John was sniffling profusely by the time he rose from his seat at the adamant command of their manager. His gaze, tired and lost, was held captive by the floor in place of all the abundant eyes that burned holes into his trampled being. Even as he stood tall, he was somehow reduced. Self-assurance; vanished, strength; relinquished, everything remotely Lennon-like; evaporated like water overhanging a heat source. He currently radiated the essence of a broken toy— an overused toy that had been loved enough in its time, its simple failure to work any longer as a result would reduce its owner to tears.

Frowning, Paul reached out to grab his mate's arm before he could quite turn his tear-stained face out of view and away from the everlasting limelight of a corrupted world. "John..." Paul's voice held a note of heavy sympathy and sorrow, "Are you all right?"

Lennon froze a moment before landing his jaded gaze upon him. His brown eyes, dark-rimmed and bloodshot were indicative of the lack of sleep the general public had been dumping on him as of late. The desolation and dejection within them were signs of an unfairly and prematurely shattered psyche. John was broken and Paul was able to conclude this with as little as one glance into his drained face. "John..." he murmured pleadingly, "Please..." His words tapered off inconveniently as he was suddenly robbed of the breath remaining in his lungs.

"I'm hated..." John rasped hoarsely and hollowly. His voice, having been tormented and tortured from overuse in the midst of heated discussion during the most recent of disclosures, did nothing to enhance or brighten the degrading statement any.

Paul wanted so much to teach him otherwise. To tell him that it wasn't true as he'd done so many times when the guitarist was feeling down. But how could he when everything seemed to be pointing in the opposite direction? "Johnny..." was all the bassist could get out, through his suddenly stiff and painfully contracting throat, "I—" Anything else tapered off.

John sucked in a deep and quavering breath, his gaze no longer focused but staring vaguely through Paul, "And... there isn't a thing I'm able to do about it," he finalized.

The conclusive revelation broke Paul's heart. Shattered it. Before long, tears were forming within his eyes, as well. "It'll be all right, Johnny..." he found himself uttering in attempt to console his longtime best mate, "Y'know that, don't ye'?" He was grasping at straws now it felt like. Lennon didn't seem capable of being able to acknowledge such words. Didn't seem capable of even hearing any longer for that matter. "John, don't ye' know it'll be all right?" Paul desperately persisted, raising his voice as though to drive his point home.

John's eyes were vacant as he made the attempt to refocus them on Paul's face. "No." he stated plainly. Despite the simplicity of the single-syllable word, there was quite the emotional complex behind it. Typically placed were the sadness, anger, and frustration. But most blatant was the most foreign of all when it came to the rhythm guitarist. The desolate despair undermining his feelings of defeat. As downhearted as Lennon had often ended up over the past years, somehow he would always find the will to go on. To rise above it. To prevail and carry on. He'd been doing it his whole life for crying out loud. He didn't quit when his mum died, he didn't quit when Stu died, he didn't quit at the loss of his beloved uncle George. But somehow, this time around was different. The magic was lost. The Lennon-charm had been demolished. John was about to give up. Give in. His world was coming down all about him as the only thing he'd come to fully love and count on in life, in the form of music, was being burned at the stake. The gamble of a game called fame was taking its final toll.

"John, please..." Paul tried pleading again, his voice absorbing his worry like a dry sponge.

John shook his head, "Let go, McCartney..."

Let go? It was then when Paul realized that he was still clinging to John's arm like a small child to its parental unit. Right. The bassist submissively let go of Lennon's arm and watched as he proceeded to disappear from sight to the confines of the bedroom shared between the two of them. 'It will be all right,' Paul stubbornly went on to think, rising from his seat himself, 'It has to be...'

Eppy was shaking his head as his gaze landed on Paul. "It's amazing how something said months ago can come back to haunt you," he muttered.

"We know he didn't mean any harm, right?" George asked, lifting his darkened gaze from the carpeted floor, his eyes flickering from Brian, to Paul, to Mal, to Ringo and back. "I mean, Johnny doesn't always think before he speaks but... this wasn't some intentional move to target any single religion."

