John collapsed into a waiting room chair and clutched his head between his hands. As his eyes teared up, he took off his glasses and finally noticed all the spots of blood on them--Paul's blood. He let himself weep.
"NO!" an anguished voice shouted. John looked up with blurry eyes, but recognized Ringo's figure along with a silent George beside him. "He isn't....?!"
"No, fucking hell, no," John grimaced, wiping at his eyes. "He's in there," pointing to the double doors.
The other two sat down beside him as he futilely tried to clean his glasses. "How does it look, Johnny?" George asked quietly, his dark eyes tense.
John sighed and shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I kept him awake until we got here and now...I don't know."
He ran his hands through his hair. What an awful way for the four of them to be reminded of their bond, which had lately grown rather strained.
In the ER, the paramedics stood by Paul's side as the nurses and assistants cut away his clothes and started monitoring his vital signs. As they began reporting the results to the attending doctors, it was obvious Paul was in distress, his breathing more laboured. "Punctured lung," was one of the medics' first thoughts and was echoed by the doctor in charge as they wheeled him to x-ray.
Neil and Mal burst into the waiting area, demanding an update on Paul. But John could tell them very little. No one had come out to talk to them yet.
"Someone should call his Da," Ringo said.
"And Jane," George added.
"Wait until we know...something to tell them," John answered abruptly.
They smoked, they paced, they took turns getting tea until John was ready to scream. Why no word?
Hours later, a suited doctor came out and looked at them with recognition. They all stood up, as if that was the expected thing to do when receiving bad news. The surgeon finally spoke. "Paul is in intensive care in critical condition."
At their crestfallen faces, he amended, "As he improves, that status will be changed. As well as suffering four broken ribs, his spleen was ruptured. We had to remove it and insert a chest tube for a collapsed lung, caused by one of the broken ribs. The head contusion required eight stitches but was superficial. We're watching him for possible head injury." He stopped to take a breath.
John uttered a faint "Fuck" and dropped into a chair. Neil covered his eyes with one hand as he shook his head in dismay. The doctor continued, "Paul lost quite a bit of blood from the ruptured spleen. We're giving him transfusions and fluids. If any of you are his blood type or universal, I suggest you go two floors up to donate it."
The other Beatles stood silently, trying to take it all in. Finally Ringo asked what they were all thinking, "Will he be all right, then?"
The doctor looked down at his hands for a moment before answering. "Sometimes internal injuries like these can be tricky. But we got to him quickly, he's young and in good condition. We'll need some more time to see how he progresses."
George asked, "Can we see him?"
"Yes, but make your visit brief. He may not be awake."
John released a great, shuddering sigh. So Paul wasn't dead, but he wasn't going to walk out of the hospital today either. "It was his bloody idea to ride fucking horses," he muttered to himself, then realised all the others were giving him dirty looks. "Well!" John retorted, some of his wits returning. They shook their heads as they followed a nurse to Paul's room.
As a "famous personage," Paul had been given a private room at the end of the ICU. As they entered, John was relieved to see all the blood had been cleaned off Paul. They had put a large patch over his temple, pushing up the famous "Beatle fringe." He looked young, vulnerable, and deeply asleep.
Ringo looked nervously at the tubes leading from Paul's left hand to two IV bags, one clear, one dark red. Ringo had been in and out of hospital all during his growing up years but had never gotten used to the needles. "Don't they know he's left-handed?" he asked.
"Eh? What are you on about?" George looked at him.
"Well, they put all the needles in his left hand--makes it hard to use," Ringo replied.
"You should know, oh sickly one," John said absently, focused on Paul. His breathing was no longer laboured. Although pale, he wasn't that translucent white he had been in the ambulance. Besides the IV lines, a tube came from under the blankets on his side for the lung injury. A machine beeped and flashed numbers at them.
Neil stood up. "I'd better call his Da now."
"And Jane," George added again as Neil was going out the door.
Neil stopped. "Where is she then? At home or on tour?"
"On tour in America."
Neil whirled to the bed, "Paul! Thank God!"
Paul looked back at him with a faint smile. He looked exhausted, but was awake and coherent. Ringo smiled delightedly; John's tense shoulders slumped in relief.
"How're ye feelin' now, son?" he asked in a Yorkshire accent to hide his emotions. "They removed yer organ, ye know."
"Aye?" Paul's eyes momentarily widened in alarm as the rest of them snickered. "Strange, don't feel a thing down there, come to think of it," he continued drolly, realising the joke.
"Most unusual for you, Paul," George chipped in.
"Aye, quite queer," Ringo added. They laughed.
Paul stopped and winced, reaching up to touch his gauzed head. "What did the bloody thing do to me?" he asked. John told him what the doctor had said.
"Fucking horse," Paul muttered with closed eyes. He looked drained. A nurse came in to check his vital signs, glancing at them all from the corner of her eye as she did so.
Nervously she said, "I'm afraid there are too many people in here. Official visiting hours were over long ago and he needs to rest."
"Oh, yes, mother!" John saluted her. "I'm knackered anyway," he added. "If he'll be all right now, I'm ready to fall into bed myself."
The nurse smiled as she left. "He's in good hands here. You all look like you could use some rest."
Paul's eyes were drifting shut although he tried to keep them open. The incision in his middle throbbed and his head ached. George said he needed to have a ciggie and he'd drop in to see Paul later. Paul gave him a faint wink. Ringo, after giving Paul's right hand a gentle squeeze, went with George and Neil. Mal went to see if he could donate his blood. Only John remained in the room.
Paul looked up at him looking down at him. "Thanks, mate," he said simply.
John looked away, embarrassed, and replied, "Couldn't let you suffer such an ignoble end."
Paul's lips quirked in a smile. His eyes dragged shut again. "I'm tired."
"You had quite a fight there, son," John said quietly.
Paul sighed and slipped into a drugged sleep. After a slight pause, John took his hand and sat until Paul's expression of pain smoothed out and his breathing deepened. Carefully, he set Paul's limp but warm hand on the blanket, looked once more at his sleeping face for reassurance, and left.
