Archive of Our Own

John sat at his desk, staring at the laptop. The words on the page started to run together until he blinked and the paragraphs snapped into place. Fucking writer’s block.  He tapped his fingers on his thigh and stared at the page a bit longer before his phone buzzed, indicating a new email. 

[AO3] Comment on Chapter 87 of An Unlikely Story

He hated how thrilling these notifications were. It was genuinely embarrassing how dopamine surged in his brain each time he received one, which wasn’t often because no one seemed to want to read what he wrote. He’d agonized over the tags, trying to ensure that the right people would find it. Was it canon compliant, really? Canon was in the eye of the beholder, John had decided.

He looked accusingly at the email notification for a few minutes, telling himself that he was an important person and had important things to do. Then he gave up and opened the email. 

SuzieBeatleGirl (Registered User) left the following comment:

idk i just can’t see john saying any of this stuff  

Before he could stop himself, he clicked on the link to reply. It was quite satisfying referring to himself in the third person. Like he was creating John Lennon The Character, a blend of the myth and the mundane. He’d been doing it most of his life, really, but putting in on paper was strangely fulfilling.  

i can write john any way i want and it’s not like you were there, suzie

Everyone thought he was working on a memoir, mostly because he’d told them that he was working on a memoir. He’d created a title for it -- John Lennon: A Chimp on his Shoulder -- and every so often would say he was going to meet with a potential publisher, when really he would just walk around the park. Despite the fact that there was no publisher and no book, it had somehow leaked to the press that an autobiography was forthcoming. So that was something. 

His descent into fanfiction lunacy had started with a sloppy, chaotic Y/N one-shot called “A Fray in the Life,” which mostly existed to prove his sexual prowess and confirm the fact that he’d sung the aaaahs in A Day in the Life. Then he moved on to fantastical AUs that had been less entertaining than expected. He’d finally settled on bolder, complex multi-chapter stories that threatened to overwhelm the internet itself with their word counts. 

He’d tell the Beatles’ real story, he decided. He’d correct the narrative. He’d give the world everything they’d ever wanted, even if they couldn’t be arsed to read it. Or he’d just further confuse the narrative, which was alright too. 

Another notification:  [AO3] IAmTheWalrus754 posted Chapter 32 of Don’t Let Me Down

Fucking hell. 

Fuck-ing hellllllllll. 

IAmTheWalrus745 had quickly become his nemesis. They racked up kudos and comments like it was their bloody job. Everyone was fawning over their story, like the entire world was sitting around waiting for an update so they could drop everything and read it. He opened the chapters and noted there were already three comments, even though it had been posted for less than 10 minutes.

i feel like i'm reading Paul’s diary entry instead of a fic???

not me pausing to google if this actually happened and then spiraling because I CANNOT TELL WHAT'S REAL ANYMORE, hellllllp. 

the way you write john is so unbelievably specific it's actually kind of unsettling. ilysm

At first, John suspected Ringo was behind IAmTheWalrus745. He was always the dark horse of the group. But then he’d posted a photo of his bare feet on Twitter -- there were ways to monetize that sort of thing, for fuck’s sake -- so John had decided he wasn’t internet savvy enough to negotiate algorithms and tags. 

Then he suspected Paul, but he could barely unlock his iPhone without needing a social media manager hovering over him. Besides, he’d never admit all that went on in Key West, he’d spent too much time talking about how they’d cried. Which they had, a bit, but that was the least important detail of that night. 

His current theory was Lewinsohn, that wily fucker. Maybe Rob Sheffield, the dreamy bastard. But he wasn’t confident that either was sly enough to think of the #WhatHappensInRishikeshStaysInRishikesh tag.

John angrily closed his inbox and went back to his Google Doc. An Unlikely Story it said at the top, followed by a labyrinth of tabs and sub-tabs on the left side. This was the most organized he’d ever been in his life. If he’d approached songwriting with this much structure, he’d have been unstoppable. But, apparently, he had saved all of his discipline for old age and smutty fanfic. 

He wrote a few sentences, deleted them, and took another peek at Don’t Let Me Down’s stats. Fucking 23 comments and 89 kudos in the past 15 minutes! Did people not have anything better to do? If this was Lewinsohn, he was going to fucking ruin him. Good luck writing the next two volumes with no access to the archives, old man! He debated ringing Apple, but instead called his business manager. 

“Hey, can you do some digging about an… author?”

“An author? Who? Tell me. It’s Philip, isn’t it. Oh, Lord, please don’t say Ken Womack, we’ve already had--  Or is it the guys behind The McCartney Legacy?... I know you didn’t like when--”

“No, uh…” John trailed off, ran a hand through his hair. “No, it’s an author… a writer, I guess… on AO3.”

“AO3?”

John had had several humiliating conversations with his business manager, but he worried this might take the cake.

