Thanks to all my reviewers since last chapter: Swimmer girl 17, sweetladyjane2012, PurlyandGirly, anakinbridger541, cityofstarlight, NJ2001, ThisBirdHasFlown, InmylifeIloveLennon, leah9712, MaccasWeirdFriend, MaccaRockas, Macca40, and omgringo

A/N:  So sorry about the page breaks in the middle of words!  WattPad's fault, not mine ;0)  Still, hope you enjoy reading!

14 August, 1965, 8:00 AM (London time). 7 Cavendish Avenue, London, England.

Paul stood in the kitchen doorway and surveyed the wreckage. The blackened frying pan was still belching little streams of smoke, which curled up from the burnt bacon and newspaper. The fire alarm and shattered potted plant languished forlornly on the opposite side of the room; shards of clay pot and clumps of soil were scattered across the floor and table. The mail still sat unopened on the counter, its neat pile mocking the disarray of Paul's day so far.

Paul scrubbed a hand down his face. He had to do something, or he'd go mad; however, that something definitely wasn't going to be cleaning the trashed kitchen.

Martha skittishly approached him from behind. She still hadn't gotten over the fire alarm from earlier. Bloody brilliant time to find out your dog has panic attacks whenever a fire alarm goes off, thought Paul irritably.

He had to go to the studio. The realization came to him instantly and obviously. I'm a musician, he thought. I play music. That's what I do. That's what I can do now.

Paul got halfway to the door before he realized he was still in pajamas. Distractedly, he wandered upstairs and pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt. A bird chirped outside his window.

The bassist peered out, hoping to see the bird; instead, he saw a street full of teenage girls in black. They had filled the entire block, crammed next to each other in front of his house like sardines in a can.

Paul dazedly realized that walking was not an option. He ambled back downstairs in the house he was so acutely aware was empty. On his way out the back door, he grabbed the car keys of his Aston Martin.

Paul managed to slip out the back way without being noticed by the fans. He could barely focus on the road and dashed straight through three red lights without noticing.

Wouldn't it be ironic if I got into a car accident? thought Paul bitterly. I narrowly defeat death by plane only to suffer death by automobile.

His dark green car zoomed into EMI's half-empty parking lot. He parked directly over the faded yellow line between parking spaces, but he either didn't notice or didn't care.

Paul turned off his car, got out, slammed the door shut, and pocketed his keys. He jogged across the parking lot and into the studio.

The receptionist nearly had a heart attack when she saw him walk in. She clutched her chest and murmured, "Oh!"

"Can I have a studio?" he asked. "Any empty one'll do."

The shocked receptionist could only nod and stutter, "I . . . I don't think Studio 2 is reserved today . . . ."

Paul turned and paced down the hall to Studio 2. He grasped the familiar metal doorknob and watched for a second as his knuckles turned white. Then, he twisted the knob and shoved the door open.

He looked around the dark room and swung the door shut behind him. The clock on the wall continued to silently mark the time since he had first set foot here. If he squinted into the shadows, he could almost see Pete Best sitting moodily in the back corner, playing here for the first and only time. Paul didn't have to look much harder to see himself, standing a little closer, silently singing "Besame Mucho" for a distinctly unimpressed George Martin, whom Paul imagined in the control booth above.

And there were John and George. A tiny bead of sweat dripped down George's temple – this was it. Would they finally get the coveted recording contract they'd been working toward since the Quarry Men?

Paul hollowly turned back to Pete Best in the corner, but he wasn't there anymore. Instead, there was Ringo, a goofy grin on his face as he pounded the drums. Paul turned to the left to see John, shirtless, screaming out "Twist and Shout" in one take. Paul smiled a little and swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed George, overjoyed to be singing his own song for a Beatles record – "Don't Bother Me."

"Stop it!" yelled Paul, closing his eyes. His shout echoed around the empty studio, ricocheting off the bare, white walls.

Paul breathed in through his nose, soaking up the air of the familiar studio, gathering his memories from where they floated, scattered, upon the smell of cigarettes and carpet cleaner. He blew out through his mouth, expelling his nostalgia in one fell swoop.

"Right," he said to himself, opening his eyes. "Let's get to work, McCartney."

