Pressed up against the window of the Beatles' car furthest from his mates, John visibly fumed.

Talk to Paul. What bollocks. It wasn't like he was going through anything that the proclaimed 'cute Beatle' was actually capable of understanding. Sure the bassist had been a bit on the chubby side growing up but those years were long gone having since been replaced by layers of self-confidence and all the fan adoration to go along with it. McCartney had everything. He had the face, he had the voice, he had the respect... Most importantly he had the control. No one would dare think to belittle him with such an insensitive word as fat... or anything of the like. Not Paul. Not sweet innocent James Paul McCartney. Next to him, John felt about as graceful as a new-born giraffe. Next to him, he felt about as appealing as a full-grown hippopotamus. He didn't even feel like he was in control of his own band anymore, the title having been passed off to Paul without so many words stating so. It didn't matter whether or not anyone actually stated the fact. It just was. Everyone knew it. He could just see it. He could see it in the permanent pride McCartney wore like a mask. He could see it in the face of Brian whenever he'd openly discuss the talents of the band's precious bassist. Soon, there wouldn't be a place for a John Lennon, regardless of whether or not he invented the Beatles. They'd faze him out... and replace him with someone better than him in every aspect. Right now, it seemed as though every and any living thing could fit that criteria. He was missing that unique quality he once had. Assuming he once had it to begin with. It was possible that it had all been in his head. It was possible that this current frame of mind was all in his head, as well. If so, then what was happening to him?

In an air of uncontainable frustration, Lennon dropped his head in hands and half-groaned, half-growled forth the turbulent troubles confined to his mind. This was it. He'd truly gone mad. The scenery outside of the moving car consequently reduced itself to a hazy blur as though doing everything in its power to prove the statement true. He'd gone so far off the deep end; he could hardly make sense of the outside world anymore.

The unanticipated touch to his shoulder sent a foreign, indescribable feeling of dread down his spine; something like a shaky, tingly chill. Impulsively, the rhythm guitarist shook the unwanted hand away before swinging his eyes to the intruder, his jaded gaze falling on the worried face of the drummer seated next to him.

"What happened to your hand?" he inquired slowly, cautiously, his voice practically a whisper.

"What?"

"Your hand."

Oh. That. John subsequently extended his hand in front of his face and flexed it. The bruised and bloodied knuckles had already begun to scab over, making the action vaguely uncomfortable. Weirdly enough, he'd forgotten all about it. It didn't even hurt anymore, really. "Nothing to concern yerself with, Ring," he vacantly responded without looking at him.

"But... but..." Ringo couldn't seem to hide his utter confusion of his ongoing concern especially concerning his mate's newly acquired subdued persona , "Are... are you sure yer all right, John?" he blurted out.

John vacantly perceived him, his face lacking emotion. "What makes y'think I'm not?" he asked; his voice presenting itself with just as much numbness as stemmed from his face.

"Yer not yerself."

John's eyes narrowed, his dark gaze surveying the drummer with all the blatant irritation in the world. "Yeah? And how should ye' know what qualifies as the self of John Lennon, eh?!"

"I..." Ringo paused momentarily, attempting to gather the words necessary to address such a curveball of a question, "Well, I've dealt with ye' long enough, Lennon. I think I've gathered the proper wit to know me way around ye' by now."

"Well... that makes one of us..." John sighed, his initial anger subsiding as quickly as it had come on, "Congratulations, Ritchie! I'd give yer a trophy but I'm all out. Why don't ye' try, McCartney? He's earned several jus' by being cute, y'know."

Having been seated directly on the other side of Ringo, Paul was unable to avoid the bombardment of such words to his open ears. "Lennon, I bloody swear-" the bassist sharply interjected. Quickly, he bit down on his tongue to avoid the remaining stream of hurtful words that threatened to spill forth like a waterfall.

"And here's the beauty queen now," Lennon remarked matter-of-factly, his gaze depicting faux nonchalance as it swung briefly to Paul, "Go 'ead, Ritch. Ask 'im."

"Go t'hell, Lennon!" McCartney growled.

John smirked scornfully, "I'm already there, love."

"Enough!!!" Ringo intervened, his voice a plaintive wail of cross irritation, "If yer wish t'fight like bloody three-year-olds, do it when I'm not bloody stuck in between the two of ye'!!!"

Paul blanched and John moodily looked away.

To Ringo's immediate surprise, much-craved silence prevailed, the outcome unexpected. Blimey! Such a thing never happened especially when dealing with the likes of the two most dominant personalities of the band. Clearly, he'd have to use his powers for good!

