Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When John had first said that he was leaving the group - it'd been a quiet, meek little thing.

Barely audible at all.

But, in the small room of two - and with Paul's ears finely tuned to any words that John muttered - the declaration landed as if John had bellowed it to a stadium of more than a hundred thousand. But that wasn't what he had done, no. Just Paul and Klein in the room - Klein, the man who Paul detested more than anything, fading into the background as Paul just stared at John.

Quiet, not shocked. Not really. Paul had known for a while now that John would eventually come out and say it; start his new chapter with Yoko and all that.

Then, when nobody had said anything - John had said it again, said, 'I'm going.'

Paul hadn't said anything back, not much. Just minutes before, he'd been the only one in the room really speaking - repeating, 'no, no, no' and other such rejections. Not because he wanted to shoot down any of John's ideas, but because Klein was in the room. And whenever Klein was there, all Paul wanted to do was cause a fight.

Paul didn't really have much to say, not now.

All he could really think, clearly, was that John hadn't told any of the others yet. Which had brought a sense of relief, of hope. Stupidity - thinking that John would take it back, that he wouldn't - couldn't - say it to the others. That there were only two people in the world that knew that he'd tried to break off with the band; and so it didn't count, not really. Because neither of them would let him go.

Klein, because of the money. And Paul…because, well, Paul was Paul. And John was John. And they were always meant to be together.

Simple as that.

It turned out not to be so simple as time went by - any pleas Paul could have mustered falling on deaf ears that thought him daft - and, just as before, John said once again that he was done with the band. A meeting, he'd called, in Savile Row.

On his way there, Paul had felt sick. Felt like a little boy again, driving his bike around to his mother's grave - thinking, 'it's all over. Over and done with,' and standing in front of the dreadful building didn't do anything to appease his worries.

He'd been moving like a zombie since John and Klein, taking as much acid and glue as he could - trying to trick himself into thinking he'd hallucinated what John had said, on some sort of bad trip. He didn't believe that, of course he didn't; not fully. But a small part of him still hoped, still stood proud and tall as he made his way up the stairs, to the room. Where there was silence, which spoke much too loudly for Paul to bear.

Couldn't hear the music.

He scratched his ears, then walked in, shrinking - shrinking, shrinking down. Until he really was a small child again. Even before his mother passed. Before, before, before, and away; he was sinking down to a place that had been before he'd even existed. Where there was nothing, nothing.

'Paul?' Ringo said, strong presence immediately breaking Paul out of whatever loop he'd been drowning in. He'd been doing that a lot, lately. Didn't know why - had gotten worse ever since India. Since the band stopped seeming immortal, seemed as fragile as flowers that blew in the wind. Since he'd stopped taking it all for granted - even though he still did. Always would.

Paul let out a forced chuckle, eyes darting to where he knew John was sitting - could feel him there - and he clapped Ringo on the back.

'Right, then - borin' business, innit? Let's get on.'

Ringo's small face of worried confusion was instantly replaced with one of droll amusement, as he returned Paul's clap on the back with a firm hand on his shoulder. Grounding, that's what Ringo was. Paul's rock.

Paul tried to remember if John had ever grounded him like this. Or if he'd been the one to cut the rope that kept him tethered - sweeping him away, high until he felt like he could no longer reach the ground.

Bigger than life. A legend.

Not even thirty yet.

'So,' John wasted no time. 'I'm goin'. Gettin' out of here - not sayin' that the band needs to break up, nothin' like that. But I'm done - out on me own way, like. Got some things I wanna get done, don't I?'

George murmured something, eyes not looking at John. Or Paul. Or Ringo. Paul tried to think of the last time he'd seen George's eyes. At one point, it'd been the only thing he did see - unwavering, searching desperately for approval.

Ringo, too. Lip quivered ever so slightly, but other than that - nothing.

Nothing, it was nothing at all. Just another day.

A few years ago, this would have devastated them all - Paul was sure. George would have been crying. Ringo would have been begging. And Paul would have died, right then and there.

Maybe Paul was already dead - maybe the press was right. Maybe he was just a ghost, hovering over them all; listening in a daze, as they all said 'yes', and agreed; letting John walk out, like he had any right to.

Paul was alive, very alive - warm, as his hand grasped around John's arm. Bare arm - he was wearing a t-shirt, finally out of that awful fur coat. Once a good memory, now mangled and distorted. The roof, cold. Cold, so cold.

'No.' Paul said. Like he always said. Always 'no, no, no.'

George audibly groaned, and Ringo shot him a look that he could only think was pity. John's eyes were…Paul couldn't tell. When did Paul stop being able to tell what John was thinking? Feeling? He couldn't remember.

'No,' he whispered, again. Only for John, this time.

John shrugged. 'Paul, I told ye already - didn't I? Look, we can all get on with our own things; don't mean we just stop talkin' and all. There's nothin' keepin' me here. Nothing.'

Paul's hand flinched away from John, burned. Searing. Anger, rage - nothing? Nothing to keep him here? Once, all John had needed was Paul; all Paul needed was John. Was that not enough? Always wanting more, more, more -

Then, John flashed a grin. 'I'm divorcin' ya,' and he walked out, leaving a stunned Paul far, far behind. He'd laughed, Paul was sure of it. Found it funny.

Paul stood there, a moment, unsure of what to do - embarrassed, or far past it. He didn't know. He was feeling too little about it all, and everything all at once.

A minute later, George also stepped out, brushing past his shoulder, not apologising when Paul was bumped to the side.

Ringo was the last out - 'you alright, there?'

No. No. No. No.

'Yeah. S'not like we can do anythin' about it, y'know?'

Couldn't say no when he should. Couldn't do anything when he should have.

