Initially, Paul wasn't sure what had woken him. He lifted his head from his pillow, the action slow and hesitant; arms working overtime to support his upper body. It was morning now… or at least early morning, he perceived as he allowed his sleepy eyes an official look about his room. Something was different as well. The very room seemed to behold a level of unease that hadn't been present even the night before when he'd finally slipped off to bed, tired and disillusioned over John, George, and everything for that matter. The very atmosphere felt… disturbed.

Paul frowned, perplexed. What had woken him, anyroad? Something had. Traces of his name had entered his subconscious, successfully rousing him from the deep, blessed pull of sleep he'd been afore gratefully victim to. At first, he had thought that maybe it was Ringo and something was horribly wrong with him. But one look at the still soundly sleeping drummer proved such an assumption to be a fallacy; though it did earn him a much needed chuckle. It was rather comical, really how Ringo would and could sleep. Completely covered from head to toe, he'd easily slip into a peaceful slumber without any presenting fears of suffocation. It baffled Paul how the drummer could sleep in such a way. He, himself, would rather his face uncovered if nothing else.

Gaze swinging away from Ringo, his eyes sought out the rest of his room. Nothing physically was out of order, as far as he could see, yet he couldn't seem to shake the idea that something felt overwhelmingly off. Blimey! What in bleeding hell was it, then? Dressers stood where they should. Decorative art pieces hung sparingly throughout the room on walls of beige appeared to have remained untouched. The room's solitary window remained cracked only slightly allowing into the enclosed space refreshingly cool, dew-saturated morning air. So what was off about it? McCartney's eyes gravitated towards the door right then, widening in realization, as he noticed for the first time that it was newly ajar. And it hadn't been ajar when he'd dropped off last night, had it? The bass player was sure that it hadn't been. Perhaps Ringo had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and in his sleep-laden haze, slipped back into bed forgetting to shut the door. Or maybe…

Eyes still on the open door, McCartney sat up officially and swung his legs over the edge of the bed so that his feet met the floor. Then he stood, his head tilted slightly to his left. If he trained his ears just right, he almost felt he could hear voices from the hall. Hushed, repetitive buzzing that suggested urgent, important conversation. The bassist's heart wrenched within his chest as he shot a fleeting glance at the clock. 5:30 am its tell-tale hands read. It wasn't even six yet! Additional trepidation kicked up within the back of the bassist's mind at the uncovered revelation. As it turned out, there was no real reason anyone should be up in urgent conversation at such an hour. Not when all publicity events had been canceled… Not when traveling wasn't a factor. Not when the band wasn't on any sort of schedule, whatsoever. Logically, something must've happened. Or rather something was happening. Call it intuition… call it the mind's ability to fill in the blanks… but… something was definitely amiss.

Heart thudding an impossible amount now for reasons unknown, McCartney crept towards the door and pausing just inside its frame, leant an ear to the outside world. Sure enough, heated conversation was taking place and Paul recognized the voices instantaneously. Brian and Mal. Mal and Brian… But what was it that tainted their voices? Sadness? Fear? Worry? Fuck. Unable to stand the suspense any longer, the bassist publicly burst into the hall with all the furor of a madman, eyes swinging about wildly in search of the two men. He found them standing about in the sitting room; the two standing face to face, everything about their eyes, their expressions confirming the worst of Paul's worries. No one noticed him at first, so he spoke, overly eager to make his presence known.

"What's this?" The bassist warily inquired. His voice altered from the still-present grip of sleep, portrayed up front and foremost, all the qualms that had been bubbling just below the lid of his mind.

"P-Paul!" Brian turned to him in a mixture of surprise and something else unnervingly unreadable. It took a while, but the musician was soon able to recognize the presence of fear. Very real fear. This was all but settling to him.

"I heard voices…" he mumbled, eyes narrowing questioningly on the manager.

"We considered waking you," Mal moved in to proclaim, "But you were so soundly sleeping, I didn't think you'd realize."

"I've slept lightly all night," Paul professed, looking skeptically from Brian to him and back again, "John… George… me brain wouldn't stop replaying everything over and over and over again…"

Mal solemnly nodded. "Neither would mine, really."

