He was covered in prune-like wrinkles when he awoke. And it took him nearly an entire minute to come to the realization that he was seated, shivering like mad, in a tub of lukewarm water. What proved even more alarming was the lack of memory regarding how he'd gotten to this point. He couldn't even remember coming to the initial decision of wanting a bath, let alone actually going ahead and making the desire a reality. And what had happened in the meantime of doing so? He'd allowed himself to drift off? He'd fallen asleep? Why did he feel so groggy? So dazed? So disoriented? So worn out and frail? The more the rhythm guitarist struggled to comprehend all waves of confusion as they surfaced within him, the further away logic slipped. And there it sat; all things sense-worthy, dancing just on the edge of perception. What time was it anyway? Oddly enough, he could hardly remember if it was morning, noon, or night.

A series of urgent thuds sounded at the door and Lennon jerked up, his attention drawn in its direction of the emanating sound. He wanted to answer verbally, but for the strangest reason, he didn't think he could trust his voice. Instead, he carried on wordlessly, reaching a startlingly heavy arm down into the water and subsequently pulling the plug from the drain of the bathtub. Christ, was it he'd gotten so bloody fat, he could hardly make use of his own arms? Moving quite gingerly, he rose to his feet, ignoring the sudden head-rush that momentarily nullified every sense his body was capable of. As he stepped carefully out of the tub, the floor seeming to shimmer and quake beneath him, he managed to reach for a stray bathrobe located conveniently on a nearby hook and without taking the time to dry himself off, slipped it over his chilled, fragile, exposed body. He took time to take in a deep breath, in a failed attempt to clear his spinning head before gravitating slowly on bare feet towards the bathroom door. His entire body ached with the effort. Honestly, he didn't he didn't feel very good.

"John?! Thank goodness!!" Paul nearly fell on him as John pulled the door open. The bassist's clumsy entrance proved immediate evidence that he'd been leaning his entire self against the door prior to its arbitrary opening.

John couldn't help but stare back, complete incredulity gracing his worn out features as he faced yet something else he couldn't readily comprehend. "What are ye' on about?" he demanded. As he spoke, he realized he had great reason not to trust his voice. It was raspy and tired sounding.

"You've been gone fer so long! And then when I heard you running the water, I figured you were taking a bath, but then when y'refused to come out or even respond, we got a bit worried."

John scratched the back of his head as he attempted to turn up some kind of truth surrounding the situation. Frankly, it was like a chunk of time had been ripped clean from his memory. "Guess I dropped off or something..." he mumbled absently.

"Well we were bloody worried!" Paul exclaimed.

"Who was worried?" John questioned, his eyes narrowing slightly. Strangely enough, he was beginning to feel a bit unreasonably defensive in regards to his whereabouts and whom they should concern. Even if he was hardly aware of them himself.

"All of us..." Brian popped up from somewhere behind Paul.

John's eyes narrowed even more as they sharply fell on the manager, intruding on his conversation for all he cared to acknowledge. "Well, I'm fine!" he snapped, "And there's nothing to see 'ere if y'can't already tell!"

Brian's mouth opened and fell shut several times before he gave way to a slight nod. "Come 'ead all," he announced, holding the heated gaze of the blatantly temperamental rhythm guitarist with alarming bravado, "There's nothing to see here." And with that, he turned away, obediently bowing out of his projected line of vision.

"He sounds all right, anyroad," George could be heard quipping from somewhere out of sight, "His mouth ain't broken, that's fer sure."

"And me 'ands aren't either!" John sharply called after him, "Come back and I'll test 'em out on ye'!"

Whatever George's response was, John couldn't be arsed to even begin to figure it out. Instead, he turned back to Paul, his irritated persona giving way only slightly in the sole presence of his best mate. "I'm out. Satisfied?" he asked, his tone depicting characteristic derision despite the present exhaustion weighing it down, "Now y'can all get on with yer pointless lives."

Paul made no move to turn away. Rather, he took a step back and frowned observing what he could of him. "No." he stated slowly after a while, "No, I'm not satisfied. Y'don't look so hot, y'know..."

"Attacking me to me face now are ye', McCartney?" John snapped, his eyes once again, narrowing irrationally upon the bassist, "Good on' yer... Nice to know something of me 'as rubbed off on yer nancy arse."

Temporarily thrown for a loop, Paul allowed his eyes to widen in a fit of surprise before he gradually came to his senses. "No, y'git!" he sharply retorted, visibly put off by the outlandish presumption.

John arched an eyebrow. "Then what?"

"I jus' meant, y'don't look right... Y'look sorta... sick actually..."

Lennon's expression eased up and he found remorse, in regards to his tongue-lashing, slipping through him. "Oh." His gaze dropped and he kicked semi-distractedly at the tiled floor beneath his feet. "Well, I'm fine, y'know."

"Are y'now?" A sudden figment of suspicion proceeded to darken McCartney's face, "I get the feeling ye' aren't taking very good care of yerself..." he blurted out before he could even begin to stop himself. He couldn't help it. It had been something he'd been meaning to say now for two days.

"And what are we on about now?" John heavily sighed, his lackadaisical attitude doing nothing to hide his choice of simply humoring the bassist.