The drummer dared a brief glance beyond Paul to see how George was faring through the latest escalation of things. Cleverly, the lead guitarist remained frozen, his gaze fixated out the window with a feigned lack of awareness. He might as well have been part of the outside scenery in passing, he was so detached. Lucky, the drummer couldn't help enviously thinking. Ignorance could be bloody bliss. If only he, himself, could be so lucky half the time. Fortunately, both Lennon and McCartney seemed to have dropped their row for the time-being. Slowly for fear of inadvertently instigating something with his gaze alone and disturbing, as a result, the newly fallen quietude, Ringo returned his gaze to the front of the car. Only then did he allow every tense muscle in his body to relax. Whatever was wrong with John, he hoped someone would figure it out sooner rather than later. Somehow, he didn't have a good feeling about things to come.

At some unwanted point in time, he must've drifted off because his next point of awareness found him subject to a brusque but gentle jostling emerging from the hands of Mal. At last, Ringo came to, his tired gaze meeting the bemused eyes of their road manager. "What's the matter?" he blurted out, his voice clogged with sleep.

"Time to get out. We've arrived," Mal responded, traces of bemusement not leaving his face.

At that point, Ringo managed to glance about him, noticing at last that Brian along with both Paul and George had already vacated the car. Next to him, Lennon was making a half-arsed effort at doing the same.

"Oh..." Ringo mumbled, everything beginning to make sense at once as reality bombarded him with all the force of a freight train. "Right. The interview."

Mal glanced from him to John and back. "Hardly a half hour ride to the premises and the two of you were nearly dead to the world!"

"Sleeping is a crime now, is it?" John sneered in his direction, an eyebrow raised in a cynical manner.

Mal turned to him, slightly taken aback by the iciness of his words. "Well, no, John... not at all! I'm just a bit surprised is all. Especially with how hard it was to wake you boys."

John wasted no time displaying a rapidly increasing lack of interest in the roadie's unnecessary concerns, "It's the perfect escape, sleep. Ringo could sleep through the onset of the perfect storm, y'know."

"Well, yes... but you, John... you're supposed to be the light sleeper as it was," He shifted his gaze from John to Ringo and back, "You boys are feeling well, aren't you?"

"Of course!" Ringo automatically responded, "We're just hungry if anything. Tired because of it."

"Speak fer yerself, drummer," John mumbled, his demeanor still portraying an obvious lack of interest.

Mal heaved a sigh of frustration, his gaze once again, landing skeptically on the rhythm guitarist, "Regardless, we've no time to waste-"

"Story of me life," John haughtily interrupted, "Jus' lay the blame already so that the rest of us can get on with our mediocre lives."

Mal shook his head. "I have no such intentions of pointing any fingers. I'm just a bit concerned, really. In fact," he paused concentrating his gaze on Lennon, "John, I-"

"Mal," Ringo tentatively cut in, beginning to suspect that he knew the true purpose behind the roadie's intervention. He may not have finished schooling but he wasn't stupid... nor was he blind.

"Yes, Ritch?"

"Is this conversation actually meant to involve me? I mean... yer not exactly looking to scold us fer simply falling asleep are ye'?"

After a bit of thought, Mal shook his head, "No. I'm not actually." He paused thoughtfully. Truth be told, Ringo had nothing to do with anything he was about to say. He just happened to be left there due to his sluggish awakening. Had he woken up in a more timely fashion, he'd have been sent into the building just as the others were. "Sit tight a moment," the manager presently commanded. With that, he turned around to face the bodyguard patiently perched behind him on the sidewalk, waiting to complete his job of escorting the remaining half of the Beatles inside. After a few quick words, he turned back to Ringo. "You will be escorted in right this moment."

Ringo nodded gratefully and made pronounced efforts to escape the car. As soon as he was out of earshot, Mal turned back to face John who immediate made a show of rolling his eyes under the manager's steady gaze.

"Look," the rhythm guitarist went on to declare, "I'm really not in the mood fer a psychological evaluation least of all from you so-"

"Brian believes he's got a right for worry," Mal interrupted, paying the boy no mind, "and well actually, he's asked for me to address the situation."

"Brilliant," John snapped, his words laden with sarcasm, "Nancy-boy cries to ye' and then leaves ye' t'do his dirty work."

