Late afternoon finally found the Beatles and accompanying entourage settled into a prominent pub complete with the cozy, laidback atmosphere they'd been desperately craving for hours on end. Tired, hungry, and a bit fed up with all that they'd been through thus far; little time was wasted dawdling, and orders, owing to the attentiveness of the wait-staff, were submitted and fetched in a rare but automatic fashion to meet each their heart's, more so, their stomach's desires. And in no time, they were eating. Despite George being on the brink of a food driven orgasm, the sequence of events had all but pleased John. As far as he was concerned, the special treatment they'd received was nothing more than a mere product of their fame. Had they been any other random, average group off the street, they never would've found themselves on the receiving end of such speedy service. In fact there was a good chance, they'd have yet to order, let alone be stuffing their faces. It was sickening and yet another disconcerting side to fame. The rhythm guitarist was beginning to downright loathe everything his celebrity status had been bringing to him lately. Fame was seemingly the only true scenario where one could receive star treatment on one half of a spectrum and zero privacy and respect on another half. Bloody bipolar, his life had become... and he had but one word to describe it. Fucking overrated. Plain and simple. A simple word to describe a hellish, overly complex life. Brian on the other hand, when graced with everything most recently presented to them by the 'eager to please' restaurant, had reacted with nothing more than pure contentment. How classic. How characteristic of a prim and proper manager who wanted nothing more than the best for his boys. Poor oblivious taskmaster. How would he dare take it if the so-called 'best' he was always promoting was actually the worst in disguise?

"Something wrong with your food, John?" Brian presently asked, his crisp, clear voice everything enough to penetrate the overpowering, pessimistic thoughts swarming about him.

"Why do ye' ask?" the guitarist asked; blinking finally. He'd been staring so hard at the center of the table; it had ceased to exist in his line of vision. Glancing down at his plate, it suddenly dawned on him that it had remained untouched since he'd received his order nearly ten minutes ago. His overloaded mind had done so good a job at distracting him from his food; he'd even managed to momentarily forget about his latest troubles, his brain having sought out other impending matters equally depressing. Strangely enough he was actually starving himself as a result without truly meaning to. Funny thing, stress...

"Well, you've hardly touched it!"

For the millionth time that day, John was put on the spot. And for the millionth time that day, he didn't quite know how to take it. He dwelled a moment in his own silence before tossing his head back with all the indignation he was currently capable of. "What, am I not eating fast enough fer ye'?" he derisively demanded.

"Actually, yer not eating at all!" Paul piped up softly albeit callously.

John shot him a glare. Having returned his attention to his food, the bassist pretended not to notice.

"Aren't y'hungry?" George pitched in.

Before John could even respond, the lead guitarist took it upon himself to reach past his own plate to grab an untouched scone from his mate's.

Lennon hastily shoved the intruder's hand away. "Mind yer own soddin' plate, y'git!" he snapped.

The lead guitarist retreated but held his ground. "Not if yer only set on lettin' it go t'waste!" he responded.

To prove some unknown point for unknown, potentially malicious reasons, John took the very scone George had been seeking out and took a bite out of it just to spite him. In doing so, he was nearly the recipient of his own poorly sought out spite as his attempt to swallow said scone had him in a near gagging fit. As he began coughing and choking, his water was shoved at him courtesy of Brian who quickly resorted to reprimanding him for not being more careful with his 'childish' antics. It took several swallows of water for John to find his tongue once more. "Really, 'm'fine, Brian," he muttered, voice dripping with ample sarcasm, "Thanks fer asking."

"You asked fer it," George innocently added, gracing him with a smug look.

"Piss off." John grumbled; agitated with the fact that even his own actions were starting to backfire on him. Really it was as though the entire world was against him. He set the partially eaten scone down on his plate before it could do him any more damage. What had happened had been no accident. His stomach, put off by the mere act of eating, had made its turbulent feelings known. Maybe reasons were psychosomatic, but with such a mindset, he was set to presume that he probably wouldn't have been able to eat much even if he wanted to. He'd most likely have to settle for water... and small insignificant scraps. A scone really hadn't been his best choice in picking, anyroad. The things were chockfull of everything destined to fatten one up. How much of a bad thing was too much? Would he have to revert to Gigi's plan already? The French bird's words floated into his mind right then. 'I purge... It is why I am still able to enjoy what I love. It is safer because I'm not depriving myself of what I need to survive.'

John mentally shrugged. Well as that famous French saying went; 'joie de vivre!' Absently, he took up the scone and began nibbling at it once more. If he were to properly portray the façade of normalcy, he'd better capitalize on what it meant to appear normal. This time, possibly due to the will of thought, the scone went down with ease. His stomach soon forgot its grudge against all things edible and gurgled with piqued interest; food being what it had needed all along. He had to limit his intake still. 'Joie de vivre' or not, it was no excuse to go overboard.