“Archive Of Our Own,” he mumbled. “You know, the fanfiction website.”

“Fanfiction?”

“Fanfiction.”

“As in…?”

“Where people go to ship us.”

“Ship… like a… boat?”

John sighed. He could hear the clicking of the keyboard on the other end of the line as his manager presumably was googling ships and fanfics. He was probably staring at a slo-mo gif on tumblr of John looking at Paul -- eyefucking, they liked to call it there -- or one of those fan art illustrations where they never got Paul’s eyelashes quite right.

There was a long pause.

“It seems like the website is anonymous,” his business manager finally said.

“Well, fucking make it not anonymous, why do you think I pay you?” John barked into the phone before hanging up. 

His phone buzzed again. 

[AO3] Comment on Chapter 87 of A Likely Story

He eagerly clicked on the link, hating himself a little bit as he did so. 

PonyGhost2387 (Guest) left the following comment:

Most people writing this era go with the big dramatic bits, but it’s the quiet parts in between that seem to mean the most to them. Well done. 

John flopped back in his chair. He’d never admit to anyone -- well, he wouldn’t admit 99.9999% of any of this to anyone -- but the weekly comments from PonyGhost2387 were what kept him writing. They seemed to get it, to appreciate him. They didn’t find John Lennon The Character to be too tender or too soft to be believable. They seemed to accept that not everything one reads in books was real. That half the story was in the little moments, in the double meanings they hid everywhere, in all the shit that was never said aloud. 

“Dad? You in your study?”

John slammed his laptop shut reflexively. He’d forgotten it was Sunday, which was when Sean came for dinner. Then he opened it again, staring at the comment. He never knew what to reply to PonyGhost2387. Usually, he didn’t reply at all. At first he’d worried that his lack of engagement would scare them off, but, despite that, they kept coming back.

***

It took two weeks for his business manager to get back to him. John had just gotten out of the shower and was trying to tame his hair into something presentable for an interview that his publicist had set up. 

“Well, I managed to find out the information… it took some, let’s say, underhanded machinations, but…” He trailed off while John shrugged on a t-shirt. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yeah, I want to know,” John said, shoving the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could step into trousers. “Please tell me it’s not Craig Robertson, because I have to sit down with him in 5 minutes.”

There was an uncomfortably long pause. 

Is it--” John lowered his voice to a whisper “--it’s not Yoko is it?”

“It’s… I’m not sure how to say this…”

Images of Ringo’s feet and Paul struggling to navigate the app store and Yoko who had once asked him if Apple was owned by Apple streamed through John’s brain as he waited. 

“Well…”

“Fucking out with it,” John yelped, literally sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation.

There was a deep sigh.

“IAmTheWalrus754 is a 15-year-old girl currently living in Akron, Ohio. Her name is Sylvia Geldston. Her, um, tumblr name is McLennonyaoi4ever and her bio says she’s a Beatle fanatic and a George girl. Oh, and she has a corgi named George Martin.”

John blinked. His eyes darted to his lapscreen, which was conveniently open to the comment section of IAmTheWalrus754’s most recent chapter:

the way george leaves the room without saying anything??? I’m never recovering from this.

i read this at 2am and then couldn’t sleep so then i read it again at 6am and you’re a god

i showed my mum the phone call scene and she was crying and i was crying and now the whole household is crying, can’t wait for the next update!!!!!!!!!!!

and then back to the phone in his hand. Then, with little preamble, he began to chuckle. His business manager started to laugh nervously, very much unsure how to react when John’s chuckling turned to slightly hysterical giggling and then tears began to leak from his eyes, which he told himself was just from the absurdity of the situation. 

A fucking fifteen year old? She was the one being hailed as a fucking deity? George had never in his life walked out of the room silently, he loved having the last word. It was patently unfalse, practically libel. All while John was getting complaints about mischaracterizations and accusations of AI usage because he quite fancied the em dash. 

No, no. Oh, no. This wouldn’t do. 

He ended the call and stared at the dark screen for a moment. This would not fucking do. 

***

Ten minutes later, he found himself sitting in front of the Rolling Stone reporter. He couldn’t remember why they were doing an interview or what the guy had said about his last record. All he could think about was IAmTheWalrus754 and the absolute injustice of the world. 

“I hear you’re working on a memoir,” the reporter said after a few pleasantries. 

“If you heard it, then it must be true,” John replied cagily. 

“Is it not true?”

“I didn’t say that, did I.”

“No, I suppose not. Well… have you taken up any hobbies? Last I heard, you were quite into bird watching--”

“Yeah, sure, hobbies,” John replied, leaning forward. “Bird watching, stamp-collecting, all the bollocks that pensioners are into. No, but let me tell you what my hobby is. My hobby is being profoundly insulted -- and I mean this in the spiritual sense -- by strangers on the internet. That’s my hobby now, I suppose.”