Let Ringo walk out. Like he let George walk out.

Like he'd let John.

His life, slipping through his fingers in wet spools - forgotten wine, left aside on a summer's day. Coagulating, going sticky and firm.

Gone.

On impulse, Paul had taken Linda - to his farm, away from everything and everyone. Pretended he wanted a break; when all he really wanted was to be back, all those years ago, screaming his lungs out in the Cavern.

John, not even an inch away, smelling of beer and piss and sweat.

Paul wondered, now, why he'd ever wanted to make it big. Ever wanted to leave that dingy bar, Liverpool.

For this clean, secure life. Wealthy, wife, a child - not his, but she might as well have been - a baby on the way. A massive farm, all the instruments a man could hope for. Nobody to play them.

For the first few months, Paul had kept up appearances. Smiled, when he was supposed to. Fed Heather, when he was supposed to. Built up the farm - pretended he felt any actual achievement when the first animals were set up there by him, the fences repaired. Pretended to care when Linda engaged him in lively conversation about the virtues of vegetarianism.

Pretended to be happy. Living simple, away from everything he had ever cared about.

It's not like the band had officially broken up, not like anyone had announced it. Ringo and George hadn't said anything since the day he'd last seen them - it wasn't like anything was stopping Paul from making songs. With them, without them; he'd awoken to the sound of music everyday since he was an infant. Since his mother had sat him on her lap, sung old lullabies to him.

Now, he awoke without the sound. His head empty, without noise.

For the first time in his life, everything was quiet.

Paul couldn't bring himself to care anymore. One day, the guilt of apathy was overcome by his inability to look beyond his own lack of interest in everything - and so, he just stopped. Stopped waking when the new baby was crying. Stopped smiling when Linda spoke to him. Stopping nodding along, stopped eating, stopped showering. Stopped doing anything but stare at the ceiling vacantly, or sleep. Or drink - though the alcohol was quick to go.

Sometimes, Linda just stared at him. Other times, Heather would come in - beg him to play with her. Do anything with her. The baby would wail for him.

Linda would leave the infant on Paul's chest, watch hopefully.

Hope. Paul didn't care much for hope, not anymore.

He'd just turn his head away, refuse to look.

To see anything.

At one point, Jim had turned up. All the way from England to Scotland - and Paul wasn't sure if that had been the longest his father had travelled since the war. The thought of it didn't even make his lips curl; though it might have, at one point.

His father had tried talking at first. Screamed, when Paul didn't respond. Called him names, insulted him - told him to, 'man up'. None of which Paul cared for; he knew his father didn't mean it, and even if he did; Paul just didn't care enough to be hurt by it.

Paul almost wanted his father to bend him over his knee again, like he'd done that time he'd asked what they would do without Mary's money, and other times, too; because that's just what you did back then when a child didn't listen. Paul wanted to feel something.

Didn't feel anything when his father left. Just said, 'close the door, on your way out, ta.'

Linda also left, eventually. Like Paul knew she would. At night, like she didn't want to be seen. Didn't want to be stopped. Not like Paul would have tried. Perhaps she knew that.

Cot gone, house empty. No more, 'please, play with me', no more, 'Paul, you've got to get up.' No more.

Paul tried to remember if he'd ever been excited to be a father. If he'd looked at Linda's growing stomach with delight - if he'd ever looked at Linda, thought, 'that's the love of my life'. If he'd ever felt any duty to Heather. If he'd ever felt anything at all. He knew he had, once.

That feeling of euphoria when he woke up with a new tune in his head - the pride of knowing he had something truly wonderful to show John.

Maybe it never had been wonderful, though. There were better musicians, better songs. Paul didn't feel very good at all, anymore. Didn't feel as though he'd ever been good at all. Granny ditties, that's all he'd ever been alright at.

He'd gotten out of bed only once on his own accord.

Stood at the top of the stairs, looking down.

Feeling little but a small and quiet exhaustion that ached his bones, aged him far beyond his years.

A small light came out of a door down the hallway, one that Linda had forgotten to turn off in her hasty departure.

Paul could see his shadow, distorting, moving - becoming taller, far bigger than he felt. He wanted to join it, down there. Wondered what would be the worst that could happen if he just took a step forward, let it all end.

He couldn't see the point in continuing anymore; wondered why he'd ever even tried. It was all so pointless. A drag.

He imagined, briefly, his neck breaking swiftly. Crumpled body on the floor.

Paul would be found, one day. Maybe by a farmhand, maybe by the postman. The press would catch wind. His friends would hear of it. His family. Maybe Linda would cry, blame herself - say, 'if only I'd have stayed with him.' Jim would bury him next to Mary. Would likely wither away soon after.

None of that was what stopped Paul from taking that final step.

Perhaps it was the doubt rising in his gut; not because he feared death, but because he'd always been uneasy with what he didn't know. Control. The lack of it, if he let himself fall.

But that wasn't the main reason, either.

It was seeing John's face again, that's what frightened him.

Because Paul knew - always had - that when he died, the last thing he saw would be John's face. Whether he wanted it to be or not.

And John didn't deserve that. Didn't deserve to be the last thing Paul thought about.

Paul wouldn't give him that victory.

So, he stepped back from the stairs - and retreated back to his room.

Time didn't exist to Paul after that.

The days passed by, unnoticed - nothing of importance that Paul could remember, could use to pinpoint how long it had been since he did anything at all.

He just lay there, no thoughts - sometimes able to recall somebody coming in, propping him up. Trickling soup down his front. Giving up when he didn't comply, didn't open his mouth. Content - if his current state could be called so - to just rot away. Paul had always been fascinated with decay. Left bread out, when he was younger, sometimes. Just to see the mold growing on it.