Mal sighed, "Actually, John, that's not entirely true. He-" He faltered suddenly realizing he was beginning to stray away from the topic. He knew from too many years of experience that such an occurrence was exactly what was meant to happen as a result of a skillfully honed diversion craftily created by none other than John Lennon. Shaking his head and heaving a flustered sigh, he gave his speech another go. "He, as well as everyone else, is under the impression that something is bothering you."

John remained unfazed. "Well, it seems to me that he, as well as everyone else, needs to tend to their own problems, don't y'think?" came his contemptuous response.

"Tell me, Lennon. Are you going to retaliate to everything I say?" Mal questioned, his unconcealed annoyance depicting his resolute disapproval of such behavior.

John casually leaned back in his seat, a derisive smirk planted on his face. "That depends, Mal," he retorted, "Let's see how far yer willing t'go with this bloody nonsense."

"So you refuse to take this seriously, then."

"I am serious." John defiantly affirmed, subsequently staring the older man down, his eyes dark and filled with challenge.

Mal took a reactive step back. "You could've fooled me!"

"Are we done?" John dully asked, pronounced boredom underlining his most recent demand.

"Well it's clear that you don't wish to let anyone into your world, John," Mal resignedly concluded, "But I'll tell you one thing." He leaned in once more for effect, his eyes narrowing with austerity. "This behavior, whatever maybe the cause of it, ends here," he sternly reprimanded, "Got it?"

"So were done," John muttered, blatantly overlooking the roadie's warnings. "Great." He began extracting himself from the car, "Let's get the rest of this fucking day over with then."

And Mal couldn't help but incredulously stare at the guitarist as he went about his endeavors, a feeling of incompleteness gripping him. Somehow, he'd been unable to get anywhere near the subject matter even as he'd tried to approach it head on. As per usual, Lennon had managed to remain practically untouched what with all those mind games of his. The boy was an enigma. A puzzle. A bloody mystery. And for the time being, it seemed that not even Sherlock Holmes had what it took to get to the core of his mind.

_________________________________________________________________________

"Bloody hell, where are they?" Brian mentally questioned of both John and Mal as he anxiously paced back and forth in front of the wide doorway leading to the setting of the Beatles' interview. The event should've started five minutes ago. Not only was the interviewer getting impatient, but even Paul had gone forth to state that they start without John. Brian wasn't blind to the true reasoning behind McCartney's suggestion either. He knew that the lads weren't quite seeing eye to eye in even the slightest. Rather than feed into their rather childish behavior by allowing Paul his ridiculous request and angering John in the long run, he decisively held his ground.

"John should be with us shortly," he found himself announcing over and over again, more so for the sake of himself as well as the interviewer. She, a longhaired, curly blonde, couldn't resist the mere act of glancing to her watch indicating her growing intolerance to the situation.

Brian literally wanted to sink into the carpeted floor with each time she completed such an act. The Beatles were dead set on losing all their credibility at this point. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. This wasn't the way this event was supposed to pan out. Presently heaving a sigh of concealed frustration, the manager shot a look to the ceiling self-pity claiming him. Couldn't one thing... just one thing turn out as it should? Was there no justice in this world? He knew his thoughts were a bit on the melodramatic side, but somehow he couldn't seem to help it nor did he actually care enough to try. This day was utter hell as far as he could see. For the sake of his sanity, he needed just one thing to go smoothly. In fact, with the way things had been thus far, he desperately needed for the entireremainder of the day to go smoothly. Would that be so much to ask? Probably.

The sound of approaching footsteps stymied any leftover thoughts and Brian looked up with hope, his eyes landing on not just Mal but John as well. And in a fleeting instant, hope became relief before irritation took over altogether. "Where have you been, John?" he sharply insisted. Just as John opened his mouth, a snide response about to tumble out, Brian cut him off, "Never mind. Just get in there and seat yourself beside Ringo!"

As John entered the large carpeted room complete with an avocado green couch on which his mates sat, he was unsurprised to find that the only sources of eye contact stemmed from the aforementioned drummer. Not even the interviewer could be bothered to look up from her notes as he finally took his reserved seat. George stared at the floor. Paul picked at his nails. Deep inside, John felt heavy remorse as he was more than aware that he'd brought all of it upon himself. He'd been the instigator. The git. The arse. In the wake of that, he'd be stupid to expect some kind of royal welcome.

"You must be John Lennon," the interviewer spoke without looking up from her notes.

"The one and only. And you are?"

"Amy Rosewood." She looked up briefly right then but her bout of eye-contact was short-lived. "Wonderful of you to make it! Let's begin."