14 August, 1965, 5:00 PM (London time). EMI Studios, London, England.

Paul looked up from his guitar to see a stripe of bright yellow light slashing across the carpet. He squinted through the haze of cigarette smoke to see a tall silhouette in the doorway.

"Hello, Paul," said George Martin. He looked at Paul, who was hunched over an acoustic guitar. The Beatle was shrouded in smoke and darkness, and his eyes were red.

Paul inclined his head slightly toward the producer. "George."

"You should go home," said George.

Paul reached up with his left hand, his plectrum still grasped with his thumb and first two fingers. With his ring finger and pinkie finger, he took his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaled more smoke. "Okay."

"I have to warn you, there are a fair few reporters outside," cautioned George. "Keep your wits about you."

"Ta," replied Paul. He stood up and stretched a little. "I'll leave this guitar here where I found it, I guess."

George nodded. "Get a good night's sleep, Paul."

"Is it that late already?" asked Paul, turning and trying to read the clock through the smoke and shadows.

George smiled wanly. "For you it is."

Paul returned the guitar to its stand next to his chair. He carelessly dropped his pick to the floor, but for once George didn't seem to mind. Instead, the producer turned and walked back down the hall to his office, leaving the door to Studio 2 open behind him.

Paul followed George out and turned the opposite direction, past the now-empty reception desk, toward the front door of EMI Studios.

The minute he pulled the handle, Paul felt he'd made a terrible mistake. Several reporters and their attendant photographers surged him, tape recorders and cameras in hand.

"How did you survive the plane crash Friday night?"

"Will you cut your hair now that the Beatles have broken up?"

"Were you actually on the plane last night, or did you know that it was going to crash?"

"How do you feel about your friends' sudden deaths?"

Paul felt hot, dizzy, underneath the fading summer sun. The London smog invaded his nostrils, his throat, his lungs; he felt as if he were drowning in the thick, humid air.

"Er, it's a drag, you know," he mumbled into the nearest reporter's tape recorder.

The babble rose and fell around him, but he ceased to hear actual words, just noises. Children laughing at Butlin's summer camp. Gangsters yelling in heavy German accents to "Mach shau!" Teenage girls screaming joyously in packed theatres.

"Excuse me, I have to go home," murmured Paul, pushing through the sea of people surrounding him. "I have to go home now."

The Beatle stumbled across the parking lot to his double-parked Aston Martin. He pulled open the door harshly – I didn't even lock it. How silly. – and collapsed into the driver's seat. It took him a few tries to insert the key into the ignition, but eventually it slid in, and with a low grumble the car started.

Paul made himself focus on the road on the way back. It wouldn't do for me to die, too. Then the press would be lonely. He chuckled to himself at that last thought.

Again, he managed to sneak into his garage through the back way with minimal fuss. Wandering across his back garden to the kitchen door, Paul found himself staring at the ground, watching the minutia of the blades of grass in the evening light. At least the weather's nice.

He watched his shining black Beatle boots, watched as their shimmering surfaces became more and more imperfect, dirt coating their sleek surfaces.

If he hadn't been staring at the ground, he never would have seen the tangled mess of brown twigs that lay beneath the rather stunted tree in his backyard. He squatted to identify the strange object.

A single blue oval rested in the middle of the tattered twine. Just one crack ran across its otherwise pristine surface. Paul realized that he had found a bird's nest.

He stood up and ambled back to his house. He carefully unlocked the door.

Martha bounded gleefully past him into the yard. Paul smiled faintly as he stepped inside and poured her some food.

She barked at the back door to let him know that she wanted in. He pulled it open, and she darted across the room for her food. She, at least, had completely recovered from the trauma of that morning.

Paul found that he was very tired. It wasn't late, but he still had to stifle a yawn.

He decided that food could wait until the next morning, and walked through the silent house to his bedroom, where the alarm clock ticked quietly on the bedside table.

Paul tumbled into bed, still fully dressed, and stared at his plaster ceiling. Just as he wondered when he was going to fall asleep, his eyes drooped, his breathing evened, and peace at last reclaimed him.

Downstairs, the morning's chaos was still apparent. The cold, charred bacon still languished in the frying pan; the broken pot was still strewn across the floor; and the telephone in the living room was still unplugged.

"Among the ten million young men killed in the Great War was the last of the Ravenhurst family. And I? I was the happiest I have ever been."