Paul hasn't seen himself, not in a while.

He's not surprised when he realises he doesn't actually remember what he looks like.

He imagines dark, black, festering patches on his skin - features constantly switching day to day. First, he's got black hair. He's sure of it. Then blonde. Blue eyes, green, brown. All the same to him.

On days of clarity, he can see outside of himself - like he's drifting off, away, to join the angels; leaving his carcass to melt, into one repulsive puddle.

He can't remember when all he could hear became one solitary IV drip - drip, drip, dripping. Constantly.

Sometimes, he can't remember his own name. Doesn't care to.

Sometimes, he's 14-years-old again, and all he has to do is go to school, and think of his dead mother - his world coming to an end, before his life even started. The only time he revisits again, and again. Because the effort of recalling anything else is agony. Hurts, more than anything.

He's so tired, all of the time. Tired from nothing.

Everyday, Paul thinks he should be dead. But he's not. Somebody keeps him alive. Not anyone he knows - or knew, before. Before what? He doesn't know. It's all the same. He wonders why they haven't packed him off to an institution - or a hospice, where the terminally ill go for their last days. Usually the elderly.

Paul isn't quite sure how old he is. He's sure it must be old. Very, very old.

He feels very small, in this big house. Big bed. He feels as though his body grows outside of it, constantly - morphing, becoming larger than life.

Silly notion. Paul isn't sure where it comes from.

An old feeling, long tucked away.

Paul doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to live.

He doesn't want much of anything, these days.

Sleep.

He wants to sleep.

John had been living it big, lately.

New house, new life, new aspirations.

Cutting away from the band, moving onto Yoko - made him feel free as a bird.

See, John loved the band. Loved the lads. He did, he truly did. But Yoko had shown him what life could really offer - heroin, for one. Had him blissed out of his mind, most of the time.

John keeps on the heroin.

The times he doesn't, he feels an ache in his chest. An empty side of himself, an incomplete mess of cartilage. He can feel it, nagging away. Doesn't nag when he's high out of his mind. So, he stays high - most of the time.

He works on music, comes out with pieces that are praised widely as 'genius'. He's the one getting all of the songs, now. He'd heard George had made a name for himself, too - first number one hit, before any of them. He'd been proud. No hard feelings; George was like a little brother to him.

Ringo'd stuck around - did drums on their solo albums. Did gigs for himself, too. George sometimes even played guitar for John. They bickered, of course - hard not to. After everything. But the three of them stuck around.

He heard from them, at least.

Nothing from Paul, though.

John feels such resentment when he's sober enough to fully think about it.

One time, he'd walked outside, ripped up the shrubs - pulled all of the leaves off of a bush, started chewing on them until he'd vomited all over the grass. Looked up, to see Yoko peering out of the window at him. Concerned. She didn't have anything to be concerned about. John sniffed something, was on cloud nine just minutes later.

See, John had no reason to think about Paul anymore. When he'd left the band, he hadn't left their friendship. It had been Paul's decision not to contact him. Never picked up the phone, never answered letters - and John wasn't flying from New York all the way to Scotland to beg at the door of a man who couldn't even be bothered to send him a telegram.

No, John was going to wipe Paul from his mind.

The git was probably enjoying the domestic life - Linda, new baby, Heather. Perfect little family, on a big farm. Simple. Simple life, simple decisions. Neither of which included John.

And he was okay with it - he really was. As long as he was on something, too busy hallucinating to think about why he felt nauseous every time he tried not to miss Paul. He wouldn't miss Paul. Not at all. He was John Lennon - solo artist, married man; to a beautiful woman, no less.

He was an activist, speaking out for peace and what was right.

And Paul? Paul wasn't worth a dime.

Paul had been worth it, once upon a time. But people grew up. He was thirty-two, now. Paul was twenty-nine. Nearly thirty, in a month or so.

People grew apart. Paul and John were no exception - and so, John let it happen. Drifted away, into the soft embrace of kaleidoscopic skies.

All of which carried him back to Paris.

'John, John-…Is that you?'

John blinked, then turned to the voice. Looked down.

Blonde hair, blue eyes staring up at him in shock - turmoil.

'Linda?'

The two of them found themselves tucked away in some booth, kept inside an inconspicuous café.

Linda kept biting her lip, looking around nervously. 'Are you sure we won't be spotted? Only-'

'C'mon, Lin. This is New York, you know. Land of the free, and all. Nothin'll bother us here, promise.'

Linda nodded her head, worried at her lip. She didn't look like a woman who'd been living it nice at a farm. No, she looked…Tired. Unhappy. John felt a stab of joy at that - trouble in paradise for perfect Paul, it seemed.

Then, he squished it down.

Tried to remember his peace motto, and everything similar. That Yoko had taught him. He smiled, at that; thinking of Yoko. Made him more amiable, more happy.

'It's lovely to see ye, coincidence, right? Uh - well, what's been goin' on in ye life? New kid, I heard. Yoko told me, I give me congratulations. I meant to call, but - Paul, he doesn't pick up the line anymore. Silly beg, ignorin' me.'

John laughed, expecting Linda to do the same. She just frowned more.

'Paul…Doesn't speak to you?'

John blinked, straightened. 'Uh, no.'

'For how long?'

'Few years, now. I would think ye should know, livin' with him and all.'

Linda shook her head. 'We've separated. Long time, now, John.'

Suddenly, all of the happiness John felt deflated. His fingers twitched, slightly. He couldn't imagine why anyone would divorce Paul, leave him. Even if he had - it didn't mean that anyone else should. It wasn't right. Paul was aggravating, there was no denying it. But he and Linda had been a match in heaven.