"I know that and you know that..." Brian responded quietly, "Unfortunately, this is one of the many repercussions to fame. Anything can be taken out of context and there's a world full of brainwashed souls out there who are willing to believe anything."

"So what do we do, then?" Ringo asked. He was still shaking profusely from the extensive amount of news that had been dumped on them all at once.

"I'd rather we end this tour and head on home," Brian sighed wearily, "It seems these people mean business and I'm not about to allow something to happen to my boys over something as idiotic as a republished misinterpretation."

"There's a 'but' isn't there?" George bluntly asked with a tiny smirk.

Brian nodded with an equally small smile for the lead guitarist, "But, I'm not quite certain how to go about things just yet. We're scheduled to be in Tennessee tomorrow and well... I've been given fair warning about that place. Mal and I will have to discuss things in private and see what our best options are."

The three Beatles nodded.

"Until then," Mal added in immediate contribution to Eppy's words, "I want you all to treat today as just another ordinary day. Don't dwell too much on the negativities. I know what some of those threats contained but there isn't much we can do at the moment, I'm afraid. In the meantime, hotel security has been increased and one is guarding this very room as I speak. So I advise you all not to leave under any circumstances."

With that said, Brian and Mal rose from their seats.

"Brilliant." George mumbled as he proceeded to watch them gravitate freely towards the suite's exit, "House arrest."

"Not much different from an ordinary day after all," Paul added with a bit of a vacant chuckle.

George scowled at him, "Yeah well, normally we could always find something to do around 'ere. 'Onestly with all going on, I don't feel much up to trying."

Ringo shrugged, "There's always the telly."

"The telly," George echoed with a scoff, "Brilliant idea, Ritch... Turn on the telly and watch the propaganda unfold. That'll take our mind off everything."

"It's just a suggestion!" Ringo countered in defense, "Y'got a better idea?"

George yawned, "I might go read or catch a kip or something."

"A kip sounds nice," Paul muttered, "Perhaps we'll all feel better about things when we awaken."

"That's such an optimist thing to say," George muttered sharply, turning to Paul with a mocking glare. "Why don't we all just hold hands under the rainbow and maybe this will all go away!"

"Well, would ye' rather condemn us all to a fiery death or something?" Paul retaliated, his hazel eyes narrowing on his longtime mate.

"A kip sounds lovely after all!" Ringo proclaimed, recognizing the incensed look on McCartney's face. He glanced from him to George, "Perhaps we could all use it to our advantage. Suck a bit of the edge out of the atmosphere."

"Sod off, Rings," George muttered before stalking out of the room.

Paul did the same, headed in the opposite direction.

With a shake of the head, Ringo heaved a sigh and trailed reluctantly in George's footsteps. Things had to get better before they got any worse, he found himself thinking all the while. They just had to.

Paul found John flopped out on his bed staring aimlessly at the ceiling by the time he entered their bedroom. The rhythm guitarist's eyes captivated by something, more likely his own thoughts; he managed not to flinch remotely at his mate's presence even as Paul inadvertently slammed the door behind him.

"Hey, Johnny," Paul called out tentatively, taking the time to hesitantly rest his gaze upon Lennon's face.

Not even a flicker of even the slightest bit of reaction graced his mate's face. Paul shook his head the action barely perceptible by the human eye. John was sometimes far too good at tuning the world out. He'd enter a shell and remain in it in a dark brooding state sometimes for hours at a time from which no one could successfully rouse him from. Whenever he got like that, the remaining Beatles would simply have to wait out the storm until he was willing to come out on his own and address whatever problem might be the cause.

This time around, however, Paul didn't wish for Lennon to succumb to such circumstances. This was too much for him to begin to handle on his own within that contorted mind of his. Far too much was happening and if the bassist knew his best mate as he knew he did, he most likely wouldn't be handling things in the greatest of ways. The resulting self-pity mixed with self-hate would often lead to some drastic and potentially destructive form of action that they'd simply all regret. Because things were so dreadful to begin with, Paul feared that when Lennon finally snapped, the aftermath would be near devastating. Nothing was safe in the wake of Hurricane Lennon.

"John," Paul repeated, desperate to get some kind of response from his mate.

Still nothing. Not even a blink.

