His eyes were closed but he could see all in his departure. And his eyesight was better than ever. Better now than it had ever been. He could see every last detail of the room he'd resided in; right down to the tiniest, most delicate crack located in only a few select tiles of the linoleum floor below him. He could make out the fine detail of the state-of-the-art equipment he'd been diligently hooked up to. He was more than aware of the utter chaos; the growing downward spiral of insanity that had surrounded him for hours…possibly even days. He could read with ease, the panic-stricken faces of the medical personnel as they fussed over his limp body as though they had all the power in the world… the universe to change fate. His body. He could see that too, even from a distance; this strange distance that had seemingly wedged itself between him and the human vessel he no longer seemed to be a part of. He could watch himself as though he was merely on the set of the telly and he was the star of some foreign, morbid film; laying frozen upon his hospital bed, his face deathly pale and unmoving; unregistering of the endless, pointless calamity that surrounded him. He could register it all, unreality and everything of the like… The surrealism of it all. And it rendered him numb. Every single aspect of it.

Normally, one couldn't begin to handle such an unnatural revelation such as one's own death. One couldn't even begin to form a real understanding. Life and death… Life… death… joined together simply by the inevitable… fate… the unavoidable…the way of the world… the universe. No one. Not even John Lennon.

Inevitably, he was dying. Fulfilling destiny like many before him. Succumbing to the afterlife like many of the loved ones of his past. Becoming a victim of the light in spite of constant hope-filled wishes spewed by the living; friends…family… people who were destined to surpass him in the great adventure of life. Becoming part of the light. The great, 'evil' light that could suck, with ease, the life from even the most healthy and robust causing them to vanish, never to be seen again. Pure wicked it was…or so they'd claim. Wicked in all its notorious ability to permanently rob people of their loved ones and lock them away in some kind of inaccessible prison.

For reasoning of the like, most were in favor of staying away from it and keeping others away from it if remotely possible. They'd do anything to steer clear of its inviting embrace regardless of whether or not it was fate's way. They feared it. Feared the unknown as was characteristic of the human race. John had been no different. Such crude encounters were all he'd come to know within his short lifespan. He'd grow to love someone, and just when it seemed everything was falling into place within the universe, they were ripped mercilessly away from him… courtesy of this so-called light. His mum… Uncle George… Stu… he'd seen it happen to all of them. It wasn't a light. It was darkness. Pure evil. …At least it had been. For years and years it had been. A situation, however, was always different when one was presented with it upfront. Suddenly narrow-minded perceptions wouldn't seem so… narrow-minded. Suddenly there was another side to what had, for so long, been perceived as a one-sided story. Eyes were opening. Enlightenment was finally taking place. Or was it? John wasn't entirely sure. But he now knew one thing. Those who'd advised against the light and all its properties couldn't possibly be speaking from experience. They had to be mere spectators. People watching from the sidelines. Like John had been. People who were afraid of losing their loved ones to its ever commanding embrace and its compelling pull towards the great beyond. Like John. Within it, they saw the end and only the end. A gateway to no return. Eternal doom. Blackness. Death. It truly was narrow-minded perception, really. A right blinkered assessment. It had to be because upfront, the light… this light… it was everything the human soul could ever long for. He could feel it. It was everything he could ever need. It was comfort over distress. It was warmth over cold. It was bliss over gloom. It was balance over disarray. It was love over hate. It was truth over deception. It was beauty. Healing. All on vast levels unfathomable to the limited capacity of the human mind. Most importantly, it was freeing. Liberating. An outlet. A way to leave the burdensome vessel of the human body behind. To successfully break away from its chains. To shed one's defective skin and continue, free of anguish, free of torment; on route to another journey of a lifetime.

Pain didn't exist beyond this light's protective shield, nor could it ever. Grief was unheard of and despair, a myth. Within the light's everlasting reach, concerns and worries could no longer live up to their destructive capacities… And John wanted it… More so, he needed it.

