Help! | McLennon

No Regrets

"Morning," the lads said in unison as they entered the hospital and saw the doctor, who was taking care of Paul's case.

"Good morning geltemen. You came to see McCartney, right?" he asked and they all nodded, not wanting to say more."One person at the time and if someone starts throwing punches again, I'll have to ask you to leave."

"We apologize for yesterday," Ringo said sadly and George looked at John with amusement. He knew how much John disliked little apologies like this.

"Right, Johnny?" he asked, trying to hold back laughter. John shot him a quick glare.

"Yes Mister, we're very for our oh-disgusting behavior," he spoke in an overly sophisticated way, giving the doctor a cheeky grin. The man just chuckled and shook his head.

"Room 39."

Both, George and Ringo's, eyes immediately wandered back to John. "Do I have something on my face?" he joked. The truth was that none of this was funny to him, even the slightest. He was so scared of facing him alone. What if Paul hated him?

"That's enough Lennon! Get your arse in there or I'll push you!" George threatened and the doctor eyed them suspiciously. "It's only a joke, sir," he assured, so the man went back to whatever he was doing behind that fancy desk of his. "Seriously, go," George added, whispering and John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.

"Fine, I'm going."

As he was on his way to the room, he realized something. He hadn't prepared anything to say to Paul yet. What could he say anyway? 'It's going to be okay?' 'We'll get through this?' 'You're strong?'

It was some sappy shit that people say when they are only pretending to care. John had known Paul for such a long time. They had faced everything together, so had to do better than this.

His whole body started to shake when he saw the door with the big number that he had been looking for.

39.

He felt like the red number was looking at him, judging. He tried to move, but his whole body seemed as it was frozen. Tears started to roll down his cheeks and he didn't try to stop them. He was too exhausted to do it. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.

He moved his hand and placed it on the door handle, hesitating. Eventually, he pressed on it and his eyes landed on him. Paul was lying in the hospital bed, his skin so pale that it almost didn't differ from the color of the hospital pillows.

"John!" he exclaimed and a genuine smile found its way to his face. "Did they tell you when they're letting me out? It's so borning here!" he complained and sat up. Even though he seemed energetic and the smile on his lips was honest, he still looked sick. His lips were still blueish and his nose rather red. He was pale and skinny. His once beautiful, thick hair was now thin and weak. John stared at his mate, a feeling of frustration growing stronger inside of him.

"Are you for real?" John spat out in anger, causing Paul's face to sadden immediately.

"I missed you, Johnny," is all Paul mumbled in response. He moved himself to left side of the bed. "Can you come here?" he requested and patted the empty space next to him, using his weak hand.

Questions begin to spiral throughout John's mind. Why was Paul being so casual about this whole mess? He had just almost died. And before that, wasn't he furious with John? He had basically quit the band too, what about that?