Brian didn't comment on the subject but judging by how knackered he currently looked, it was evident he'd gotten little sleep if any.

"So what is it that's got y'chatting away so urgently at this ungodly hour?" Paul firmly pressed, the seriousness of the situation having been held at bay by brief, casual conversation, returning with a vengeance. "Everything all right?"

"Everything's fine!" Brian aloofly relayed, a detached smile displaying across his polished face as he regarded the younger man.

The presenting musician placed his hands on his hips, resulting indignation flashing within his hazel eyes. Beating around the bush wasn't anything he fancied at the moment. "Well, I don't believe you," he bluntly divulged.

Epstein miserably sighed, the truth of the matter bearing down. "You always were a perceptive one, Macca… Never could pull the wool over yer eyes."

Edgily shifting his weight, Paul crossed his arms over his chest and readily graced him with a frosty, unblinking glare, "Well, I've reason to be skeptical when it comes to the likes of you," he coldly stated.

Brian's mouth quivered aimlessly caught between an all-out look of shock and a frown. Eyes falling to the floor, victim to befuddlement, he said nothing.

"What's all this, then?" Paul urgently pressed on, looking to Mal now. Worry on the mysterious subject furrowing his brows, momentarily chased away fleeting spikes of anger.

Brian sighed once again, drawing McCartney's eyes towards him once more, "I've recently spoken with the hospital. John's doctor to be exact."

"And?" McCartney waited with bated breath.

"He's really ill, Paul…" Eppy's voice broke as he newly struggled for control.

"But we already know that!" Paul took an unnecessary moment to point out, "Didn't we?" He looked to Mal whose gaze had fallen to the floor. There was fear there too. Definitefear present in his eyes.

Brian forced in a deep breath, quavering at best, "They lost him… twice last night…"

The words surfaced with all the delivered passion of an extreme slap to the face. "They… what?" Reacting just the same as though he'd actually physically been struck, the bass player's hand settled protectively against his face. His voice shook something terrible when he found the nerve to speak, "W-what is it yer t-telling me?"

Brian licked his lips nervously before repeating the bit of information that had been passed on to him what seemed like a mere matter of seconds ago, "John died… twice."

Paul's world felt as though someone had tossed him on some wild ride. His back finding the edge of the couch as he unconsciously backed up away from the brunt of the damaging news, he relished in the much-needed, much-sought-out support. Without it, he'd surely fall… directly through the floor… into the depths of no return. This wasn't happening. This hadn't happened. John hadn't… His mind worked a mile a minute as it struggled to process such disheartening information. Died. John… died. Dead… twice… It was all so wrong… Christ, how could it be so wrong still? He lifted his head and fixed Brian with the steadiest guise he could muster. "And now?" he dared to ask.

No one made a quick enough move to respond.

"He's all right now, isn't he?!" Paul demanded, his voice sharp, his eyes cutting.

Brian felt as though he were in a dream. Rather a nightmare, qualities seemed so unreal. "Now he remains in critical condition. They've increased his antibiotic intake in hopes of getting his fever under control. It's his damned fever, causing this. It's caused him two seizures and… and…" his voice trailed off, tears he couldn't begin to fight off springing into his eyes.

"'S'not his damned fever anymore than the illness as a whole!" Paul viciously spat, physically, mentally, and emotionally perturbed all at once, "This has been a long time coming. He spent two days growing sicker all the time, and no thanks to you, hospitalization came merely as a final resort!" He was raising his voice now, a feat he couldn't seem to help. "I tried to tell you otherwise! Ringo tried to tell you! Even Mal tried to tell you but still y'chose to ignore us! All of us!"

Epstein shook his head frantically, desperate to get a word in edgewise, "I-I didn't think it cou—"

"I know John!" Paul mechanically went on, officially lost within his sea of feelings, "I've known him for several years! Forty years it feels like. Every time he'd as much as start t'get sick, I'd know long before the stubborn git even had the sense to realize it himself…" He paused, emitting a brief, humorless laugh, "As many times as I've seen 'im through occurrences of the like… never had I ever been so scared that I would actually lose him. 'S'was like I knew what was happening with him. 'S'like I'd gained insight somehow! And when the mood swings started happened…" He shook his head in projected despair, "Sure Lennon's always moody when feeling less than grand… but this was bloody, fucking ridiculous! On a level all its own that I'd never before witnessed… and that's saying a lot!"