Judging by the present display, his situation had long ago, been labeled a lost cause. This hope everyone had struggled to cling to, scant from the get go, was wavering; long since having been replaced with all-out agitation. Most prominent, was the heavy sense of doom descending from the ceiling as though perhaps, he was at a point of no return and there was nothing remaining in the world remotely capable of turning the tables. He was dying. The doctors knew it. The nurses knew it. The universe knew it. Simply, his fate was locked and his destiny was falling into place.

Oddly enough, this disclosure had no true effect on Lennon as he looked on. No effect, even as the light… the shining, beautiful, lustrous light, began its determined course towards him. As it began to filter in through the surrounding windows, advancing upon him at a slow but steady pace. As it wordlessly began its harmonious song; beckoning to him. Willing him. Wanting him to join forces, forever. He could feel the gravitational pull within every inch of his persona… his very soul… Like a long-lost mother, it embraced him. Lifted him; helping him to see that his journey was permanently over. He was done here. He was going home. Home finally, in the midst of all the beautiful, enchanting, unearthly glory. He could almost taste the freedom.

"What are ye' doing?! Snap out of it!"

What? What now? Suddenly he wasn't floating freely towards the blue yonder but back in the dreaded confines of the hospital room he'd become much too familiar with for his liking. Groaning with increased disorienting dizziness, he struggled to glance about him in a feeble attempt to take in his surroundings. The attempt failed miserably as the headache, he'd managed to free himself from, resurfaced with a dominant vengeance. It was then when he realized with an increase in trepidation that he was back once again, in his battered, dilapidated body. What the… Perhaps he hadn't been dying after all. Had it all been a dream?

"Over here, Lennon…"

Stu? John frowned in confusion as he followed the source of the voice, in spite of his doubts. His eyes locked on an inconceivable, unimaginable surprise in the form of the one and only Stu Sutcliffe… seated calmly at the edge of his bed as though he'd had every right to be there. Was he dreaming? If everything that had taken place before had been a dream then what did that make this?

This time he was the first to speak as Stu seemed to be busy enjoying the expression on his face.

"St-St-Stu…!" he stuttered, his cheeks flushing beyond sickness and embarrassment at the lack of grace in the only word he could properly produce with his tongue.

"Now yer getting it, Johnny," Stu grinned lightly, "I see yer wit has declined over time," he added playfully.

John scowled at him. "Come to gape at the rundown sod ye' once knew or did ye' 'ave a better reason fer gracing me with yer presence?"

"I thought ye' might miss me," Stu responded, mock hurt plaguing his face.

John frowned, of course he missed him. He missed him constantly beyond comprehension… As many years as had passed since his mate's tragic end, John had never allowed himself to successfully get over the brunt of his death… Never allowed himself to fully let go. So why was he here?

"Of course, I miss ye'…" John stated softly, "You were me best mate, y'know… It was wrong for ye' to go so soon… Wrong of ye' to… and Astrid…"

"Astrid's fine. I see her periodically, y'know."

"It's still so wrong…"

Stu smiled in spite of Lennon's sorrow-induced words, "Regardless of what ye'may think, it was time fer me to go, Johnny. Time fer yer mum, time fer yer uncle… We all need to go sometime…" He grew suddenly serious, "And unless ye'wish to permanently join us, you'd better get a grip on yer own self…"

John frowned, "Whadaye' mean?"

"Y'died, y'know," Stu responded nonchalantly.

So it hadn't been a dream then…

"Yer fever spiked, ye' entered a fit of delirium, and as though the delirium wasn't enough, ye' 'ad a seizure which ultimately killed ye'…" He smiled softly, "Always 'ave to outdo yerself, don't ye, Lennon? Always 'ave to be the center of attention…"

"I don't!" John argued indignantly.

"Shut up and listen!" Stu calmly responded, "You need to get back to yer body before y'lose yer battle altogether. As much as we'd all like fer ye' to join us, I don't think yer ready for that kind of commitment just yet…"

"Get back to me body?" John echoed, confusion adding a quaver of uncertainty to his tone, "I am in me body…"

Stu shook his head frantically and hastily pointed down towards the bed which suddenly seemed strangely distant. Swallowing hard, Lennon scrubbed at his eyes and followed his mate's frantic gestures, his eyes widening as he was faced with the unexpected. Stu was right. He wasn't in his body at all, but several feet in the air, floating above it, rather. He was in terrible condition too, it looked like. Heavily flushed with a tint of pale grey. He looked like death itself. Like he was dying. Or dead. Perhaps none of this was a dream then.

