[Insert awesome disclaimer here]: I don't own the Beatles!

A/N: Aaaand another chapter!  Thanks so much to my awesome reviewers:  the Mysterious Guest, singertobe, Macca's Little Teddy Bear and omgringo on FanFiction, and Macca40, shineonyoudiamond, and CityofStarlight on WattPad!  Special thanks in particular to omgringo and Macca40 for your awesome reviews and PMs!  Thanks guys!

A/N II:  Over here on WattPad I've been having some technical difficulties -- if anybody doesn't see past Brian blaming George for something, can you drop me a line?  Grazie Mille!

Mal was the one who ended up waking Brian.

"What's the plan?" asked the roadie. "How're we going to get them to the hotel?"

Brian pushed his eye mask off and squinted against the bright midday light.

"Are we going to use a limo or are we going to bring them straight in with the bus?" asked Neil. "Because we need to know whether to tell the bus driver to meet the limo drivers outside town or not."

"Hey, Bri, when's lunch?" called George from the front, where he and Ringo were playing War.

"Ha!" called Ringo. "I got your queen with my king!" He slapped his winning card down on top of George's queen.

"Don't be late, I can't wait, 'till the moon turns blue," sang Paul in the back of the bus. Brian blinked fuzzily. When did John and Paul get from the front to the back? And when did they get their guitars out?

"That's terrible!" scoffed John. "'Till the moon turns blue? We're not Judy Garland!"

"No, there's two of us," replied Paul.

"Hey Eppy, are we gonna bring the guitars with us into the hotel or just leave them on the bus?" asked John.

"Oh, and are we going to meet with that local official or not?" added Neil. "You said you'd wait to decide, but we'll have to call him straightaway when we get there."

"We'll chance it with the bus going in, but we'll get limos to take them to the concert," replied Brian quickly, enumerating the answers with his fingers as he continued, "So no, we won't stop outside Ipswich. We'll have lunch in the hotel today, the last thing we need is another John-drives-away-from-the-restaurant-and-destroys-the-rental-car debacle. We'll have to wait for the usual press people to go away before we can eat, so lunch probably won't be until two. And you'll leave your guitars on the bus, we need to be at the theatre by 4:30 to play the first concert at six – no time to rehearse in the hotel room."

Brian took in a breath.

"What're the others' punishments for the glitter glue fight last night?" asked Ringo curiously.

"Don't remind him, you great sod!" yelped George.

"Grounded," replied Brian immediately. "John, Paul, and George are all confined to the hotel room after the concert."

A chorus of protest rose from the three unfortunate Beatles:

"Hey! That's not fair! We were in our rooms last night, and looked what happened!"

"How come Ringo gets to go out and we don't?"

"Objection! Your conclusion is based on insufficient evidence!"

Brian turned to John at his last remark, startled.

"Insufficient evidence? I saw you with my own eyes. As did Neil, Mal and Ringo," said Brian.

"Eyewitness testimony is really horrendously inaccurate," sniffed John. He played a G7 chord on his guitar. "Plus, you're all prejudiced witnesses. You want to get us locked away so we can't escape your grim clutches!"

"I'm not even going to deign to answer that," replied Brian.

"You just did." John crossed his eyes, stuck his thumbs in his ears, and waggled his fingers at Brian.

"We're getting near the hotel," called Mal.

"I can hear," replied Paul grimly. He and John got up and stowed their guitars in the back of the bus as the sound of screaming grew louder.

"Ooh, look at that sign, George!" said Ringo, pointing to a sign in the crowd.

"If you kiss me I'll swim across the Atlantic, George," read George dryly. "Well, I don't think I'd do it unless she offered to cross the Pacific."

They both smiled and waved. Several girls fainted.

The bus pulled up in front of a three-storey white building on a street of similar three-storey buildings, all jammed next to each other.

Brian looked alarmed. "Why aren't we going in the back door?"

"There is no back door," replied Neil.

John and Paul both paled, overhearing this as they returned from the back of the bus.