Paul sighed. He hated when John entered such a realm that he'd even shut out the man he considered to be his best mate. "I'm gonna catch a kip, John," he stated after a while in an air of slight nonchalance, speaking as though the rhythm guitarist was functioning at his utmost state of mental acuity. "Yer gonna need to move over a bit. Yer kind of hogging the bed."

John didn't move.

"If you don't move I'm going to move you meself," Paul threatened lightly, hoping to get at least some kind of rise from his mate.

John's voice was low and menacing as he spoke finally, his gaze unmoving from the ceiling. "Sod. Off."

"I know yer distraught, Lennon. We all are." Paul attempted to sympathize, "Just please... give yerself a break."

"Y'mean give you a break..." Lennon emphasized on the bassist's behalf, turning to look at him finally with unnervingly empty eyes.

"What?" Paul narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"I'll give ye' a break all right. I'll give ye' all a break." He sat up and gathering his feet beneath him on the solidity of the wooden floor, stormed off for the bedroom's exit.

"John, where are you going?" Paul called after him.

"Don't y'worry yer pretty little 'ead about it, Macca," John grumbled leeringly with a false smile, "You jus' concentrate on yer little kip,"

"John!" Paul was talking to a closed door now.

John sauntered down the shortened hall and into the sitting room area. It was empty, everyone having gone about their own business within the confines of this hellhole. Not him. He wanted out. He wanted to be anywhere else but here. Perhaps it was this thought that blinded him in every way. Regardless, Lennon wasn't thinking clearly as he made his way towards the suite's exit.

"John?" he could hear Paul's distant voice calling him. He would probably be in pursuit of him shortly if he wasn't already, the sorry sap. Lennon smirked maliciously in the face of this revelation as he threw open the door. He'd like to see the bassist find him now. He'd like to see anyone find him now.

'A security guard on patrol,' Lennon mused as he discreetly stepped out into otherwise silent the hallway. The guard was patrolling the hallways, walking up and down the narrow passageway keeping alert for all potential threats. Mal and Eppy had certainly gotten their bases covered. Just how clever where they, however? Perhaps, he'd test the waters and find out. A bit of danger always felt good to him. Refreshing like a gentle breeze on a hot summer day. It would always manage to take his mind off of the things that threatened to hold him down. Things like... John shuddered, forcing the beginning thought from his mind.

Quickly he patted down his pockets for a source of distraction. Anything that he could use to the advantage of his escape. Before Paul found him. Before Eppy or Mal... A pack of cigarettes... Christ. Was that all he had? Well, it would have to do. Taking what was left from the box and shoving them back into the safety of his pocket, he tossed it hard enough so it hit a nearby radiator with a clang. As the security guard turned in surprise momentarily distracted, Lennon made a run for the nearby staircase. 'Just like the movies,' Lennon couldn't help thinking with a widening smirk as he finalized the first half of his escape. Stupid guard. Missed the threat right in front of him! Couldn't he see? It was him. He, John Lennon, was the threat everyone was looking for. After all, he'd brought this hell on his entire band. Unwittingly of course, but he'd somehow done the deed. As per fucking usual, he was the reason for some chaotic, spiraling, out of control consequence. He was a threat. A threat to the band and apparently to society... He'd be damned if everyone had resorted to thinking that he'd simply sit quietly locked away in some stupid hotel and calmly accept this fate.

John wasn't sure how many stairs he'd descended to reach the lobby but by the time he reached the end he was able to simply blend in with a group of unsuspecting people and enter the great outdoors. Or the not so great outdoors that was... All around him, he felt as though people were watching him. Even if they weren't, he felt as though they were. Watching him with judging eyes, plotting some type of revenge to make him pay for his unfairly misinterpreted words. He should've put together some kind of disguise. Anything to make his identity less obvious. Even if people hadn't yet recognized him, it was only a matter of time before they did. And whether or not they were fans or nonfans, such an encounter was never good. He'd better stick to a lesser known route. Allowing his muddled mind full control of his actions, John found himself gravitating to alleyways and randomly placed side streets. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly. But somehow, he couldn't get his altered mind to right itself.