John had been jealous at the time, because of it. So, it was unlikely he'd forget how harmonious the pair had been at the start.

'Why? I mean - don't want to pry, nothin' like that. Are ye okay?'

Linda sipped at her coffee, swallowing slowly before nodding her head, eyes softening. 'I'm fine, of course. I've got my two beautiful children, and every day is a gift - with them. But…Paul…'

'What about 'im?'

'I haven't seen him since…Oh, wow, it's got to be over a year, now, John. Nearly two, I think. Uhm, two years, definitely. Since I left in…God, must have been January, maybe - 1970.'

John's eyebrow furrowed. 'You must've, given that he'll have seen the kids, and all?'

'No, John. He hasn't been to see them, either.'

John's shoulders slumped, a look of vacant surprise settling on his face. It was rare that he had no words - even if they were complete nonsense, he always made sure to fill any silence. Run his mouth. The quiet made him uncomfortable. Now, he was too busy thinking to be unsettled.

Thinking of a million reasons why Paul would ignore Linda - the kids.

Suddenly becoming nervous, rather than annoyed, that Paul hadn't ever picked up any one of his calls.

He must've called a hundred times, already. A hundred times Paul hadn't spoken to him. When was the last time Paul had spoken to anybody?

John leaned forward, voice lowered. 'Why'd you - why'd ye pack up, in the first place?'

Linda wasn't a quitter. And she'd loved Paul, plain as day to anyone with eyes.

It must have had to have been a bad reason. Could Paul have…Gotten neglectful? Violent, even?

No, they'd all been on drugs before - Paul hadn't really a violent bone in his body, even when blitzed out of his mind. Became softer, even.

Linda looked down, swirled her finger, dipping it in liquid, the half-full cup. Bad manners, even for a Liverpool lad - but John didn't say anything. Just watched, as Linda's cheeks seemed to flush with shame.

'It's not really - I mean, I don't think Paul would want me to say. Tell anyone, he wouldn't like it. He's a man, a proud man. Same as you, John. You must understand-'

'I don't. You'll tell me, Linda. Or I'll go 'round right now, and find him, ask him meself.'

Linda paused. Looked up, eyes flashing with a malevolence that John had never seen before. It did nothing to deter him, and he just pushed on harder. Always stubborn with Paul. Almost forgot how to be stubborn for him.

'Tell me, Linda. Or so help-'

Linda coughed. 'Alright, calm down. I was - I…I left because he…He just - he wouldn't do anything, John. Didn't speak, didn't laugh. Didn't look at me, us. Didn't - I…It got so bad, I even tried hitting him. He didn't - well, he didn't…Uhm, budge,' Linda paused. 'Don't look at me like that, John. I don't think anything would have hurt him. I didn't know what to do.'

John tried to imagine the Paul he knew - lively, excited, jumping around with a new song on the go at all times - with the Paul Linda was now describing.

'Go on, Linda. Tell me more, now.'

'I didn't want to leave him. Truly, I didn't. He was ill - and, well, in sickness and in health, aren't those the words?' Linda chuckled, sad. 'One day, I left the baby with him. I figured, if he was with her long enough…Well, something would trigger. I don't know - make him move. She'd cry, need feeding. Needed her diaper - nappy, now, I'm trying to get in the habit - changing.' John shrugged. 'Right, so?' 'I came back in the night, and she was wailing. She'd been sick all over herself, all over him. No diaper - uhm, no nappy change. None of the formula had been touched. I'd left it all by the side of his bed, too. He hadn't even moved at all.'

John sat very, very still. And felt very, very sick. 'Ye mean…He left her, all day? Just-'

'Hadn't even moved, at all, John. I had to feed her, do everything myself. Had to drag him, pick him up and carry him to the bath. Wash the sick off of him. He didn't even say anything, just stared off. Somewhere,' tears filled her eyes, and she bit it back. Ever the strong woman. 'I screamed at him. Thumped his chest. Nothing. Some days, he was like himself again. Though, the sadness - it was…It was sometimes worse than the emptiness.'

'…Sadness?'

Linda shrugged. 'I don't know where I went wrong. He was so - so happy…At the beginning. It was all so perfect. He'd finally left the band behind, left…You. And - and he was all mine. I was pregnant. My life was beginning with him - and he went and ruined it.'

'Linda-'

'I hate him. I do. I think of him, and I hate him. I don't know - I…I don't know what's wrong with him. I don't know, even, if he's still alive. I don't know if I care.'

John frowned. 'Don't you say that, not about Paul.'

'You don't even know him anymore! All you remember is - is him! When he was - when he was…' Linda wiped at her eyes.

'I know full well enough that ye shouldn't be sayin' ye don't care. That... If the father of your children is alive or not-'

'Oh, spare me, John! He was hardly a father. He - look, I don't understand it myself. I've tried. I've considered sending him away, to get help. But I couldn't do that to him - couldn't embarrass him like that. How could I?' Tears were slipping down her face, rapidly, now. 'God, I still love him. I do, I love him. And I'm truly worried for him.'

John patted her on the shoulder, then slipped onto the seat next to her, allowing her to tuck into his side.

'I'll go t'him, Linda. I will - I'll see what I can do.'

Linda stared up at him, tearful. Grateful, in equal measure. 'I've tried to forget - I have. But he's still alive, alone in that house somewhere. How can I move on? Please, John. Help him, I don't even know what's - I don't understand.'

'I know, Linda.'

'I just…I want him to move - to be like he was, I - I don't understand why he's doing this to me. To himself.'

John shook his head, stomach doing aerobics.

Paul. Paul, Paul, Paul.