"Can I get you guys anything?"

Several pairs of eyes glanced up to the fair-haired pub waitress seeking out each their requests.

"I'll take another sparkling water, please," Eppy kindly requested.

The waitress eagerly nodded with a pleasant smile, "Anything else?" she asked.

"More bacon butties please!" George requested next through a mouthful of scone, carefully selected this time from his own plate. Kind and soft-spoken, this 'saintly' woman of a waitress was a true goddess in his eyes as not only was she heavenly in appearance but the supplier of the food he'd been longing for all day. Try as he might, he just couldn't seem to stop eating.

The waitress smiled at him; her easy gesture portraying amusement this time as she took in youngest Beatles' gusto. "Sure thing! Anything else?"

"Another coke," Paul stated, smiling up at her.

"Water," said John. "None of that sparkling stuff. Just regular water."

"Nothing fer me, thanks," Ringo politely told her. "I'm right ready to burst!"

"You've had half a bacon butty if even that!" George acknowledged incredulously, turning to Ringo with disbelief, "How can y'be full from that?"

"Well, look at 'is size fer starters!" Paul commented unsupportively, an eyebrow arched.

Ringo waved the bassist off, "Me size 'as nothing to do with anything, Macca!" he affirmed in a constructed attempt to defend himself, "And fer yer bloody information, George, I'd more than half!"

"Yeah? How many then?"

"Two!" Ringo proudly informed his mates as though he was a mere tot who'd just pleased his mum by finishing off his vegetables, "And at least I'm not ordering more bacon butties when I've a plate full of 'em! You'll eat this place outta business if ye' keep it up, George!"

"Then so be it!" George stated before jamming another bacon butty into his mouth and grinning through it.

The waitress chuckled as she moved away to fulfill everyone's latest requests. Ringo could only imagine what she was thinking.

"Is everyone enjoying their meals?" Eppy took the time to ask.

There was a chorus of yeses, yeahs, and sures.

"John?" Eppy glanced specifically to the rhythm guitarist noticing that he was the only one who hadn't bothered to express his opinion. "Are you satisfied? You've hardly touched the bacon butties either. They're for everyone, you know."

"I wasn't impressed with their taste, really," John flippantly responded without missing a beat, "They're much better back home."

"Well, you've never complained before," Eppy prodded, his comment bringing to the guitarist' diminished attention that they'd eaten at the very pub they currently resided in several times before on tours past.

"Maybe y'weren't listening..." was John's absent remark.

"What did you end up eating if not the butties?" Mal pressed, "Certainly you've eaten more than that scone!"

"Two slices actually!" John affirmed, finding he sounded a lot like Ringo at the moment. Only difference was, his verification lacked a bit of truth...

"All this time of not eating and all you had was two helpings of scone?" Brian demanded, his immediate displeasure coming into the light.

John shrugged, failing to see the cause for such a reaction, "I'll eat more later. I'll be much hungrier then, I imagine."

"Not hungry..." George scoffed, blatantly put off by the whole idea of it all, "Y'better keep away from me if yer coming down with something."

Paying George no mind, John heaved a sigh and rose from his seat.

"Where are ye' 'eading off to?" George asked in a fit of surprise. "I don't mean fer ye' to leave entirely!"

"I gotta shake me snake. What's it to ye'?" John snapped back at him.

"Honestly, John," Eppy muttered, blanching noticeably out of pure embarrassment, "You're in a restaurant! Control that tongue of yours, would you?"

George and Ringo snickered. "That'll be the day," Ringo piped up, "Ain't that right, Johnny?"

But John was already gone.

Entering the vacant bathroom, the anxious rhythm guitarist paced around for a bit, pausing at the sink and daring to look himself in the eye. He hadn't had to pee. Not really. He'd had other intentions as he'd left the dining table. But what were they really? What was he truly about to do? His reflection stared back, perceptibly tired and even a bit pale. A daring glint, the only sign of life from within the depths of his wearied eyes gave it all away. He was about to... He was about to... He couldn't even bring himself to merely think the rest of the unveiled realization, it was that taboo. Or was it? What if it were the actual answer to all his pitiful wants and needs? What if...? He trailed off, forcibly ripping his eyes away from his gruesome reflection. The more time he wasted questioning his unformulated antics, the... the more time he wasted... John frowned, disgusted by the recent nonsense spun up by his failing brain. What was happening to his mentality these days? Great. More questions. More time wasted.

