Jus' let me see that John's okay! It's all I want…" McCartney sniveled.

"We can't turn back now," Ringo flatly affirmed, "Not until tomorrow, anyroad. And until we're able to, we need to have hope, Paul!" He'd taken a backseat to his mouth now and was letting it take full control. "Y'have to believe that things will get better with time! Because if we can't hope fer the better… if we refuse to believe… what else is there left fer us to do? Hope's the only thing left in Pandora's box, y'know."

And Mal looked on from between the remaining half of the Beatles, silently applauding Ringo for such heart-felt words. "Lovely…" he whispered, tears clouding his own eyes, "Just wonderful, Ritch…"

Sitting rigid, tears still flowing, Paul couldn't find it within himself to even nod. So Ringo tried again, "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul… and sings the tune without the words… and never stops at all!" He brightened, visibly pleased at the quote cleverly sought out on the spot, "That is… unless y'smother it, y'know…" he added cheekily. He paused for a moment, allowing time for an impish grin reminiscent of Lennon's to find his face, "Do y'want to be forever known as a smotherer of all hopes and dreams, James Paul McCartney?" No. he wasn't a smother. Not Paul… "Are you a hopes and dream smotherer, Paulie?" he prodded again, "Are ye'?"

Paul hid his face, clearly struggling to fend off a teary grin of his own.

"Well, are ye'?" Ringo stubbornly prodded, "I know yer not. It's not in yer nature. It jus' breaks me heart that y'seem to 'ave given up already. That y'don't see much hope in the recovery of our mates…"

"I never said—"

"Then why are y'crying, Paul?" the drummer interjected, 'Y'have to keep believing that things will get better no matter what fate seems to be indicating. It's the only way to get by. Promise me you'll at least try? 'S'all we have. 'S'all we can do until we truly know otherwise."

Paul heaved a sigh that to his dismay fell just short of the displeasure he was hoping to emanate.

"Promise?" Ringo repeated, showing to the bassist's additional annoyance, that he wasn't about to let up anytime soon.

The water-logged smile finally won out despite Paul's wishes to hide it. "If I do, will it shut ye' up?" he asked.

"Maybe… most likely not," Ringo joked, "Is thatta yes, McCartney?"

"Fine."

"Good."

Brief silence ensued.

"Cor, and how our 'beautiful John' would take to yer crying over him," Ringo piped up, breaking all traces of quietude in the form of a quip.

"Tell him and I'll cripple yer," Paul warned, "Feed his ego, y'will with that sort of rubbish."

Ringo laughed.

"I wasn't done earlier y'know," Paul professed right then, wiping frantically at tear-stained cheeks.

"What d'ye' mean?" Ringo asked.

"When I agreed t'keep a positive outlook, I meant that I'd keep it if y'do but one thing fer me," the bass player cunningly informed him.

"What's that?" Ringo warily asked, though deep inside, he was certain he already knew.

"Promise me you'll go—"

"And get tested again," Ringo supplied knowingly with a wearied sigh. He rolled his tired eyes, "Blimey, yer not gonna rest until I decide to do so, are ye'?"

"No. So bloody get used to the idea, then," Paul asserted.

"Fine. First thing tomorrow."

"I'm sure he's fine, Paul," Mal put in, decisively coming to the drummer's rescue. "He had the test just today and frankly I don't think they lie."

Ringo resignedly shook his head in spite of the roadie's efforts. "I'll do it, anyroad, Mal. When they learn of me symptoms, they'll only want it then." He shuddered inwardly as he remembered the size of the needle they'd injected into him. He'd have to endure such a hellish thing not once but twice. Fucking hell.

Mal turned to the back of Eppy's head. "Are you all right with this, Brian?" he asked of him.

"One can never be too careful nowadays," was Brian's unnervingly quiet and hollow response.

The car fell into silence, and no more was said.