John was dead to the world by the time Ringo got around to waking him. Despite the fact that it was Harrison who'd been Lennon's roommate at the particular hotel they were in the process of leaving and therefore should've been responsible, it was he of all people that had been granted the task via Brian to rouse him. Him. Ringo. And when the petite drummer had looked to Paul for help and possible escape, the bassist had simply nodded his approval as though the words 'John's Keeper' were scrawled across his face in comically big red letters for all to see. Perhaps such a visual label did exist—right across his very forehead at that. There had to have been some reason Brian had seen him fit for such a treacherous, potentially fatal task. Ringo smirked. '...Or rather Brian has gone senile in his early years...' he mentally concluded. That seemed much more likely.

How lucky for him though. 'It's me lucky day really,' the oldest Beatle muttered to himself, sarcasm ringing in his own ears as he perched presently at the foot of Lennon's bed. It had taken him everything to get to this particular point in his journey. Everything to drag his protesting limbs through the halls, through the open doorway of his mates' shared rooms, and finally into the enclosed atmosphere that surrounded their beds. And all the while it had felt wrong. The very air felt wrong, honestly. As though it was holding within its eerie silence, the calm before the storm. Ringo released a sigh as he stared anxiously at his mate's sleeping form, having just realized he'd been unnecessarily holding his breath. John looked so peaceful. More peaceful than he'd looked in months. Momentarily gone were the traces of stress, exhaustion, and the general world-weariness that he seemed to have been carrying around as of late like a second skin. And serving as the one to unintentionally have to bring it all back via reintroduction to the conscious world, the drummer found he was in a bit of a panic. He would be the one to regrettably have to disturb him.

A resulting feeling of dread danced in the pit of his stomach as the realization continued to solidify within the boundaries of his mind. This really was the calm before the storm. The drummer could easily recall several times from his past in which waking John when he didn't wish to be disturbed had gone horribly wrong. He, Paul, George, and even Brian had been on the receiving end of some extremely colorful language that would make even the most vulgar pirate in the world blush. On some occasions, a sporadic punch wasn't out of the ordinary either. Ringo winced, a hand moving to his jaw as he recounted a particularly sharp blow Lennon had once unleashed upon him while locked in a dazed stupor as he'd fought to escape pending consciousness. The bruise had lingered for weeks before it finally faded; John boasting all the while in its aftermath that he had what it took to pummel him senseless in his sleep single-handedly if he very well wanted to. Ringo bristled at the memory. Well he'd be damned if he were going to let such a thing happen all over again. Why should Lennon even get to sleep so late in the morning anyhow? How was that fair when he and the others were left to slave endlessly not just to pack things up for transport, but to take up his slack as well? Lazy git. Anxiety switched to full out envy as the oldest Beatle glared daggers at his younger mate's sleeping form. He was just as tired as John was. He was sure of it. The others were just as tired as John was. He was sure of that! And this had gone on long enough.

Verdict made, Ringo finally approached the bed with a purpose and lay a hand on John's exposed shoulder. Lying soundly on his side, the sleeping Beatle hardly stirred even as the grip tightened with perseverance.

"John..." Ringo dared to add, his voice barely higher than a whisper.

There was no reaction. Not even a fluttering of eyelids.

"John!" Ringo dared to raise his voice another octave.

Stillness met his eyes and ears.

Blimey! Shaking his head in slight frustration, the drummer lightly jostled John's shoulder—a feat that was usually all it took to wake him.

Still nothing. Odd. It was rare for the rhythm guitarist to be caught sleeping so heavily... especially when he'd merely settled down for a kip. Grip tightening even more, the drummer proceeded to shake Lennon even harder. "John!" he called louder still; his outdoor voice coming out for a turn. If this wasn't everything enough, there would definitely have to be something wrong...

Eyes snapped open just like that; unseeing at first as they swung about the room in a fit of apprehension and confusion.

"John, it's me!" Ringo informed him, taking a hand and waving it in front of his band mate's unfocused eyes. As the light brown orbs passed over him, recognition evaded them evermore losing out to the panic that predominantly seemed to occupy them. He looked so raw. So unguarded.

"Julia..." John mumbled.

Ringo immediately felt uncomfortable. Out of place. "Uh... no, John..." He immediately began gesturing to himself as though introducing himself to a child, "Ringo... Starr..."