"Y'don't look so great, y'know," Stu chimed in as though that much wasn't obvious.

John ignored him, his eyes narrowing on the seemingly hopeless mess in front of him. He could see the doctors now too; all of them busy fussing aimlessly over him. And if he listened carefully, he could hear the undisguised worry in their voices. The word 'dead' came up quite a bit, as well, the simple word, striking an odd feeling of trepidation within him. Oddly enough, it seemed to seal his fate. Lennon found himself shaking off a reactive chill as it ran through him; the shudder seemingly a subconscious way of ridding himself of the frightening image he was faced with. Regardless, it didn't work. It was still there. Everything was still wrong. Bloody hell. It was official. He was dead.

"I…I don't know what to do…" John quavered, returning a teary gaze back to his mate.

"Let instinct guide you. And fer chrissake, stay away from the bloody, fuckin' light! Like a moth to a flame, ye' are!"

And to his surprise, Lennon grinned at this, a laugh contrary of his previous mood, escaping him.

"What are ye' on about now, John?" Stu snapped, his face shifting into a glare.

"Y'swore!" Lennon laughed, not even sure why it was funny in the first place. His mind seemed to have a mind of its own. Perhaps, it was a defense mechanism of some sort.

"And?"

"And yer dead! Aren't y'supposed to be holy and all that?"

"I'm dead, Lennon, that's all. I'm not God or anything of the like, y'know!" Stu sighed with a roll of the eyes, "Bloody 'ell, are y'delirious or what? Just get back to yer body 'fore ye' screw things up!"

John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. After a moment of pronounced concentration, fiery pain engulfed him once more as he was suddenly met with the disabling, disorienting headache from hell. Probably why he'd left his bloody body behind in the first place. He could feel the bed beneath him and knew he had succeeded. Once again, he was in bloody misery. Once again, he wanted out. He was hot all over, dizzy… everything ached unrelentingly. It was no doubt why he'd left… "Stu…." he murmured weakly. He could just see a figment of his old mate, standing off to the side with a nostalgic smile on his face. Beside him, materialized his uncle George and seconds later his mum. "Mum… uncle George…" he slurred next, his eyes shifting towards them.

Uncle George… George… George… Harrison…

"Holy hell, he's moving!"

"Moving?! He's trying to speak for Pete's sake! What is it he's trying to say?!"

"But… he was dead… He's supposed to be dead! Time of death was—"

"I'll be damned!" a new voice contributed, "What a trooper this one is! I was certain he was a goner!"

"But we did! Time of death was—"

"Don't question the unexplainable! Thank God… wherever he is…"

"Who's George?"

"His band mate in the other room!" someone replied indignantly, "Don't you know the Beatles at all?"

"And what's this about his mum? Isn't she dead, as well? His medical record states so."

"He's delirious. What do you expect?"

Dead… John thought dully. He coughed, the resulting pain sending repeated flashes of light throughout his skull. Dead… He could hardly process the meaning of the word before darkness claimed him in once again.

"Damn it, his vitals are dropping… we're losing him all over again…"

"Increase his antibiotics. He's got to fight this thing."

Darkness was everywhere; spanning every corner, every crack and crevice like a thick, boundless array of cobwebs. There were distant untraceable sounds everywhere, all of them reverberating off the heavy darkness itself, giving the impression of vast spaciousness. If he concentrated deeply enough, he could make out something resembling what at first seemed to be aimless humming. It was distant but present nonetheless. And if he concentrated even more, he could hear words cleverly falling into line with this ongoing melody.

"…And you're making me feel like I've never been born…"

George continued to squint through the thick surrounding darkness, realizing finally after an extended period of time that the source of music was originating not from the darkness itself, but from none other than his buddy John Lennon. He could tell by the voice. He'd know it anywhere. His seemingly long lost pal was nearby, it appeared. Good 'ol Johnny. Where had he been all this time? It felt like he hadn't seen him in ages. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? Months? Years? As if right on cue, the darkness lifted confirming George's readymade conclusions.