"These last few days, you've been overly tired and agitated even more so than you've been lately and that's saying a lot. I can't even get near you without fearing that yer gonna rip me 'ead off or something to that extent! 'S'like walking on eggshells all the bloody time!! And if that ain't enough of a problem, I 'aven't failed to notice that yer hardly eating lately either..." Paul paused, carefully measuring his mate's reaction. After deeming it safe to continue, he hurriedly did so. "What's going on with you, and when's it gonna stop?" he concluded finally.

"Why don't we jus' wait and see?" John responded, unable to control the flow of haughtiness that simultaneously tumbled out. He made a frustrated attempt to push past McCartney but the bassist refused to budge, his body like a brick wall. John staggered back, slightly dazed. When did the bassist get so strong? Or better yet, when had he, himself, gotten so weak? "Let me pass, y'bloody sod!" he growled.

Paul continued to stand his ground. "No! Y'aren't running away from me this time! I won't let you!"

"Why do y'even care, Macca...?" John mumbled wistfully, his entire demeanor finally drained of all things energetic, "Y'made it pretty clear the other day what yer feelings were..."

Paul pensively sighed, his eyes finding John's. "When we started fighting, I didn't mean a thing of what I said..." he quietly affirmed, the beginnings of his story pouring forth, "I was just a bit frustrated with you really, and the fact that y'weren't opening up to me. I know yer not one to keep secrets and... the fact that y'wouldn't talk to me... even in private... Well... it bloody hurt!"

"I wasn't in a state of wanting to talk," John retorted hoarsely, "Why couldn't y'jus' except that?"

"Well, since when are ye' ever one to hold anything back, anyway?" Paul demanded challengingly.

As Paul's energy grew by the second, so did John's lethargy, "I don't know, Paul..." he murmured, an uncharacteristic sense of defeat evident in his tone, "Things change."

It was Paul's turn to narrow his eyes at John. "What do y'mean?" he asked.

John hesitated momentarily before responding, his words almost eerily robotic in nature. "I don't... really know..."

Paul's eyebrows knitted together in a portrayal of concern as he continued to study his counterpart, "John..." he began hesitantly, faltering immediately as he acknowledged his lack of sureness regarding how to proceed. "Wh-what's going on with you?"

John snapped to as though coming from a daze. "I'm fine, Macca," he wrapped his arms around himself shivering suddenly and involuntarily as if just coming to the realization that he was standing clad in a bathrobe. "What, yer gonna hold me captive in the bathroom all morning?" he questioned with a bit of a tired smirk contrast to his recent, almost unnatural display, "'M'sure Eppy would love that."

The comedic approach, whatever the purpose of its origin, had no effect on McCartney. He stood rigid; his gaze unmoving from John's face which he began to realize was still decidedly pale. "What's going on with you, really?" he asked once more, hoping third time was the charm in getting a sought out honest answer, "Are y'feeling okay? Y'seem off. More than a little off, actually..."

"I'm a bit tired but... fine I think..." John literally found he that had to struggle to think back to verify if whether or not what he was saying was true. But his memory was failing him. He could hardly remember what he said seconds ago, let alone grip any strange past events that Paul was observing and now questioning. It didn't help that his brain felt increasingly jumbled, like he has attempting to think his way through a bowl of split pea soup. His brain... actually... hurt... and the results left him permanently light and muddleheaded. Perhaps, he'd benefit from a kip or something...

John's return gaze was so blank and unreceptive, that Paul saw no other option but to drop the subject for the time being. Perhaps, he was overanalyzing things? He did have a nasty habit of doing so. "Maybe y'should catch a kip before we take off," he suggested, seeming to be reading Lennon's mind, "Might do y'some good if yer not... feeling well or something... Or..." his expression brightened, "perhaps, you should eat something and then take a kip. That works wonders on a rundown body I hear."

John frowned in the face of his mate's newfound optimism. The thought of eating actually sickened him. "Actually, I'm not feeling me best now that y'mention it. Think a kip should work wonders."

Paul's frown sagged to match John's. "Aren't y'hungry?" he asked.

John shook his head. "Not really, Paul... I told ye' I don't feel well..." He paused momentarily in a strained effort to think before opening his mouth once more, "Y'know, most people don't realize it, but forcing yerself to eat when yer not hungry is a common common mistake."

Paul arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, "Says who?"

John shrugged, "Jus' listen 'round. It's everywhere."

"But if ye' 'aven't eaten then shouldn't ye'-"

"It doesn't matter," John interrupted, "That has nothing t'do with anything!"

McCartney's frown lengthened as he struggled to make sense of Lennon's newfound logic. He failed miserably. Nonetheless, he stepped aside, allowing for his mate to pass him. "If yer say so..." came his uncertain, doubt-filled response.

John smiled, finally appearing pleased with himself. "If y'need me, I'll be doing what I do best. Sleeping."

"In today's attire?"

Lennon shrugged, "Sure. That way I won't have to bother readying meself later."

"You'll get it wrinkled! Eppy will have a-"

"Eppy can kiss me arse."

As John disappeared from sight, Paul couldn't shake the irrational, surfacing feeling that his best mate was walking away from him in more ways than one.