'Don't worry, I'll sort him.'

And John would. He just didn't know how.

Didn't know how bad it really was.

Paul doesn't often sleep. Although, he's tired.

Tired, more than anything else in the world - and all he wants to do is drift away, never see or eat or speak again.

But he hates waking up more than he hates being tired.

When he wakes, it all comes flooding back again; everything, all at once, and he struggles to breathe. The shame, the restlessness, the stairs - that aren't out of reach, not really. If he was brave enough, he could do it.

He wasn't brave enough.

So, he tried to stay awake. Stay in this limbo of not doing anything but stare away vacantly.

He didn't feel human anymore. Hadn't done for a long, long time - but he felt more human now than ever before. It was odd, how much he felt. How much he didn't, all at the same time.

Tried to motivate himself to be motivated. He often thought - tomorrow will be the day I get out of bed. The day I'll be fine again, write music again.

That tomorrow never arrived.

So, he gave up thinking about it at all - no real point in it.

Soon as Linda had left, John had gotten on a flight immediately.

Worried, more than anything - biting at his nails religiously, turning down any peanuts or other such temptations the flight attendant offered him. He was hungry, thirsty; yes, of course he was. He'd been talking to Linda for hours. But, for some strange reason, he felt as though consuming anything would dull his senses.

He'd even thrown away the joint he'd had saved in his pocket, thrown it into a bin.

He wiped his hands down his front, shaky. Regretting it, now. In equal measure, slightly proud of himself.

John shook his head - always made it about himself, he did. But maybe it was his fault. John had been nervous to leave the band; he hadn't shown it, of course he hadn't, but that still hadn't stopped the countless vexations and second-thoughts that came along with it.

When he'd first verbalized it, that he was leaving the band - it had been in front of a mirror. Him, sweating, like he really was saying it to other people.

Yoko had been lingering, in the bedroom attached. Probably heard it, his countless attempts. She never mentioned it. Sensitive, like that, she was; knew what to say, what not to say. She was honest in a way that just stopped short of the truth.

Not like Paul at all. Paul had always said what was on his mind - if he thought something was funny, he'd say it. If he wanted to ridicule John, that's what he'd do. He wasn't like that in front of the press, managed his mouth far better in front of a camera; but John knew what Paul had to say, anyway.

If Paul liked something, he'd be all over it. Disliked something, rejection would be as fast as John could blink.

Which is why it had been so disconcerting when Paul had said nothing when John had gathered the courage to say he was leaving the band in that room of two people. Thought it would be easier, in just a little group. Hadn't had the foresight to realise his main apprehension came from Paul - Paul's eyes going blank when he'd said what he said, usual gesticulations dying down as his hands went limp at his side.

Klein had said something. John couldn't remember what. Only Paul's curt nod, and his quick departure.

John had tossed and turned that night. Been soothed by Yoko. Realised he wouldn't give the other man such a victory - wouldn't back down from taking charge of his own life because his highness, Paul McCartney, had quivered his lip and batted his eyes a little bit. No, John wasn't that pathetic - that's what he'd told himself at the time.

He'd half-expected for Paul to go silent again when he'd 'officially' told them all - when he'd said what he wanted to say at Savile Row. The others had been silent, that'd been fine. John had expected it. And he'd been relieved, too, when Paul had grabbed him - said, 'no', that familiar phrase.

John had been so relieved, he'd laughed - had thought Paul had recovered from the shock, was back to himself again. Had thought Paul would be just fine. That it'd all be fine.

Paul didn't need him. Had never needed any of them. Wasn't supposed to.

John bit off one of his nails, not caring for the sharp sting of pain he felt at the tip of his finger. He was the one person supposed to know Paul inside out - and yet, here he was, sat on an aeroplane with not the foggiest as to what state Paul was in.

Without the foggiest idea as to what he was going to do; how he was going to beg his best friend for forgiveness. Because that's what Paul was - his best friend, of course he was. How John had ever let him go like that, had ever convinced himself he'd be just fine without him; he didn't know.

He thought back to the bush incident. That should have been enough to convince him to go off the drugs, to find what he was missing so much. To realise that gap couldn't ever be filled. Wrong size jigsaw piece, and such.

John was never going to drink again, he wasn't. Never consume, snort or inject anything again; he promised it to himself. To Paul.

As soon as he got off of the plane, and into a cab - some random cab, because John really wasn't bothered with all of the celebrity fanfare shite right now - the older man driving had said, 'ye that lad - John Lennon, ain't ye?'

John had nodded his head, glum. 'Take me t'-'

'That - Paul McCartney's, won't it be?'

John blinked, eyes drifting out of the window. Dark, now - some hints of sun shining over the frosty-looking moor. Back in New York, summer seemed a promise. Even the winter…Had seemed less frozen than this, and he was quite sure it was approaching spring. Reminded him why'd he moved in the first place. It was positively depressing.

'Yeah, okay.'

The cabby didn't set off immediately, just leaned back - and John sighed internally. An autograph, whatever the man wanted from him, he hoped he'd hurry it up.

'What d'ywant, then?' John muttered, scratching at the top of his right hand.

The man looked away, dug through his pocket - pulled out a cigarette, which John took gratefully. Nicotine didn't count, did it?

'Ta.'

The drive was both long and short - the cab driver not talking much.

Neither did John, though he itched to say something. Back in New York, he'd become accustomed to the drivers talking constantly; all of the time, really. People kept to themselves here.

Well, they kept to themselves in New York, really. Just in a way that was a little bit more lively.

He took another drag, breathing out the smoke; aiming away it away from the other man's head, as he listened to the tires crunching over gravel. Imagined, briefly, what would happen if the car crashed. An accident; tragic, the press would say. Maybe it would get Paul out of bed. Seems he hadn't for a while, if John could go on anything Linda had to say.