"You mean we're gonna have to get through that?" asked John incredulously, pointing at the seething crowd of sobbing girls.

"Unless you can figure out how to fly," replied Brian.

"I'll clear a path," offered Mal.

"I'll go in the back," said Neil. "You want to join me, Brian?"

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea," agreed Brian. "Stations, everyone!"

The Beatles rushed to get between Mal and Neil in the aisle.

The bus stopped in front of their hotel.

"Count of three – ready?" asked Brian. "One . . . two . . . three –"

Mal threw open the door and charged the crowd. Ringo, George, John, and Paul followed hot on his heels. Neil and Brian raced to keep up with them.

Mal, Ringo, George, and John collapsed into the hotel through the door.

"Where's everyone else?" asked George.

"I dunno, they were right behind me!" replied John.

Then Brian and Neil shoved Paul into the lobby.

"Outrageous! You can't just stop and sign autographs!" Brian was screaming at Paul.

Neil wandered over to the nearest uncomfortable armchair and fell into it. He fell asleep immediately.

"Come on! They've been waiting for ages, it's the least I could do!" complained Paul.

"You were endangering not only yourself, but also Neil and myself!" argued Brian.

John made a beeline for the pretty receptionist at the desk, but Mal intercepted him.

"I'll handle this one," said the roadie with a wink.

"Oi!" John complained to George as Mal strolled over to the desk. "I have to deal with the bald forty-something, but the minute there's a pretty girl he gets to take over?"

George shook his head. "For shame."

John ambled over to Neil.

"And George!" yelled Brian. George jumped as Paul slipped away gratefully.

"What've I done?" asked the youngest Beatle, nervously fingering the paper bag he was holding.

"This time," added Ringo unhelpfully.

"What's all this nonsense from the press about you pretending to be Spiderman?" asked Brian irritably.

"Oh, that'd probably be from when Neil and I tried to climb across the rooftops to get to the bus," replied George conversationally. "That it?"

"You weren't in . . . costume, were you?" asked Brian hesitantly.

George frowned. "'Course not."

"I'll check with Neil on that," said Brian, turning to look at the road manager. Unfortunately, he couldn't see past the crowd of five or six well-dressed, middle-aged hotel guests who had surrounded Neil's chair.

Brian, George, and Ringo watched in confusion as John and Paul ducked out of the group, grinning in exactly the way Brian didn't like.

Brian grabbed both of them by the scruffs of their necks and pulled them back through the small crowd to Neil.

Neil, still fast asleep, had been sprinkled with bread crumbs. A small, paper sign rested on his chest, softly rising and falling with his breathing. The sign had obviously been ripped out of a notebook, and it proclaimed, "I am sad crumby gypsy. Please money for my unborn kitens" in John's handwriting. A cloth hat lay on the ground at Neil's feet, open for change.

Brian turned to John with the same my-apple-was-filled-with-hot-sauce look Paul had sometimes. John really did love that look. As he poked Brian's nose, he said conversationally, "You know, Paul gets that exact look on his face sometimes, too! I wonder if you're related!"

Brian swatted away John's hand. "This is an outrage, Lennon! And don't you dare attempt to poke my nose!"

Neil woke up with a snort and shook himself off, dislodging the sign, which fluttered to the floor. Disappointed, the other guests left.

"Right! We've got the rooms!" called Mal from the other side of the lobby, holding aloft four keys. "A key for John and Paul, a key for George and Ringo, a key for me and Neil, and a key for Brian!"

As the Beatles and their travelling companions converged at the base of the stairs, several reporters tumbled through the hotel doorway, clutching their hats, scarves, and cameras.

"We're looking for the Beatles!" called one.

"We are too! Had any luck?" John yelled back. Brian shushed him.

"Over here! Come on up!" replied the manager to the reporters. They eagerly jogged after the Beatles up the stairs.

A/N: "Excuse me, excuse me? Fanfiction reader? Hello, you there? Hi! I just wanted to get your opinion on this story I read, 'The Beatles in a Beetle.' What'd'ya think about it, huh? What's your favourite colour? What do you call that collar?"