At the mention of the drummer's name, John blinked and his eyes instantaneously regained clarity as he sharply looked Ringo up and down. "The fuck yer announcing yer name fer?!" he irritably growled.

And Ringo froze, unsure of how to proceed. "You... uh..."

At his loss of words, John smirked in open amusement, "Cat got yer tongue?"

Ringo fell silent, his stammering tapering off on command. "You called me Julia..." he mumbled softly, "Were you dreaming about her?" He studied John's face, prepared to gauge his reaction and response but all too soon, it seemed as though the rhythm guitarist's attention had managed to veer off course. Lennon had turned away from Ringo, his gaze, distant and lost; cast indifferently towards a window several feet to the left of his bed. And as the drummer studied him with increasing curiosity, things he'd managed to overlook upon taking in his sleeping form mere minutes ago were suddenly leaping out at him.

Sleep had simply been a mask, the drummer realized. A mask somehow dense enough to obscure things that should've been visibly obvious to begin with. For instance, the pallor. It was the type of pallor that crept into every bit of John's facial features, darkening the now apparent bags under his groggy, dimmed eyes, and announcing all the while, traces of pronounced exhaustion with a fanfare hard to ignore. It literally looked like John hadn't seen sleep in months. Ringo frowned. But...he'd looked nothing like this earlier in the morning had he? And if so, how had he missed such obvious tells that something was wrong?

He must've been staring hard, his mouth agape because next thing he knew, Lennon's gaze was upon him once more, a look of suspicion darkening his unnaturally pale face. "See something y'like?" he snapped, his voice so sharp, it caused Ringo to blink.

The drummer in response, gave his head a shake as though to clear all traces of his antics, and settled his focus on John all over again. "No!" he barked back, "...Yes... I mean..." He paused abruptly, mentally berating himself for sounding like such an idiot. "...A-are you all right, John?" he blurted out, ample concern squeaking out around the edges of his spur-of-the-moment question.

"Fine..." John curtly responded, suspicion still very much in place, "Are you?"

"Fine..." Ringo echoed. He dropped his gaze sheepishly, having read between the lines of the question John had derisively thrown back at him. It was plain as day which made it all the more embarrassing. In his two simple words, John had managed to convey successfully in perfect, condescending implication: 'What the bloody hell is wrong with you?'

So he let it drop. All of it. "I'm not the one lyin' about in bed like a lazy git in the middle of the morning, anyroad," he added attempting to save face and stave off any further humiliation Lennon would characteristically want to stick to him, "Get yer arse up. Unless you'd rather y'were left behind, 's'about time we leave."

"Jus' leave then..." John grumbled, reaching childishly to pull a pillow over his head.

"Y'wanna be the one t'tell that to Eppy?" Ringo challenged, an eyebrow arched up somewhere beneath his long light brown bangs.

"And watch 'im get 'is knickers in a permanent twist?" John mumbled back, his words heavy with something Ringo couldn't quite identify, "I can think of a thousand ways I'd rather spend me day..."

"Or die," Ringo added with a smirk, "You'd better get moving 'less that's a road y'fancy venturing down."

"Sod off already..." Lennon growled miserably. Nonetheless, he began to peel the blankets off of himself, his antics filled with resentment as he worked at freeing himself. He wasn't far into the process before it was gradually brought to his own attention that the fingers of his neglected, injured right hand didn't seem to be functioning as well; struggling stiffly to keep up with the fingers of his left. It quickly became evident that the whole hand felt a bit swollen; the knuckles sticky, warm, and throbbing. Curiosity piquing, John brought it briefly into the light, taking care to deflect any additional eyes courtesy of Ringo, and flexed it momentarily; examining it all the while. It hardly looked much better than it felt. Lovely. He wondered vaguely if it would affect his guitar playing...

"What's the matter?" Ringo asked suddenly, noting his younger mate's change in demeanor, "Something wrong?"

Lennon hastily shoved his hand further out of sight and made a final, rather dramatic show of ripping the remaining blankets off of him. "Nothing, 'm'fine..." he adamantly pronounced, disguising a wince. As he forced himself to sit up, he was stricken instantly, a look of pain engulfing his face subsequently paling it even more if possible. Scrambling hands flew to his temples in the act of soothing massage before gradually moving to his eyes while switching to a rubbing motion. He grimaced as his hands fell away. "Headache..." he wearily explained to Ringo's questioning eyes.