She was angry with Paul, John could tell. She could've exaggerated quite easily. And, if Paul was in trouble, why not get him help? Sure, the press would hear about it - but it's not like the occasional star didn't get locked up. It wouldn't be embarrassing. Not for a normal person; not that it should be.

John leaned his head against the cold window pane, almost let out a scoff when it began raining.

Paul was Paul. Too sure of himself to allow anyone 'help' him; especially near the end. Would hardly hear George out on even simple chord changes. Was why John had called it quits when he had.

John tried to imagine any version of Paul taking instructions from some doctor, allowing himself to be taken care of. Couldn't do it, simply. Paul would probably be telling the nurse what to do, rather than the other way around. Linda had made the right choice. John hoped she had, anyway.

The cabby made a sharp turn on a corner, causing John to bang his head slightly. He muttered out an inaudible curse, then righted himself, twisting in anticipation as the buildings around him seemed to become more sparse - the forest, and trees thickening up. A brief sliver of pink gracing the sky.

John sighed, rubbed away the headache in his eyes. Made a vow to ask Paul if he had any prellies around; maybe keep him on his feet long enough to assess what was going on. He smiled. Linda was exaggerating - he was certain, now. Paul was golden. Had always wanted to be a dad. He adored Heather, and he doubted Paul's own child would be any exception.

John ignored the doubt curling sour in his gut.

The cabby stopped short just outside of some gates, turned back to look questioningly at John. 'Y'rate walkin' the rest of the way up? Only, can't go past these gates here, not me.'

John nodded his head slowly, started rooting around in his pocket for some spare change. 'How much you want, there?'

The cabby shook his head, laughing. 'Nah, wouldn't dream of chargin' the John Lennon. Me missus - oh, never hear the end of it. Off ye go, now, son. We're all worried about him.'

John frowned. 'Worried?'

The cabby shrugged, bit his lip. 'None of me business.'

'You're right about that.'

John jumped out of the taxi as quick as he could, shutting the door with a slam. Perspiration beading over his forehead. Surely, everyone was being dramatic. Paul couldn't be in such a dreadful state that everyone knew - everyone but him.

John looked up at the large gate as the car behind him sped off, leaving him be. He tried knocking - nothing. He hadn't exactly expected an answer, not at this time of night. Hadn't expected there to be any sort of security, either. It was just a farm, the middle of nowhere. And, yet, it had more security than John's place did - in New York, no less! Same old story, Paul will always be Paul. Dramatic to the end.

John looked around, found a wall that seemed shorter than the others, then tried to scale over it. His back protested, slightly, but he was young enough still to heave himself over and tumble into the grass - words from days long passed coming to his head, Mimi saying, 'you're trespassing.' Oh, well, Paul wouldn't hang him.

John stumbled around for a bit, before he found what looked like some sort of path, and he went up it. Quickly found an inconspicuous building; small, like a cottage. Brought John short for a little bit. That Paul could live - would live - somewhere like this. Away from the glamour, the high life he so loved.

He would have turned around, thinking he'd found the wrong place, if something hadn't told him that Paul was there. Because John knew - just knew it.

He knocked on the door. Nothing. Knocked again, nothing again. It was early in the morning, though; lazy slob was probably passed out somewhere.

'Paul?' John yelled into the door, waiting for the scrabble of annoyed footsteps that never came. John frowned. Stayed shivering for ten minutes until he'd finally had enough, and started properly pounding on the door. Then, he started looking around like a madman - under the pot, floor-mat, for a key. Remembered the gnome Paul had had since Hamburg, some ugly little thing; and he found it, hidden to the side in the shadow of a bush. Kicked it over, winced, found what he wanted.

He held the key proudly above his head, then made a mental note to tell Paul he really ought not to leave keys lying around outside for anyone to find.

John pressed the key into the hole of the door, stepping in - excitement overcoming him, a sick sort of anticipation creeping up in nausea-inducing streaks.

Then, the smell hit him.

Like death.

Like the dead deer John had found by the road when he was a boy.

Motorcars hadn't been as popular, not so much, then; but this deer had been run down by one. John had thought it unlucky. Wanted to bury it. The smell of rot had stopped him going near. He'd felt guilty that he hadn't been able to give it a resting place. Had cried quietly at night, thinking about it alone in the rain. Had gone back the next day. Returned home with the smell all over his clothes, that lingered for days after.

John never forgot that deer. Nor the smell.

Knew it was what he was smelling right now.

John's heart dropped down to his feet, felt like he was floating away as a thousand images of Paul's corpse fusing with the deer rushed into his head; a cacophony of unheard wails fusing with gore and bones and blood. Panicked.

'Paul?' John screamed, running around blindly in the dark, clumsily crawling his way up the stairs - barging straight into the first room. Then the next, next, next. All empty.

John couldn't feel his face, his body; stomach clenching painfully and yet distantly as he sprinted around. Finally, coming to a door left slightly ajar.

John pulled the door open, stepped in. Saw a lump - still. So still, and he fought back the urge to throw up. Instead, switching on the light.

Paul.

Eyes open, but not there. That faint pallid hue, underneath a sheen of moisture. Emaciated, almost. Pale, thin. So small. A long, long time stretching between them. John wanted to run. Wanted to get far, far away. Wanted to wrap Paul in his arms, promise him that he'll come back to the band. That Paul can have as many of his own songs on the album as he wants; all of them. So long as he comes back.

Tell Paul he loved…Loves him. God, that's just it - isn't it? John wasn't breathing, was sure his face was buried into the floor, and his heart was giving out; and all he could think about was that he loved Paul. Couldn't do anything else, but bring up empty bile and cry.