"John!" he called out, his tone of voice glorifying his happiness just to see another human being let alone someone he knew dearly. He must've been out of his head now or wherever he'd been. "Johnny!"

"…I know what it's like to be dead…" John obliviously sang on, his voice growing significantly weaker, "I know what it is to be sad…"

George frowned. Had the rhythm guitarist not noticed his presence? Was he deliberately ignoring him? Worse, what was he even singing about? This was darker than any of the Beatle's current music. Resultantly lost for words, he could hardly bring himself to question the lunacy of what was happening before his very eyes. "John?" he found himself repeating in faint surprise; his increasingly timid voice seemingly incapable of much more. "What is this song?" Harrison was sure he'd heard nothing like it before though he'd had no doubt Lennon had wrote it; potentially by himself and without the help of McCartney. The lyrics so far were very Lennon-like.

"…And you're making me feel like I've never been born…"

"I'm not causing any such feelings!" George indignantly argued, despite not going entirely what it was he was even on about. But never mind what he was on about, what was Lennon on about? "John!" the lead guitarist began calling out again, desperate to be heard; resulting apprehension washing over him like something of a voluminous wave, "John! You all right, mate? Can't ye'hear me? …Blimey! If anything, yer making me feel like I've never been born…"

No answer. Only more music to replace the fallen silence.

"John!" the lead guitarist continued to repeat, louder this time; strength beginning to gather within him as panic increased.

Still nothing.

"John!"

His fellow band mate stopped playing on command and turned to look at him; his eyes presenting themselves with an unnerving barrenness George was certain no living being should ever be able to achieve. He looked… Dead. "John you -" The lead guitarist's quavering voice trailed off helplessly at an inconvenient lack of descriptive adjectives yielded by his suffering mentality.

"I know what it's like to be dead, y'know…" the rhythm guitarist cryptically revealed, his voice just as vacant as his eyes.

George froze, his mouth and eyes widening simultaneously. "N-no you don't…" he tentatively dared to counter, a better response having not been available.

"Dead." John repeated as though he was making all the sense in the world, "I'm dead. And so are you."

"That's silly," George indifferently began, "I'm not… Yer not…" He blinked in a fit of shock, allowing his voice to trail off as he noticed at that very moment that the front of his band mate's shirt was drenched in blood. An excessive amount of blood that he couldn't possibly have overlooked at any point of observing his mate within the past several minutes. "J-Johnny, wh-what's going on?" he quavered in an uneven mixture of fear and surprise, "What's happening to you?"

"I'm dead, y'sod. How many bloody ways should I put it?" He turned around without the slightest bit of warning, revealing several bullet holes crudely nestled within the back of his shirt. Dark red blood still oozed lazily from the blatantly fatal wounds. "Bloody bastard got me. Finally."

"But yer… But yer… Who… who did this? I'll murder 'em… I'll—"

"Me death can't be avoided and neither can yers," John ominously interjected, his eyes lacking any emotion whatsoever, "Some people are just meant to die young, y'know. Me mum, me uncle, Macca's mum, Stu, … meself…" His eyes grew darker as he zeroed in on George's face, "you…"

George's blood ran cold, "But John, I'm still alive… yer still—" He trailed off abruptly in a forced struggle to gain his bearings, "We can still…I can get help if you'll let me! Y'won't have to die this way!"

"Don't be daft. Yer too young. A wee tot. They'll never listen to ye'," John flippantly explained with an agitated roll of the eyes; the first real display of emotion George had seen from him since they'd unexpectedly crossed paths, "'S'why I never wanted you in me band, y'know." He broke off abruptly allowing an intense light to claim his eyes. "I'm a jinx they say. Y'must save yerself, Havva! Get out while y'still can! It only gets worse from here on out."

George shrank back, "What gets worse?"

"Everything. Don't let them change yer world like they did mine."

"What?"