"Are y'sure yer all right?" Ringo demanded right then and there. "Yer acting off... and not jus' today... lately."

"What makes y'say that?" John questioned; his light, seemingly flippant tone a glaring contrast to the eyebrow he now raised in goading challenge.

"Well... 'onestly, y'don't seem all right..."

The rhythm guitarist shrugged forth his indifference, his entire body seeming to deflate exhaustedly in the process. "So I've heard..."

"Well—"

"... and it's led me to believe that you people need to direct yer attention elsewhere," the younger Beatle went on intrusively, "Must be hard on the rest of the band's publicity, realizing that I'm always the center of topic these days. And I don't even 'ave to ask fer it." He smirked smugly as though he'd been enjoying the unwanted attention all along, but there was a vague hollowness about it making the entire effort seem half-assed.

"But John..." Ringo began again, not sure how to even continue this... whatever it was—conversation so to speak.

John impatiently silenced him, holding up a hand as though shielding himself from the drummer's words, "But John nothing," he countered mockingly, a glare shadowing his features once more; this one speaking volumes in the warnings it portrayed, "Last thing I need from you or anyone fer that matter is a psychological evaluation of me mental state."

"I—"

"Or physical... or emotional state," Lennon hastily sneered, "Got it? I'm fine. I've been bloody fine... I'll be bloody fine." With his response set on topic dismissal, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and allowed for his feet to find the ground. Once set, he debated on actually getting up. Not only did every muscle seem to want to veto his every action, but... his head seemed to be set on a similar set path. It didn't just hurt either. Now that he was sitting up; it felt eerily light... detached... as though it were somehow a separate entity from the rest of his body.

Ringo rolled his eyes, still dwelling on his mate's last spoken words. "Fine. Right. Spoken like someone who's clearly all of the above," he sarcastically retorted. "That's why ye' 'aven't been eating..." He paused; wonder sinking in at the very tail-end of the statement he'd just uttered. "Why 'aven't y'been eating, anyroad?" he asked, "Care to enlighten me or is that topic off limits as well?"

John blinked several times, struggling to assess the abnormal state of his body. "What's it to ye'?" he absently remarked after a while.

Blue watchful eyes suddenly widened as suspicion dawned within them. "Christ, John... y'don't really think yer fat do ye'? Like the newspapers said?"

The younger musician bristled reactively, his eyes narrowing as they found Ringo's face and locked on. "Don't be daft, y'stupid git," he snarled, his voice full of scorn, "Do I bloody look like I bloody care what those soddin', low-life prats 'ave t'say about me?!"

Ringo looked thoughtful for a moment, then vaguely doubtful. "I don't know..." he ventured, "Do ye'? ... Y'certainly had quite a bit t'say on the topic the night of that interview..."

Lennon rolled his eyes with a grunt of pronounced disgust. "Well, this may come as news to ye', Rings, but the tart interviewing us was a downright prat!!"

"She was, wasn't she?" Ringo agreed after a while of mulling the past experience over in his head. He smirked. "Especially in the way she kept trying t'set you and Georgie against each other with that contrast thing of hers. 'S'like she was trying to make ye' out into some big, fat—"

"Enough!" John intrusively interjected. He then added in a tone much softer, "I was there y'know..."

Ringo nodded, feeling consequently guilty for forcing them both to relive such an awful encounter. "Point was... y'put 'er in 'er place. Good on ye', Johnny, really." It had been quite enjoyable too, watching Lennon rise up like a lion and drive his opinion home into the heart of the interviewing tart. It had made him proud. Like one of those heroic moments when one witnessed a friend stand up to bully, feeling nothing but awe and respect as the scene played out before their very eyes. "Made us right proud. Even ol' Eppy I imagine."

John frowned. "Christ, yer not gon' cry like some nancy now, are ye'? At least let me outta 'ere before y'start!" His legs wavered momentarily as he finally stood, forcing him to lean temporarily on the post of his bed. 'When did the simple act of standing become such a challenge, anyroad?' he wondered vaguely. All at once, his head swam as the ground transformed into a rolling sea of... carpet. Startled by the unexpected tilt-a-whirl, he turned to look at Ringo who, oblivious, was halfway through a statement, his gaze elsewhere and his mouth moving a mile a minute though no actual sound escaped. It was strangely like someone had gone and turned the volume down on him... on his entire word...Then just as suddenly, the world righted itself and all fell into place, and the tail end of whatever the hell it was Ringo had been saying caught his ears. And he wasn't even talking to him.