He loved Paul so, so much. And he was so sorry.

Then, out of the corner of his faded vision, he saw movement. Flinched upwards, drool dripping down his chin. Paul's head swivelled to him, mouth opening and closing. A gutted fish, scales falling off in a whirlpool.

'…Paul-?'

No response, but John saw the blink all the same. And he peeled himself off of the floor, was about to jump over there, pull Paul into the tightest hug he'd ever given anyone - when a startled scream snapped him out of it.

He turned, to see a portly woman, eyes wide open in fear. Broom in one hand, clenched fist the next.

John looked back and forth, from Paul to the woman. And everything stopped for what felt like an eternity. Only a minute.

A lot can happen in a minute. Like Paul - not dead. Not dead at all.

Despite the situation, John let out a grateful laugh, that turned into a chorus of cackles and wheezing; as the other two in the room just stared.

John wiped his face with the back of his hand, still not feeling quite so real.

'Paul,' he whispered again. Just wanting to see those eyes flash with recognition - still alive.

The woman stepped forward, just as Paul shifted, imperceptible.

'John,' Paul croaked.

Vowels cracked, brows furrowing in exertion.

The lady gasped in shock, the broom dropping. John had to grab her as she almost fell over, tears springing.

Then, Paul turned away. Closed his eyes. Away, again - John almost went over to shake him, but was stopped by a tentative hand on his arm.

'Please, please. He needs to sleep. Come with me, I shan't keep you long.'

John looked down to her, posh-speaking. Queen's english, that's what it was. Comforting.

John relented, stepped back. Awkwardly toed at the damp mess he'd left on the carpet. 'Right, sorry - 'bout that, and all. Only, I thought-'

'I know,' she said, and they left it at that.

'How long has he…?'

'A while', the lady paused. 'For as long as I've known him, anyhow.'

John looked away, eyes blurring with fresh tears. He hadn't cried, not in a long time - not properly. Last time he'd thought his tears were proper was when he was told Julia had died. Paul holding him, letting his shirt get damp.

God, his best friend in the whole world. His partner.

'So, what - what's gotten him, then? Is he…Sick? His mother died, cancer; is it…?'

'Oh, no - God, no. He isn't - well, sick. Not physically, at least. Well, you saw him; he's not in the best condition. But that's not why-...' She trailed off, unsure.

John sipped the tea the woman had offered. He missed this, the automatic offering of tea - home, that's what it was.

'Right,' John waited for her to continue. She looked up, eyebrows creasing in sympathy.

'Mrs. McCartney hired me - Linda, you know her, I'm sure. She couldn't look after him in his current state, and I don't blame the poor lady. He's difficult, even for me; and I've been a nurse for I don't know how long, now.'

'What's wrong with him?' The lady's eyes shook, slightly. Like she was embarrassed. Like Linda. Clammed up.

John didn't say anything, just waited.

'Well, of course - we're not quite sure. It's not something that's been heavily discussed, and you may not have - well, you've likely heard of it, yes. But, it's…'

John waited for her to get on with it. Tell him Paul had gone loony, whatever; but he needed to know. Then he could help.

'Depression - that's what's been…Not absolutely. But- well, it's likely.'

'…Depression?' John shook his head, a small smile on his face that didn't quite reach his eyes. 'Paul? Not a chance. He-'

'Mr. Lennon, it's - it's complex. I don't understand it myself, and I- well, I should hardly think you would. But…I'll say this, now, and perhaps it will help you know how he - he's…Today was the first time he's spoken in more than a year.'

John's hand gripped the porcelain so hard that the handle came flying off, which he quickly picked up and scowled at. Paul had gone mad, okay. Out of it. Insane. He could come to terms with that.

'Depression, then. What's the cure? I'll pay - I mean, for whatever it is. Any of it.'

The lady shook her head. 'There's no - he's not ill, Mr. Lennon. It just…Is. It's - I've been keeping him alive, as best I can. Feeding him, keeping him on a drip. But I can't change the sheets, he's - he won't move. Refuses to. I tried to convince Mrs. McCartney; let me send him off quietly, to an institution,' she shrugged. 'No such luck.'

'Then, I'll - I'll stay. That's my Paulie up there, he - he's my Paul.'

The lady looked down. 'No, you'd best leave. You're not family, so you have no obligation-'

'Don't tell me what obligations I do and don't have.'

'Mr. Lennon-'

'He's my Paul.'

John had gone off into Paul's library. Biggest room in the place; the most dust, too. Tried to look for any books on 'depression' or whatever other head-illnesses that people studied.

He'd seen a mental-case once - rocking, drooling. Mimi had turned him away, said something about, 'shock therapy.'

John shook his head. No, Paul hadn't lost it. He just - he just needed some help, just needed to get out of bed and then he'd be fine.

John couldn't find any books at all, and he rolled his eyes. Well, he'd just rely on good old intuition, try to remember what people did for other people when they were sick.

First, he set off to opening all of the windows in the place. It was cold, yes, but better than the humid dampness that had been allowed to settle. John wasn't having Paul live in squalor, and he felt a brief annoyance at the incompetence of the lady Linda had hired.

Seems she knew a whole lot about how she knew nothing.

John didn't care that Paul had 'depression'. He'd be fine, as long as John made it up to him. He'd be fine, because he was alive. Because he wasn't dead, like John had thought for those few minutes.

The thought of it still makes him queasy, will always, he knows.

'Right, then', John muttered, rubbing his hands together and finding the kitchen. Made two brews, carried them both up the stairs. Slower, tentative.