"Nothing can change yer world," John emphasized, the repeated message all but clarifying things. What was left of the concentrated sense of urgency that had been momentarily sealed into his eyes was fizzling out at an alarming pace to be taken over once more by the unnatural dullness that had been there earlier. "Nothing's gonna change yer world against yer will…" he whispered. He coughed harshly without warning, thick, sticky dark red blood spurting from his mouth. "Don't…" He swayed on his feet, his fatal injuries clearly taking its final toll on him, "Don't…"

George shook his head frantically. This couldn't possibly be happening. John wasn't dying right in front of him… He couldn't be. The lead guitarist's legs finally shifted into gear and he rushed towards his fading friend as if sensing what was about to take place. "J-just hang on, Johnny…" he pleaded, struggling blindly to help steady him.

There was no immediate response as his mate's eyes proceeded to roll back in his head and he fell forward into his arms, George barely managing to catch him.

"Johnny?"

Nothing. After checking his vitals, he came to one earth-shattering conclusion. He was dead. John was dead. His buddy. His pal. Slowly, despite shaking limbs, he lowered him to the ground. He was dead. John was dead… And it was this finalizing conclusion that brought forth the tears.

"Blimey! What have y'done, George?!"

"Wha—?" George looked up from John's lifeless body, his tear-filled gaze landing on Paul. Or what appeared to be Paul, anyway. He didn't recognize the accusatory glint in his eyes nor the pure, uncharacteristic hatred radiating off his very being. "Paul, I didn't…"

"You've gone an' killed 'im, ye'have!" the bassist exclaimed.

"But I couldn't 'ave! There's no way…"

"What's this, then?" Paul countered. He stooped down beside him and pulled a shiny glass and metallic object from him that had somehow wedged itself into his bony shaking grip. "What's this, then?" he repeated accusingly.

"I-I don't know!" George quavered. He'd never seen the thing before in his life.

"Bollocks! You've used it to kill him and you know it!" Paul sneered maliciously. He held the object up into the light revealing its identity. A syringe. An impossibly large one at that. Down one side, George could make out the bone-chilling words: 'quarantine'.

Paul's face darkened as he turned back to face him. "You may have killed us all…" he ominously affirmed.

Had the situation been slightly more lighthearted in nature, George might've openly laughed at the lab coat the bassist was suddenly sporting. Only there wasn't a spontaneous ounce of humor left within even the tiniest cell of his body. And there was nothing funny about the mad scientist aura he was beginning to radiate. "Paul, please!" he found himself quavering… begging in a way his pride would never allow under normal circumstances. "You have to understand—"

"I should've known y'weren't Beatle material," Paul spat, "Hardly grown into yer guitar and now look at what you've done!"

Before George could even begin to react let alone brace himself, his band mate was upon him in a flash. With additional lightning quick reflexes, he could only watch helplessly as the bassist skillfully expelled air from the seemingly still growing syringe and crudely injected it into his chest. "It's yer turn, Georgie," Paul stated coldly all the while. "Yer turn to face yer fate before the rest of us. What goes around comes around. Everyone knows that."

The process was surprisingly painless. The life didn't drain from him as would be expected. Simply, he was in his prison cell of a body, and then he wasn't. In a flash of unregistered time, he was standing on his own two feet, pain-free, in the midst of a mysterious golden haze. Shimmering… Glowing… Radiant. Every ounce of him, every sense; outwardly enhanced by the air itself. Charged. His very surroundings seemed to hold an electrifying, energizing buzz, all of which helping him to feel extraordinary… peculiar… and overall remarkable all at the same time. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he'd been transported to what may as well have been another realm. Another plane of existence. Was this death? Was this what death felt like?

"It isn't your time, George. You shouldn't be here…"

George jumped in a fit of surprise at the sudden addition of a seemingly unspoken female voice. The source, he quickly grew to realize was nowhere to be seen. Yet there was something about it that was oddly familiar.

"It's not your time, Georgie…"the voice spoke again.

"Who are you?" George spoke aloud… Or at least thought he had. His voice didn't seem to hold the usual verbal capacity characteristic of a human being. Rather, it seemed to emanate from within him.

"You shouldn't be here."

The figure came into view finally… or rather materialized before him. A woman. Eyes locked and George's jaw dropped slightly in a fit of wonderment. He was certain he'd never seen this person before, yet there was something familiar about her. Comforting even. Perhaps it was the dark hair and equally dark eyes that seemingly resembled his own. Perhaps it was the fact that she looked like someone he may have been related to. "Who are you?" he repeated.