The musician took a step into the stall and dropped his gaze to the toilet bowl. Its mouth seemed to grow smaller by the second as though indicating that time was not of the essence. He either hurry up and do what he came to do or lose his nerve altogether. Impulsively, he latched the stall door behind him and knelt down before the toilet. His stomach, already sick with a lack of food intake, did the rest and within seconds he was forcing up everything he'd eaten that day... and then some. The contractions became almost automatic after a while and he had a hard time slowing them even as nothing but traces of bile emerged from his mouth.

After a long torturous while, John collapsed back against the stall wall, his eyes stinging with involuntary tears and actual sweat. Reaching blindly for a piece of toilet paper, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose before discarding it all in the toilet and flushing it away with all his stomach contents. All the while, he wondered how Gigi could do something like he'd just done just for the sake of doing it. It felt awful. His throat burned, his head throbbed something fierce, and his stomach felt sickeningly hollow. Had he been a bit more of a nancy-boy, he might've actually cried from all the discomfort.

Another few minutes went by before Lennon finally forced himself to his feet. Alarmingly dizzy, he gripped the stall walls before feeling steady enough to proceed with his stall exit. Making his way to the sink, he hurriedly rinsed his mouth out with fresh water before daring to take in his reflection once more. Bloody hell... if he thought he'd looked bad before, he looked even worse now. His bangs were actually wet with sweat, their color significantly darker as a result. The contrast against his colorless face was appalling, not to mention the pronounced bags beneath his still watery, bloodshot eyes. At this point, he hardly resembled a human being let alone his father. Acting upon impulse once more, he bent over the sink splashing warm water on his face in hopes of giving it a bit more color. Then he made a show of drying his hair using wads and wads of paper towels. Another glance in the mirror proved to be a poor choice of action, as he was instantly displeased to find that he hardly passed his own test. At least his hair was drier. Without missing another beat, the guitarist tugged open the bathroom door and reluctantly, he made his way back to the others. He knew they'd be wondering about him by now if they weren't already.

Just as expected, everyone looked up as he fell, more like collapsed, into his seat.

"Where've y'been, Lennon?" Ringo was the first to ask, "I was beginning to think y'fell in!"

"I..." Lennon trailed off, grimacing inwardly at the hoarse surfacing of his voice. Taking a sip of the water he'd been presented with who knew how long ago, he cleared his throat before continuing the beginning of a constructed charade. "I 'ad something in me eye. Took some time to get it out."

"Is that why yer eyes are so red? Wait why are they both red?" George questioned, "Y'weren't smoking without me were ye'?"

"Paper towels..." John skillfully thought up. "As I was digging around in one eye, they both started watering. Must be allergic or something..."

George shrugged, accepting the answer as did the others. Only Paul remained secretly skeptical, though he refused to address his mate altogether as they were still in the throes of some irrational, absurd row.

Blind to Paul's thoughts, John found himself sighing in relief as all eyes lifted off of him. But boy was he knackered. He wanted to go home. He needed to sleep. Most importantly, he needed to eat- No... No he didn't. Not if it would lead to him having to throw up again. But what if he got hungry again? What was he to do then? Perhaps that French bird was right. Perhaps this was the only way. Bloody hell, what was he choosing to get himself into? He couldn't even begin to fathom it. His head aching still, he temporarily laid it down into the crook of an inviting arm he'd had resting on the table. His eyes actually burned. It felt good to close them.

"John..." the disembodied voice came from far away at first.

"John!" now it was right in his ear. A detached hand gripped him right then and he actually jolted to as though he'd been in a separate realm of consciousness prior. "Huh?" he questioned, confusion gripping him as he finally allowed himself to lift his head, blinking blearily into the restaurant lighting.

George was peering at him as if he was nothing more than an alien straight from Jupiter. "Were ye' sleeping?" he asked with ample shock.

John frowned. "What? No!" His own words sent a sharp stab of pain through his skull and he quickly winced. His head was killing him.

"Well y'look like shite," the lead guitarist honestly professed, "Y'better not bother sitting next t'me in the car."

John groaned and sat up, raking his fingers through his hair. "I'm fine, George... No need t'wet yerself... I'm not falling ill."

"He probably just needs to eat is all," McCartney muttered, not looking up from the table as he spoke.

"Yes." Brian quickly agreed, "Yes. I'm sure that's it. We'll return to the hotel, he'll eat a decent meal, and everything will be fine." He couldn't bear the thought of any member of his band falling ill on tour of all times. Paul's suggestion seemed a much easier fix void of all setbacks. "Let's wrap this up then," the manager added, pulling out his wallet with an air of finality, "We've a busy week ahead of us and I'd like for us all to settle in for the remainder of the day so that things can proceed with utmost efficiency."