The reporter nodded in understanding. “Ah, you must be referring to the Twitter feud last week--”

“No, I couldn’t give a fuck about Twitter, Craig. Here’s the thing: you put something out into the world and it’s not the usual rubbish. Not the usual sanitized bullshit that we’ve all agreed upon in order to preserve the myth and the sales and the bloody Anthology sales. You spend hours getting something just right, really authentic, really real. And then what happens? Nothing. It’s like screaming into the void. No comments, no kudos, no appreciation--”

“Did you say… kudos?”

“Meanwhile some other person is putting out absolute drivel, I mean, just the worst. Nothing happened in India, alright? Honestly, I wish something had happened because it would help explain a lot and would tie everything up with a bow, wouldn’t it. But 180,000 words about two months in Rishikesh? Good fucking Lord, people. And they’ve got 5 million comments and I’ve got-- well, we don’t need to put numbers on it, not everything in life needs to be quantified, but I’ve not got much, I can tell you that.”

“Can we circle back to Rishikesh--”

“And you know what, I think they’re using AI, I can just sense it. There’s a rhythm to the writing, you know? Things in threes, weird metaphors. I can just feel it-- honestly, good for them for cutting corners, but I wish the little gnome inside their computer would spit out fewer historical inaccuracies-- you think George ever walked out of a room without a parting shot? He was the mouthiest of the four of us.”

“About what you said about Rishikesh--”

“You know what, forget it. You want to know my hobby? Fine. I write. And it’s good. And I post it. And all the fucking answers are there. And no one’s reading it, but that’s fine, that’s just fine. Just the one person reads it, but that’s all you need: love and one AO3 reader.”

“...did you say AO3? As in Archive--”

“One person who bothers, who gets it. That’s fine, Craig. I’m alright with that. Jolly good, you know. But that should tell you everything you need to know about anything, shouldn’t it. Anyway, what was the question? Hobbies? No, I don’t garden or bird watch or any of that stuff.”

The reporter was scribbling down words faster than John had seen anyone write before. He silently congratulated Sean, who had suggested a few years ago that he only accept interviews if nothing could be recorded. Maybe he had foreseen this moment, or maybe they just both liked the idea of making the press work for it. 

“Right, well,” John said, standing. “Lovely to see you. Ta, ra and all that.”

***

And then the world went bonkers.

The internet broke, or at least Archive Of Our Own did. Beatles sleuths descended in such numbers that the servers crashed for three days and John heard from his assistant that Tumblr was in similar disarray. Substack writers came out of the woodwork to deep dive into McLennon fanfic, prompting an emergency Substack board meeting to discuss the ethics of monetizing fan work. 

Everyone wanted to know what John Lennon was talking about. Was a Beatle really writing Beatles fanfiction? A small but vocal minority complained that he had no right to invade a fan space, while Beatles scholars eagerly joined the AO3 invitation queue. 

Except -- and this was the best part of it all -- no one could prove a thing. Not a fucking thing! 

So while the internet descended into chaos, John did what anyone would do:  he locked down his account to registered users only and continued to post on his weekly schedule. 

***

Two weeks later, the phone buzzed in the middle of the night, waking him. His kids had begged him to sort out the Do Not Disturb feature, but he was paranoid he’d miss an actual emergency. 

[AO3] Comment on Chapter 94 of An Unlikely Story

He sighed and debated going back to sleep or continuing to stare at the blue light of the screen that would all but guarantee he would be up for hours. But, in for a penny and all that. 

PonyGhost2387 (Registered User) left the following comment:

I think you’ll find that Paul’s shirt was blue. 

John furrowed his brow and ran a hand over his face. What the fuck? He clicked on the chapter and scrolled down until he found the scene with Paul. He read it twice and then shut off his phone, laying in the dark. He very clearly remembered making up what Paul was wearing in the scene, because readers seemed to like little details about their clothes, especially in the Pepper days. But he didn’t even remotely remember what Paul had been wearing when they’d had that conversation. He remembered the conversation -- yes, he fucking did, every word -- but not the color of Paul’s shirt. 

After a while, he got up and walked over to his walk-in closet. Standing on his tip-toes, he pulled down a shoebox that was full of old photos, the tapestry of a life he’d once lived. He sat cross-legged on the floor and began to sort through them carefully. Many were Polaroids, faded beyond belief, and all were of Paul. Paul laughing, Paul smirking, Paul raising an eyebrow. Paul Paul Paul. So much Paul that it hurt his brain, which is why he very rarely opened this box. 

Finally, he found it. A photograph of Paul laying in his bed at Cavendish, the camera directly above him. His shirt was unbuttoned, and one could imagine that the top button of his trousers were too. John squinted at the shirt -- was it blue? More purple? No, definitely blue.