"We haven't met on a corporeal plane, but you may know me as your great-grandmother. Yer father's grandmother."

Weirdly enough, George found he had no desire to go with what was natural and question this woman's identity. Somehow, it was as though there were no doubt she spoke the truth. "Am I dead?" he asked instead.

"You're in transition," his great-grandmother responded, her eyes narrowing sternly upon him. "You shouldn't be. It's not your time."

"Then why am I here?"

"You've given up!" she snapped, "Gone and turned yer back on the world! What will your parents think? What of your siblings? What of your band mates? This is not how you were raised. And you've never displayed such characteristics until now. You need to leave and you need to do it now! Yer fading! Becoming a part of the light all the time! It's not yer time!"

"But I've killed John! Paul said so."

"You've done no such thing!" his great-grandmother passionately exclaimed,"Don't be daft, love. It's just your conscience talking. Somehow you feel responsible for his illness though you shouldn't. No one's blaming you… The only thing you're doing is killing yourself with shame. Now get a grip on yourself before you succeed. You're quite ill yourself and your misplaced guilt isn't helping matters."

"I'm ill?"

His great-grandmother nodded solemnly. "… And it's not your time to die because of it." She paused turning slightly to her left as if picking up on some distant sound. When she returned her gaze to him, her eyes were glazed over slightly with tears. "Nor is it his time," she slowly concluded.

George followed her gaze as she gestured nonchalantly to her left to what at first appeared to be nothing significant. Then before he could begin to question it, there was a sudden visual disturbance in the flow of haze and the light shifted slightly giving way to something that hadn't previously been in the vicinity. An object. A person… A figure of some sort could be seen looming in the distance. Before eyes could adjust for curiosity's sake, the haze closed in around its edges, distorting its outward shape and making identification near impossible. George's brows furrowed as he continued to stare, a random, unexplained chord of emotion coursing through him. Somehow, he felt as though he knew this person. And then it dawned on him. John. John. It was John… He was staring into the lost face of his own band mate. His idol. His mentor. One of his 'brothers' so to speak. While he couldn't quite tell, he just knew it. But how could it be? That would mean… It would mean… In any icy instant, it all clicked. John was… dying or worse… He was dead. "Nooo!" he cried out as the realization settled. "John!"

The ground shook as if victim to a massive earthquake and all around him, his surroundings began to fade, flickering in and out of focus. He looked for John through it all, but he could no longer seem to find him. It was like he had never existed. "Johnny!" he found himself calling out, random fear gripping him. No response. His voice hadn't even seemed to work for that matter. "Joh-" his plea was cut short this time by a sudden blinding pressure behind his eyes. The headache. It was back. Harrison dropped to the ground, a feat that seemed oddly reminiscent of some seemingly distant earlier time from which he couldn't seem to pinpoint. The pain increased erratically, coaxing out unforgiving waves of dizziness coupled with brutal nausea. Misery forced him even lower to the ground and just as he was certain he was about to throw up from the burden of it all, a newfound world of darkness rose to swallow him.

All at once, he was surrounded by muffled voices while accompanying, bothersome hands proceeded to shake him for reasons unknown… His name was called over and over again… but no matter how many times he thought he answered, he just couldn't seem to conform to whatever it was they wanted…

Then it dawned on him. John! He'd seen him somewhere… Somewhere he shouldn't have been… Where was that? Where was he? "John…" he found himself croaking out. "Where… John…?"

"He's just in the other room, dear," a sweet feminine voice responded, "You'll see him again soon."

George managed a faint nod and closed his eyes, this time allowing for darkness to pull him into a deep, torment-free slumber.

"His vitals have finally stabilized," a nurse reported, glancing briefly to the monitor they'd struggled for the past several minutes to hook him up to.

"Yes well, we're still in for a long night," a doctor replied shortly, "If the other one continues on the way he's going, we could very well lose him tonight. We've had too many close calls already…" He gestured solemnly to George before turning to leave the room, "Whatever you do, just make sure this one stays in as good of shape as possible. We can't afford to lose both."