Escape of the Nerk Twins

Chapter XIII

I don't own the Beatles. I do, however, own a bottle of dog pheromones. Actually, I don't really care about this disclaimer anyroad, I just wanted to tell you about the dog pheromones.

A/N: Firstly, a thank-you to all of you for your incredible patience in waiting for this update! I'm so sorry it took me so long - I was a) busy and b) freaked out about writing this chapter, as its tone is a little different. But I'm back now, baby! Also, ta to all of my wonderful reviewers: FanFiction - Swimmer girl 17, leah9712, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; WattPad - InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, cityofstarlight, and MasterofFire; Archive of Our Own - Peyton. You guys keep me updating :0)

Green and brown and grey bled together in the gravelly, crumbling edge of the road as the ground flew past. John adjusted his glasses and pressed his nose against the cool window, trying to make out an individual pebble or blade of grass, but they blurred together like a Monet, swirling and rushing by in the wind. John's warm breath clouded the glass, a puddle of fog slowly spreading across the glass. John pulled away his nose and drew the body of a stick figure down from the nose-smudge head.

He paused to admire his work, staring through the smudged stick-figure's head at the green-brown grass and the rippling blue water of another loch. Suddenly, a stone structure appeared in the head. For a split-second, John stared at a snatch of crenellations and moss, before it vanished into a backdrop of brown and purple hills.

John hurriedly wiped away the fog with his sleeve and peered out the window. He found himself mesmerized by a pair of crows wheeling and twisting in the air above the ripples of the windswept lake.

"Is that a castle?" asked Paul, glancing away from the road.

John pressed his cheek against the window. Cold seeped into his face as his eyes roamed over the crumbling battlements and ivy-covered walls of a once-great fortress. The castle's posture may have crumpled as its foundations sank unevenly into the dirt of the peninsula in the lake upon which it stood, but its pride was clearly still intact, hidden perhaps in a rotting chest in the bowels of the structure.

"Looks like it," John informed Paul.

The road curved along the coastline. Paul swept the car around the bend smoothly, like an experienced painter sweeping his first broad brushstroke.

"Let's stop and explore, then!" enthused Paul, pulling the car off the road and through the scraggly green grass. The silvery-blue Ford Anglia ground to a halt in front of the glorious ruin, water sparkling on three sides, ruffled by the wind.

"Haven't got anything better to do," shrugged John, unlocking his door and shoving it open. He pulled himself out of the car and stared up at the decaying three storeys of Gothic arches and huge grey stones. A tiny brown bird fluttered out from one of the windows and twirled through the brisk Highland breeze. The wind scurried through the fortress, clinging to the stones before swirling out to meet the new visitors. It whispered tales of laughter and tears, smiles and veils, before it forgot and flew onward. John smoothed down his tousled hair.

Paul glanced over at John, grinning. "This is great!" The younger Beatle led the charge into the castle, the heels of his Beatle boots tearing up the dust and grass behind him. John followed his friend up the sun-drenched, mossy steps into the shadowy arch beyond.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear shimmering blue sunspots from his retinas. As they flickered out of his eyes, he stared at the vaulted room around him. Streaks of bright light from pointed windows were thrown across the floor like golden cloaks of the gods, discarded as their wearers tossed them aside.

"I bet this was the dining hall, or the ballroom, or something," said Paul, craning his neck back to stare at the shadowy heights of the high ceiling. John wandered across the flagstones, leaning down to see the stunted weeds clambering up through the cracks. He reached out and ran a hand up the rough stone wall, feeling its bumps and notches, its pores and cracks.