He put the photograph down and stared at the row of suits hanging in front of him. He wondered why he had so many suits and why he never wore them and why he didn’t donate them to charity if he wasn’t going to wear them. Paul had always looked good in suits, better than the rest of them. John wondered if he also had a million old suits, and it wounded him a bit that he didn’t know. 

He stood up and walked back to his bed, retrieving his phone from where it lay in the sheets. A quick bit of mental math told him that it was 7am in London, which was early but he could always plead plausible deniability that he’d miscalculated the time zones. 

He opened Paul’s contact. He wasn’t sure when they’d last spoken privately. There were usually others there as buffers. It’s possible that the last time they’d spoken was when Linda had died. Paul had called him in the middle of the night, sobbing and nonsensical. It’s alright, it’ll be alright, John had said over and over until the words had no meaning to either of them but it was soothing nonetheless.

He went back to his text messages -- 97 unread -- and opened one from Ringo. 

Are you really writing Beatles fan fiction, man? Groovy. ✌️

Then he went back to Paul’s name and hit the little telephone symbol. It rang twice before there was a weird staticy sound. Then, finally, Paul’s voice.

“John?”

“Yeah, hey,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, like they just called each other all the time to say hi. Like it was 1965 all over again and they didn’t have 60 years of baggage hovering between them. 

A pause. “Is everything alright?”

Another pause, this one longer and more uncomfortable.

“It’s you, isn’t it,” John finally asked.

“Well, yeah, I answered my phone,” Paul replied. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“No, you’re--” John hesitated for a moment before deciding, fuck it. “You’re PonyGhost2387.”

An even longer pause and Jesus fucking Christ what was he doing?

Then Paul laughed. A joyous little thing, practically a giggle and suddenly it was like they were back in John’s music room, hunched over a notebook.

“Took you long enough to sort it,” Paul said. “Thought for sure you’d catch on around Chapter 11.”

John shook his head silently, feeling like the mind blown emoji, like the top of his head might actually explode into space. 

“But-- fucking-- I don’t-- How did you--” he spluttered.

Paul laughed again. “Well, I sort of came across it and it was so unlike all of the other stuff -- you know, we weren’t rimming each other constantly and you were just, I dunno, you and I was, you know, me and--”

“What do you mean you sort of came across it?” John demanded. “You were just casually reading fucking Beatles fanfiction? And you know there are filters if you want to avoid--”

“Well, my guy at MPL does a sort of scan of the fics, yeah.” 

“You pay someone to read fanfics for you?” John asked dubiously.

“It’s a very small part of his job,” Paul said defensively. “Like 5%. He just sends me links of those that are well-written, that’s all. Things I might like.”

John sat with that for a moment and then plowed on.

“So you found this and decided it was me writing it -- spilling every secret we’ve ever had for all the fucking world to see -- and you didn’t think to say anything? Not, I dunno, send a text or a Snapchat or whatever the kids do these days.”

“Well, I didn’t know for sure until you yapped about it to Rolling Stone, did I?”

“I guess… that makes sense,” John admitted. “But--”

John stared at the ceiling for a moment and then began to laugh. Not quite hysterical, but not not hysterical. Paul did a decent job at stifling his own laughter until he too sounded like he was laughing so hard he was crying.

“God, I miss this,” Paul said.

That sobered John right up. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I guess…” Paul trailed off. “I guess I sort of thought of your posts like little missives into the void and I was there at the other end. Even though I knew you didn’t think I’d see them, I did, and they… well, I guess they meant something to me.”

John nodded silently. “They meant something to me too.”

There was silence for so long that John worried the call had dropped. But his phone still said Paul McCunty McCharmly on the screen, so his best friend was still there. 

“I’m going to be in New York next month,” Paul said. “I’m doing SNL.”

“When are you not doing SNL?” John asked, if only to cover the fact that Paul telling him this made him feel like one of the early Beatles fans, the girls who screamed in rapture until they fainted. “They may as well call it Paul McCartney Live. You’ve got such a boner for Lorne, man.”

“Yeah, so I’ll be in the city,” Paul continued. “Maybe we could get together. Dinner or whatever.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back. He was too old for this. He was an old man, goddammit, not a sixteen year old with his first crush. 

“Yeah, sure,” he managed to say casually. “I think I’ll be around.”

“Alright, I’ll text you.”

“Sounds great.”

“Keep writing.”

“Keep reading,” John said, trying not to grin. 

“Don’t worry, I will.”

Neither of them hung up. 

“Goodnight, Paul.”

“Goodnight, John.” 

He should have hung up, but he didn’t. 

“Goodnight, Paul,” he said, softer this time, more affectionate like the John in his story.

A pause and he could swear that Paul was fighting a smile. 

“Goodnight, John.”