John's gaze followed Ringo's to the doorway of the room. Both Brian and Paul, having apparently manifested out of the blue, were camped out in the opening, eyes fixated on Ringo and whatever the hell it was he'd been saying.

"When did y'guys get 'ere?" John blurted out lamely.

Apparently it had been the wrong thing to say because all three of his companions turned to look at him in near unison, their eyes portraying obvious wonder and bemusement.

"A good minute ago at least," Paul responded, glancing down at his watch. He cocked his head at John, "Y'didn't notice?"

John frowned, momentarily lost for words. "No I did... I was just uh... surprised..." he finished, this statement somehow sounding even lamer than the last.

"Really, we wanted to make sure y'didn't clock Ringo again upon waking," Paul explained with a lighthearted grin.

Ringo shot Paul with a glare to which Paul chuckled.

"Actually we were wondering what was taking so long," Brian assertively took it upon himself to elaborate. His eyes darkened with disapproval as he studied the disheveled rhythm guitarist before him.

Lennon studied him back before waving him off altogether in a dismissive manner. "Well nothing's keeping me. I'm up. You can call off the guards."

Brian refused to be waved off. Instead he marched further into the room and edged himself into John's line of vision. "But look at you!" he proceeded to reprimand him, "You're a bloody mess!"

John stared back jadedly, his reaction minimal if perceptible. "Was it really necessary that two of ye' check up on me whereabouts?" he retorted sardonically. He pointedly made an effort to glance past Brian and past Paul into the hallway behind them. "Is there a third as well?" he added mockingly, "Where's Geo in all this? Y'didn't leave 'im t'himself did ye'? Y'know what 'appens when y'leave 'im alone!" A half-smirk crossed his face, "Let me jus' say that I'm not responsible fer any trouble our lil' mate 'appens to get himself into during this unplanned little meeting of yers."

Eppy drew in a deep breath. "George is not my current concern, Lennon. He's waiting in the car as we speak, considerately following the schedule that I set like I bloody well asked of you in the first place!!"

Paul glanced at his watch again, before hurriedly making the decision to intercept the conversation before things blew out of proportion like he knew it would. "We need to leave... now."

Brian too glanced at his watch before glancing back to Lennon. "This conversation isn't over!" he growled before turning and leaving the room.

John's smirk widened, "It hardly began, love," he called after him, "Fancy the colorful language though. Made me all tingly inside."

There was a frustrated clench of fists as Brian departed, but rather than give in to the obviously degrading sarcasm-spun words of the rhythm guitarist, no more was said from his end.

Sensing the building tension from the manager, Ringo sailed out the door behind him, beckoning persuasively for the others to follow suit. With a heaved sigh, John moved to follow only to be stopped in his tracks as McCartney grabbed his arm. Hard. Caught off guard, John quickly struggled to pull himself free from his mate's iron-clad grip. "What?" he snapped, the instant he'd succeeded.

"I don't understand you sometimes, John," Paul sighed, incredulity flowing out with the outward push of air, "Do ye' like attracting controversy or something?"

"I like keeping things interesting," John rejoined, "Anything else or can we draw this pointless little interview to a close?"

"We'll draw it to a close when I've nothing more to say," Paul responded, brief exasperation coloring his voice. He paused abruptly, heaving a sigh to help settle his escalating nerves. Once he was sure he had his emotions in check, he continued with as much casualty as he could muster. "How're y'feeling by the way? Yer kip help you any?"

"It was until a certain drummer crudely pulled me out from it. But still, I'm actually rather fan-bloody-tastic," John remarked, his tone much too flippant to ignore, "Now we done 'ere? Or do y'require a pencil and a pad of paper to write it down? Perhaps y'want to report to the media?"

Paul shook his head, full of dismay that Lennon found irrelevant. "The way y'wear cynicism constantly... I'm surprised y'haven't long since worn it through yet."

"Sod off, McCartney." With such words, he impulsively turned his back on Paul with an air of finality and strode out of the room. He'd just entered the hall when his stomach chose that very moment to issue a melancholic growl for attention. Suddenly red-faced with embarrassment at its loudness, he only picked up his pace, hoping all the while that a certain bassist following closely behind hadn't picked up on it. Perhaps he should grab something on the way out. After all, he didn't eat much that morning, did he? He couldn't seem to remember much that had happened before his impromptu bath. He must not have eaten though. Maybe a small bite of something wouldn't hurt...