"Paul…" Mal tentatively tried to intervene this time.

"Paul nothing," the bass player was shouting now, torment of the utmost strength immediately evident, "Lennon's me other half, y'know! The other half to me very soul. I can read him like a book as he can read me. We've always been able to, y'know…" He chuckled hollowly as a distant memory paraded through his mind, "I jus'… I jus' want to know how it all came down this…! How it…" And he started sobbing right then, the point he'd been trying to construct dissolving into a blubbering mess.

"He's not dead, y'know…" Mal struggled to console him.

"How do y'know?!" Paul tossed back, "How do we know he's not dying right this instant? Who's to keep it from becoming official?! He's already died twice, what's a third and final time?! Third time's the charm, ain't it?!"

The floor creaked slightly at the edge of the room and three anguished, wearied pairs of investigative eyes drifted in the direction the sound had emanated from. Ringo stood in place, looking shaken. Like a deer caught in headlights.

"Ritch…" Mal whispered, starting slowly towards him.

"I-I heard everything…" the drummer mumbled hoarsely in response. He made no move to approach the group. "Will Johnny be okay?"

"We can only hope…" Brian whispered. He looked to Paul who looked away just as eye contact would've been made.

"Hope…" Ringo repeated, the word bringing with it a renewed sense of outlook. He smiled finally, "The Beatles shall overcome!"

"That's the spirit," Mal managed his most genuine smile of the morning, "By George, he's got it!"

Meanwhile, Brian turned to Paul once again, his eyes heavily clouded with emotion. "I really wish you'd stop blaming me, Macca…" he murmured; his voice barely higher than a whisper. "I'm sorry. Sorrier than I think I've ever been in my entire life! I'd only been doing what I thought a manager should do in such an unfamiliar situation. I had no real way of knowing. I had no way of knowing what would eventually become of all my domineering decisions…" He heaved a sigh, "I'll never be able to forgive myself. No matter John's outcome, I can't possibly…" And he was crying again. Large wet tears tumbling to the carpeted floor beneath him. Would he ever be granted the opportunity to see his beloved rhythm guitarist again? Lennon was truly something special. Had been from the get-go. Brilliant and laden with charm and wit, it destroyed the manager entirely from within, knowing he may have permanently tarnished his legacy while trying so hard to save it. To save the band. Such a talented lot they all were… How was it that life could be so unfair? So cruel?

"I realize that, Brian…" Paul's voice was equally low, "But I'm afraid you'll just have to allow me come into forgiveness on me own. This is much too real still… Much too…" his own voice abated at the demanding pull of his own emotions.

"So there's hope for forgiveness yet?" Brian ventured.

Paul nodded once in curt affirmation, "Havva once told me that 'all things must come to pass'… He's right, y'know. Eventually, no matter the circumstances, so will this… "

Brian nodded, taking in the larger-than-life message. What brilliant wording! What substantial advice!

"How're we feeling, Ritch?" he asked, turning towards the drummer with restored business-like authority.

"Better," Ringo added automatically, his smile portraying genuineness on the subject, "I've lost me headache though me throat kind of hurts."

And Paul would've melted with relief had he not been slightly skeptical still, "Neither John nor George could shake their headaches fer even a second while ill. I suppose that's a good sign, then."

"So I won't have t'get retested today?" the drummer asked with hope.

"It would make me feel better if y'went 'ead with it, anyroad," Paul countered without missing a beat.

"Me as well," Brian strongly affirmed. Refurbished confidence found him to be a far cry now from how vulnerable he'd been lately. Something was happening in that very hotel. And the resulting hope and positivity was overwhelming. Unnatural almost. What could it mean? He turned to Paul, remembering he had yet to actually assess his health like he had Ringo's. "How're you doing, Macca?"

Paul nodded. "Good. Better y'know than I've felt even yesterday… Sleep works wonders on the body!"

"Well you lads needed it," Mal smiled.