Cast shadows on the ground seemed to lengthen before his very eyes as the sun to the west of him began its descent into the distant spread of some unknown land. John couldn't help thinking how lucky the source of light was to be able to provide an escape for itself. To just disappear after a long time of shining so bright and shining so hard. Why couldn't it be that way for anyone? Why was it so hard to just disappear? Why couldn't he simply vanish below the horizon line of the earth like the sun? Dip out of sight for a while. If even for a little bit... if even forever. John welcomed the darkening streets, however. An increase in shadows would make it a bit harder for the world to connect him to the Beatles. A bit more impossible. Fans could be walking amongst him and not even know it. Somehow, knowing this increased all thrills even more.

John turned onto a particular street and stopped short, taking a moment to glance about him. While he was on the road to momentary escape, he wasn't quite looking to get lost. This isolated street didn't seem to have a name, however. And come to think of it, he couldn't quite recall the names of some of the other streets he had recently come across. Bloody hell... what had he done? Perhaps, he should make an effort to retrace his steps... Or should he keep going? A tiny voice in his head told him to keep going... but there was an odd fluttering in his heart that told him otherwise. Something was off... A tiny sliver of a chill danced down his spine as an unwanted feeling of being watched settled itself within the back of his mind. Something was definitely off... wasn't it? Or was he just being paranoid, considering all that had been going on as of late. Suddenly Lennon's thoughts plunged into rational mode after having gone astray for so long. What was he doing? What was he trying to prove walking a strange city by himself at the peak of sunset? Was he looking to get killed?

A single footstep sounded from behind him, the simple crunching of ground beneath shoe sounding like a gunshot going off in his head. John's heart rate quickened and he quickly drew in a deep breath to slow it down. "Okay, no problem..." he anxiously found himself thinking aloud, "Someone else just so happens to be walking the same isolated street you happen to be on. No real need to panic yet..." Was it not a decent time for a stroll? John glanced at the sky and then at his watch. Perhaps it wasn't... Fuck, fuck, fuck. The rhythm guitarist ever so slowly turned to look behind him. There was someone approaching him. A man, it looked like... or was it a woman? John found he had never seen anything of the like before. The ragged appearance, the vacant look in the eyes... What amount of drugs had done this person in?

"Stay back!" Lennon snapped, his own fear taking the edge off his normally dominant voice.

The person traipsed on towards him, legs moving with a lack of grace that seemed oddly unearthly. What was this? Was this person hurt? John wasn't sure he wanted to find out. "I said stay back!" he yelled, trying his best to tap into his most menacing of tones.

The intruder stopped short and let out something of a groan.

John's eyes widened in surprise. "A-are you hurt?" he croaked out.

Another groan, this time followed by a ragged sounding, explosive cough. The rhythm guitarist grimaced as the resulting spray hit his face, the automatic reaction transforming into a full-out gag as he took notice of the blood dripping down the being's chin.

What the fuck was this? Despite his brain telling him to back away slowly, Lennon drew slightly closer. If this being was seriously hurt, wouldn't it be immoral to just leave him or her to die? What if the tables were turned and he was in this person's position? Wouldn't he want the help if someone were willing to give it to him?

The strange character seemed to relax slightly the more John approached and he was able to tell after a while that it was a woman he was actually being faced with. He noted a large gash across one of her arms. While the wound was no longer bleeding as it seemed to have been quite some time ago, it certainly didn't look good. "I'll... Let me get y'some help," John pronounced weakly. He looked around him once again. Christ. If only he knew where to begin. If only he'd had the slightest inkling of where he was at this point.

A strange guttural grunt escaped the woman rather suddenly and before John knew what was happening she was ambling towards him with pure menace in her eyes. John even thought they glowed... with something... Hunger was it? Was he imagining this? Did he take acid and not even realize it? Nonetheless, Lennon's first instinct was to run. And he did, though not before feeling the burn of long finger nails grasping at his bare arms. The bird was crazy. This was crazy. John ran and ran and ran, taking this street and that. Ran until he was certain he couldn't run anymore. Ran until he could hardly breathe. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. It wasn't until he miraculously came into civilization once again did he stop. And then without warning, he collapsed into a faint onto a particularly populated sidewalk.