Trying hard to breathe as his chest closed up bit by bit as he got closer to that room.

Paul's eyes, unmoving.

'Paulie, love? I'm comin' in', he said, like his first instinct hadn't been to just barge in and drag Paul out of bed. No, he needed to be slow. Loving, caring. Like a mother hen.

No response, but he hadn't exactly been expecting one. Only hoping.

He nudged the door open with his foot, turned the light on again - tried to ignore Paul's subtle wince - and plonked down the tea on the nightstand next to Paul's bed. The smell wasn't so bad; the lady, whose name John now knew to be Maria, had said she gave him a flannel wash at least every three days. He didn't comply, but he also didn't resist; so she apparently made some progress.

John dragged over one of the big, fluffy chairs that was in the room, then sat; trying not to sink into it.

'Nice goin', Macca.' A compliment. The place really had been decorated nicely. Paul just laid there, eyes on him. Dull, fingers reaching, it seemed. Just stopping short of actually moving.

John laid his hand atop of Paul's, looked at him. In the eyes.

Melting, into one another - a crimson shade rising out of Paul's body, consuming John's own, the mirror between them thinning and stretching. John looked away. He could have done that for hours, years ago.

Something in Paul's eyes had changed.

'Paul, say somethin', anythin'…'

Paul's eyes looked at the ceiling, then drifted back to John.

'John', he said. Simple. Voice scratchy.

'I think you'd do a good version of twist and shout, now. What, with that voice and all.'

John wanted to make Paul smile.

Depression was….Sadness. Wasn't it? Linda had said Paul was sad. John could make him happy, like he'd been able to all of their lives. All of their lives.

Paul didn't seem to have any reaction, just looked to the cup next to him. John almost jumped up, 'you want some tea?'

Paul's hands twitched. 'Go...On.' The vowels were awkward, slurred and stretched. Still there.

'Right, no problem.'

John held out the tea to him, then shifted awkwardly when Paul made no move to grab it.

So, John did whatever any mother hen would. He propped the pillows, got Paul in a position that could be seen as sitting if one squinted - and then said, 'open up, go on.'

Paul's mouth opened, small, and the moisture gathered on his face seemed to be dripping, now. His breaths laboured.

John tilted the tea, watching as it streamed into Paul's mouth. Waited to see gulping. Paul didn't move. And, then, he began to choke - slow, pained little things. Hoarse, like that of an old woman.

John flinched, went to whack him on the back like you'd do to any lad. Thought better of it, took more careful action as Paul eventually stopped spluttering everywhere.

'Well, 'least you…Tried, eh?' J

ohn tried to keep the pain out of his voice. Watched as Paul's eyes drifted shut.

Didn't hear Maria, by the door, weeping silently.

Paul woke up violently, a dream.

He didn't remember dreams, not like he'd used to, not anymore. Knew he dreamed every single night, and in the morning they didn't exist anymore.

This one - this one existed.

And, he went over it in his mind.

Clear enough to string thoughts together, shockingly present. It had been of the past.

Paul stood, hand stopping in the air, ghosting over the door handle - as he listened to the muffled laughs breaking through the door.

Early 1969, they were working on Get Back. Cameras gone, now, and they thought Paul was gone, too; free to say whatever they wished.

'Christ, he's so-' '

Controllin'? Nit-picking? Don't ye know, only fools are satisfied.'

More laughter. Paul's hand fading out of view. 'Well, John,' Ringo spoke up. 'You may be right about that. Can hardly stand it, even meself; if I could, it'd just be us three.'

'Us three,' George said.

'Three.' John.

All three of them deforming and mutating into large, bubbling masses, coming to him - chasing him away, pushing him off the top of a ledge. He'd fallen, fallen. Fallen, until he could fall no more. And it had been so cold. He'd pleaded, said sorry so many times his throat went raw and blue - not like them, not one of them.

Three, three, three. Always around, never there.

Tangible.

Paul had woken up, choking. Hated wearing his clothes, tried to tug his shirt off of his head with hands that no longer listened to him.

Thought of the number three. He didn't want to wait, anymore. Didn't want to wait so long - wanted to make them cry, like they knew what they did to him. Like they'd ever said any of those things at all.

Paul knew they hadn't.

Still, all he could hear - no longer the music. Three. Just three.

Then, his eyes found a chair. The chair.

John sat there, snoring softly. Hand falling as he unconsciously tried to stay upright.

John, there - with him, for some reason. Had come back to him, somehow remembered him.

Then, Paul saw himself. For the first time. How he must look. And he hated himself. Didn't want to be around his mind like this, wanted to go back to what he'd been before. Didn't know which before.

Kept still and silent, watched John breathe slowly. Wondered why he was back at all. Paul hated who he was. Hardly thought John would like him now.

Paul had once been magnetic, charming; that's the Paul he wanted John to remember. Not this. He didn't want John to hate him more than he already did.

Tears didn't come to him. They stayed, trapped on a precipice. John, breathing. Looking so, so young. Paul was young, too, he had to be.

Once upon a time, he'd met a boy who liked him. He had liked that boy, too. They'd become best friends. They'd slept over at one another's houses, until it'd become like second nature. Paul would come home, find the boy fast asleep, curled in some corner. Would drape a blanket over him. Safe.

Paul couldn't keep John safe, not anymore. Couldn't even brush his own teeth.

Once, he could work for hours - jump around, sing. Do anything he wanted to do. Maybe he could try. To get better. For John.

If there was anyone, it'd be John.

No matter how tired he was. How angry he still was. How upset he still was. How anything. None of it mattered.

He remembered, now.

He loved John - even if he couldn't bring himself to say it. 

John's face would be the last thing he saw when he died.