Brian glanced at his watch before looking at his boys once more. The look on his face indicated he was about to say something he was sure no one else really wanted to hear, "I've been asked…" he cautioned slowly, "that you two boys partake in a press conference. The fans… the press… worried as they are, they're absolutely itching to hear an update on Lennon and Harrison. It's been brought to my immediate attention that some of them are even under the morbid impression that they're dead. Would you boys be up for such a thing? It's completely optional given what we're going through."

Paul looked to Ringo who looked back with the slightest nod perceptible to the human eye. Paul smiled weakly taking in his silent message before returning his gaze to Brian. "We'll do it fer the fans especially. And under one condition."

"What's that?"

"We'll need to visit the hospital shortly after."

"With not a minute to spare," Brian obediently concurred, "So it's official then?" His eyes swung to Ringo for added confirmation. He knew the drummer wasn't feeling well and would probably be up for anything but what he was asking of them.

"Yes," Ringo convincingly affirmed. He coughed and cleared his throat before offering a renewed grin of assurance.

Brian studied him a bit more before turning his full attention to Mal. "All right then," he relented finally, briefly glancing at his watch mid-sentence, "Mal and I will make arrangements for the conference straightaway. You boys focus on readying yourselves in the meantime. We'll be off as soon as humanly plausible! You'll say some words, acknowledge well-wishes, and be off to the hospital in no time flat."

"Have we heard of George's condition yet?" Ringo piped up.

"He was a bit coherent last night from what I understand," Brian relayed forth, "They seem to think it's a good sign but… only time will tell."

Paul nodded as he took the information in. "Well that does seem like good news…" How he'd welcome anything of the like. Anything to stir up his waning spirit. "All right, let's tackle this day then, shall we?"

"We shall," Ringo grinned.

A few hours later found the heartier half of the Beatles nestled within another building entirely; a gaggle of intrusive, prying reporters at their mercy. As already anticipated by both Brian and Mal, it was chaos from the start. From the very moment they'd approached their set-up and sat, the questions came flying out like so many bees from a menacing hive. Things escalated so quickly, they hadn't even had the necessary time to adjust their microphones beforehand.

Sensing the growing apprehension from what currently remained of his band, Brian found himself stepping in and raising his voice for some order. As resulting quietude fell, Paul glanced to him, a look of gratitude eking out in the form of a tiny smile. With ample poise, Brian returned it. And in a following instance, everything seemed as though it should be. Paul could almost imagine Lennon's compelling presence from beside him as he shamelessly cracked vulgar jokes and made decisively daring comments bordering pure insolence. He could almost imagine Harrison sitting back, calmly overlooking the entire scene in detached amusement as he dragged on a ciggie.

Finding some comfort in this, the bass player brought his mouth to the mic and spoke in as crisp and cheerful a voice as he could conjure up, "Let's begin. One at a time, please."

"We've only two ears," Ringo added with a small grin. Clearing his throat, he reached for one of the two glasses of water both the Beatles had been presented with, and took a small sip.

A tall, bespectacled, balding man stepped forward first, "I'd like to begin by of course, taking the time to welcome you all on behalf of all of New Jersey."

"Thank you," Paul and Ringo chorused in each their own way.

The man nodded, offering up a solemn smile, "I only wish the circumstances of such a get-together were different…"

Ringo shrugged, "'S'not so bad, really," he hoarsely yet optimistically professed, "As we've recently come t'realize, our situation could always be worse…"

There was a murmur of universal conformity within the crowd.

Paul too nodded his agreement, "Spoken like a true philosopher," he smiled.

Some lighthearted laughter broke out.

"How are John and George?" a raven-haired lady asked next, "And if I may ask, where are they residing?"

"Some hospital nearby…" Ringo stated with a shrug, "'S'all the same here… Buildings are all alike… " He playfully pointed an accusing finger at their spectators, "Y'purposely made it that way to confuse us outsiders, didn't ye'?" he quipped.

More laughter squeaked out, courtesy of the drummer's cheekiness. Even Brian had to smile. Here was half his band, beside themselves with worries and anxieties, and they could hold their own just the same, bringing about a much craved positive spin on things. They were resilient, his Beatles. Pride washed over him as he looked on.