But after allowing a wandering hand to locate the waistband of his pants feeling the snugness as they hugged his waist, he idly allowed the idea to be dismissed. He wouldn't be helping his case in the least bit. As much as he didn't want to think about it let alone admit it, it was becoming increasingly obvious that he really had a problem. And his brain could hardly deal with the severity of it all...

'You're fat!' one half of his brain would constantly accuse.

'No you're not!' the other half would affirm, 'It's what the press wants you to think! Don't let them win! Let them feed off your resentment and they win!'

'Speaking of feed, don't you think it's time to eat, fatty fat fat?!' half-one would sneer.

'If you let them have their way, there won't be much anything to keep you from believing it yourself!' half-two, ever the voice of reason had tried to prevail.

'Believe it! You're fat! A right fatty, fat, fat, fat sorry sap!'

'But then again, if so many people think it true then it must be true...'the voice of reason was quick to lose all faith... failing... Always failing...

'Believe it!! Fat pig...oink, oink, oink...'

'It's true...'All was lost.

'Fat...fat... fat... fat!'

'And useless too... the band can barely function with you around! Surely the whole world agrees. Surely the whole world thinks it so...'

At some point past thoughts melded with present thoughts...

'Purge all you want but in the end it won't help. Nothing can shut down the endless pain you choose to bring on yourself... After all, you can't purge your soul... your tortured, tormented soul...'

"Johnny... are you all right?"

Slowly, Lennon came back to himself, concluding inwardly that he had somehow drifted away from himself... Far away from himself. At some point, he had walked up to the nearest wall, leaned up against its surface, and began some feat of pressing both hands up against his head, gripping with all his might as though willing the voices to stop— the voices of his mind competing for attention... in his head... He'd be damned if he didn't think that made him sound crazy.

He let his hands drop limply to his side, his exhausted, mentally tormented body melting into the wall behind him. "No... yes... I don't know..." he blushed furiously at how stripped of his façade he was at this point... and this time he wasn't on his own but in the presence of none other than his best mate. The one who could read him like a bloody open book. Fucking hell...

"What's wrong?"

John sighed. He'd be the richest man on earth if he'd bother receive payment for every time someone had chosen to ask him that. Still, he steadied himself mentally and attempted to explain things in the lightest manner he knew how. "Ever feel... I don't know... overwhelmed...?"

Having been standing rigid like a plank of wood in observation of the rhythm guitarist, McCartney finally softened up, approaching Lennon with a gentle, comforting easiness. "All the time, love," he stated seriously, "Anything in particular bothering you?"

Where could he start? John frowned with a slight shake of the head, inwardly disgusted by how nancy he was becoming. "Everything..." he blurted out, "this lifestyle... the fame... I don't know how we've kept it all going fer so long..."

Paul shrugged, "It's what we do... Somehow we jus' do it..."

"But what—" John started only to quickly shut himself down. 'But what if I don't want to do it anymore...? What if I can't? Christ, I can hardly get out of bed anymore...' Was what his mind had been near prepared to let slip. But it was bad enough McCartney even knew something was wrong... He didn't need to portray to him the fact that he might be mentally collapsing as well... What the fuck was he supposed to do here? Continue on miserable and targeted? Continue being the butt of the media's retorts? Just power up and robot through it all, all while turning a blind eye to the daggers the world seemed keen on throwing at him? Could he, as a human being equipped with the ability to feel, do any such thing? How could he? How could he when all it did was make him hate himself? Hate... it was such a strong word yet so fitting...

"John?"

John felt Paul's hand grace his shoulder, heard his voice. Yet he couldn't bring himself to look him in the eye. Instead he shrugged his mate's hand off, impulsively pushed himself up off the wall, and continued en route, as though nothing had happened, towards the suite entrance. As he descended the stairs to the main lobby, he ignored the dizzy spell that threatened to land him on his face and the accompanying headache that bore into his now short-circuiting brain. And the new ache that was growing in his stomach, he ignore that too.

And Paul, he sighed, all anxieties and apprehensions bursting forth. It was making out to be another long day already. It made him cringe to think of what Los Angeles would likely bring. Was it too early to fall prey to dread? Was it too early to fear what had yet to unravel?