"Yes, let's!" Paul announced, suddenly jumping in with his usual enthusiasm. He glanced finally to John managing to catch his evasive gaze right before it slipped away to the safety of the floor. The disengaged visual eye-contact somehow cut deeper than the bassist actually imagined it would and he found himself swimming in a resulting world of hurt. He recovered only as the interviewer spoke.

"I'd like to begin by addressing the most recent subject matter the media has to offer as of today."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Ringo asked.

"John."

Lennon recoiled slightly before cautiously raising his eyes to regard the woman who called herself Amy. "What about John?" he asked slowly, warily.

"You've been referred to most recently as the fat Beatle. How does that make you feel?"

Caught off guard by the woman's failure to beat around the bush, John found himself in a rare predicament. He was actually dumbfounded. While he admired anyone who knew how to navigate life with a straightforward approach, he somehow wasn't so fond of this woman's mannerisms when dealing with such a sensitive subject as one's inadvertent weight gain. It was like callously ripping the bandage off a still fresh wound. "Well, how would you feel?" he threw back.

His three band mates recoiled in all out astonishment, visibly taken aback by the unexpected amount of raw emotion that accompanied his demand. Even the interviewer was momentarily rendered speechless.

"I might be famous but I'm still human, y'know," the rhythm guitarist went on in all absence of response, "Lucky for you, yer dealing with the likes of John Lennon and let me tell y'something, darling. He couldn't care less about the shortsighted, superficial bollocks the bloody press chooses to spawn up nowadays. It's bloody shite. All of it. I bet ye', none of 'em could tell their bloody arses from their fucking elbows had they had to do it!"

More wide eyes surrounded him. Only George snickered without restraint, openly as he often did, admiring his mate's brutal honesty.

But Brian was far from amused. Fearing the worst, he entered the scene with all the purpose he was capable of exhibiting. "That's enough, Lennon!" he hissed, while struggling to maintain his air of characteristic refinement, "That's enough!"

John rolled his eyes, unperturbed by the chastisement. "Well, it's the truth, ain't it, Brian?"

"Whether it is or isn't, I don't wish to hear another word about it!" Eppy snapped in response.

John sat back in his seat. "Typical."

Brian turned to the interviewer before dismissing himself from the center of attention, "Change the subject," he ordered her.

Amy responded with a shrug. "All right, then!" She turned automatically to George, "George, I hear you're the big eater of the group. How is it that you manage to stay so thin? I'm sure many fans would love to know your secret!"

Paul frowned in immediate distaste. How could this woman go from talking about John's weight gain to George's thinness? It was almost as though she was trying to build contrast but in a negative way.

George shrugged unsure of how to tackle such a question, "Uh... I just do... I can't imagine there's a real science to it... I'm just one of those people with a fast metabolism I guess."

Paul glanced to John wondering if he'd caught on to the interviewer's game. Oddly enough, the rhythm guitarist didn't seem to have taken notice; another red flag in Paul's mind. John was beyond smart and beyond perceptive. Chances were he was shielding himself, emotions and all, behind one of those infamous, impenetrable Lennon facades. How much of his emotion was he keeping in check? What was he hiding? And what of the 'fat Beatle' comment? Judging by his initial reaction when asked about it, it seemed he'd known all along. Was it the source behind his moodiness? If so, why hadn't he chosen to let on to him, his best mate of all people? It was clear, judging by that rant alone, that the rhythm guitarist needed an outlet. Why hadn't he come to him?

A strange alien sound almost guttural in nature proceeded to emerge from somewhere in the room at that very instant.

"Well!" Amy sat back in astonishment, "It sounds like someone's hungry!"

"Probably George," Ringo affirmed with a laugh.

"George!" Brian automatically followed up, scolding the lead guitarist in a manner that suggested he should've been in better control of the inner workings of his digestive tract.

George's eyes widened defensively, "That wasn't me!" he exclaimed. "Not this time!"

"Sure it wasn't," Ringo chuckled.

Paul didn't fail to notice as everyone else did, John's actions as one of his hands, alarming shaky, moved discreetly to his abdomen following the intestinal growl. He was so pale today. Really, he looked quite sick. The effects of not eating, Paul mentally suspected with ample worry. He'd kill John if he got to the bottom of whatever it was he was trying to pull, assuming he was trying to pull anything at all. Something had the bass player on edge and it wasn't just Lennon's attitude. The unexplained feeling he'd developed earlier on in the day, for some reason was still with him. What it contained entirely and what was driving it, he still couldn't place. And for the moment, nothing in the world was more maddening.