"So there's no word on where? No word on which hospital?" the raven-haired reporter asked, sounding disappointed by the revelation.

"How many hospitals are located nearby, anyroad?" Paul asked, visibly nonplussed over the presenting situation in all its entirety.

"Five…" Ringo lazily rattled off, "Ten… hundreds maybe… Madness, that."

Laughter.

"But what of Lennon and Harrison?" another man demanded, impatiently picking up on the previous reporter's question that had yet to be answered.

"They're ill…" Paul responded, the lowered tone of his voice bringing down the room concomitantly, "Very ill. Though from what I've heard, George isn't faring too badly. He's still quite ill but he was even a bit alert last night according to his doctor. They seem to think it's a cause for commemoration."

"What wonderful news!" a female blonde commented, her eyes sparkling with genuine gratification, "And John?"

"He's not doing as well, I'm afraid…" The light left Paul's eyes, as he addressed the most painful of topics. "He is, however, fighting to hold on as we speak."

"We'll keep him in our prayers," the blonde dolefully spoke, imminently crestfallen by the contrasting disclosure, "I do hope he'll be all right."

Harmonized agreements washed over the crowd like a sanguine wave skittering forth along a barren and raw beach.

"Me too," Paul admitted. He closed his eyes in what was meant to be a blink, but his eyes remained closed almost as a defense mechanism as a familiar wetness seeped into them. A shaking hand settled across his face. He wasn't sure any longer that he could do this.

Behind him now, Epstein leaned in as though privy to his disenchantment and settled a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You're okay…" he consolingly whispered.

Looking up briefly, Paul nodded. "Ta," he whispered back.

Beside him, Ringo kept the show going for the sake of drawing eyes away from his companion. "They're strong, y'know, our Johnny and George…" the drummer good-naturedly added, a sidelong glance to Paul, indicating he wasn't just addressing the press, "That's how they craft us back home."

The place was flooded with laughter once more, an abrupt contrast to the tone set by Paul's news. And this time, even the bassist joined in.

"How're you boys doing… with all of this?" a female curly-haired brunette reporter asked.

Paul furtively wiped away at un-fallen tears, "We're managing," he truthfully relayed, "'S'not easy though, y'know, dealing and whatnot when two of yer mates… brothers," he corrected, "are in hospital."

"No sign of illness amongst you?" the reporter continued on, looking now specifically to Ringo.

The drummer's nose, though barely perceptible, was a bit red now from repeated wiping within the past hour. He'd been hoping that no one would've been able to pick up on it. Christ, these people were observant… or just downright nosy.

"I've a bit of a cold, I think," Ringo presently admitted, "Nothing to write home about, 'onestly."

"And a cold is all it is?"

Ringo nodded. "As far as I know." He made a feeble attempt at a quip, but the atmosphere of the room was quickly changing. Condemning were some of the eyes he was faced with. As though they knew for sure he was destined to end up like Lennon and Harrison.

"Resources out of New York state that John also thought he had a cold prior to his hospitalization," a faceless someone piped up from the back of the crowd, the wording confirming Ringo's initial fears.

The drummer frowned reactively, "That maybe so but I'm not John. We're two different people in fact—"

"You are certain," a different voice surfaced, "that you're not careening down the same path in the shoes of your less fortunate band members?"

"Right certain," Paul purposefully stepped in, not wishing to give anyone of these people any false truths to run away with. For all he knew, tomorrow's headlines would glorify Ringo's death from an illness they weren't even sure he had. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Maybe it was time to go. He looked helplessly to Brian who stepped forward almost immediately, clasping his hands together with all the authority in the world. "That's enough chitchat for the day," he quickly announced, "I'm afraid we must be on our way!"

Several more questions rang out at once, as every reporter feeling pressed for time, struggled to be heard.

Paul nodded politely at the crowd, allowing for each the questions to sail harmlessly over his head, "Until next time!" he told them.

"Be well!" Ringo additionally tossed at them.

He and Ringo stood, joining Brian in the ranks and as security stepped in looking to overcome any growing unruliness, they promptly disappeared into the protective mass.