Til There was You (one-shot)
A/N: for Day 1 of McLennon week 2022, the theme was Hamburg. So, enjoy this one-shot where John is injured after a night out and Paul comes to his rescue!
John couldn’t remember the last he’d looked at the time. He hadn’t needed to - with a pop of Pep pills and the cheapest German beer the Silver Beatles could splurge on, it was like his fingers teleported from a bottle to his guitar’s fret to the tits of some hammered bird in the Star’s alleyway. With his drugged brain compressing the hours of sweating and screaming into minutes, who needs to keep track?
She was German, that much his drunk ‘n drugged mind. He could not speak a word of German. However, he did speak “horny drunk” and - how serendipitous! - she was looking for some action, too.
It ended quick, though. They might’ve made out for almost an hour - probably not even that, and she wanted out. She shoved him off of her.
“Oomf!” John’s lungs compressed against the back of his ribs as the bird left in tears. His head banged against the rough bricks of the neighboring bar. He groaned as his ass hit the asphalt, ruining his leather trousers. He got up and stumbled in a circle as his brain worked on over drive - getting his lungs to take in air normally again, pumping adrenaline to his ass and head; pumpong blood to keep him warm; discarding the Pep and producing the melatonin that it had prohibited; kicking his memory like a dead lawnmower - Where did the guys go? When did it get so cold? How long has it been? What the fuck happened to my watch? Where’s our room?
Well, John concluded, better start walking.
There was nary a thought behind John’s eyes as tried to appear sober along Hamburg’s nightlife. He braced the back of his head - a migraine starting to form. He brought his hand back, wiping the metallic sweat on his clothes. He mumbled some lyrics - vaguely reminiscent of Mama Thornton’s Hound Dog, mixed with Elvis’ version.
You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,
Been snoopin ‘round my door
You ain’t nothing but a hound dog
Well, you ain’t ever got caught a rabbit,
Don’t think of comin’ ‘round here no more
As he came around to a dry, empty alleyway, every step on loose gravel pierced the nerves of his feet. Exhausted, sweaty, aching, and crashing from his high, he gave up on finding their room.
Better luck in the morning, perhaps.
He yawned, leaning head against the wall for support.
So, so many footsteps echoed down the alleyway.
Nah, he’s probably just talking to a cat.
“Oh, you fucking moron.” John winced as the footsteps got louder - closer. Through the drowsiness, his memory lit up as a familiar face was outlined.
“Just…wanna fucking..fuckin sleep…”
“You can sleep when we get to the room. Or a hospital.” Paul grunted as he tried to lift his friend from the ground.
“Shit, can you stand? Like, at all? Can’t do this alone, ya know!”
“Fuchkoff!” John forced his legs to at least squat, and Paul finally had enough leverage to lift John by his shoulder.
“That’s it..That’s it…Lean on me, now.”
“Than..christ.” John only had to make his feet move, no matter how much they ached in his cowboy boots.
“So what the fuck happened?”
“Dunno. Some bird just…” he weakly gestured a pushing movement, trying to find the words for it.
“Yeah. I must’ve hit it hard, me head’s bleedin’, I think.” Everything lifted from his shoulders- his weight, the migraine, the sleepiness. Maybe he was beginning to feel better. Until his ears started to get blurry.
“Yeah. Made it easy to follow you.”
“What?” He squinted, trying to hear his friend.
“Yeah, ye left a bit of a trail - drops of blood starting at the club, right past our room, and back to the club.” Paul chuckled.
John sighed, preferring not to talk.
When they finally got back the room, it was repulsive. Everything about it would’ve caused Mimi to have a heart attack - the pile of moldy vomit next to George’s bed, George sleeping half-way off of the edge, Pete -for some reason- slept on the floor with a blanket and pillow next to a stripped bed, and Klaus was on a train to Liverpool with Astrid.
Paul assessed John’s wound.
Yer mum was a nurse, wasn’t she?
He grimaced as John winced at every moving stant of hair “I..uh..I don’t think ye lost too much blood. Hard to tell. Might be better to get it checked in the morning, though.”
“I could die by then.” John whined.
“Oh, shove it, softie.” Paul chuckled. He lightly poked John’s wound. “No, straight up, you’ll be fine.”
“Okay. “ John yawned, leaning back on the naked bed. He stretched, and yawned, popping his jaw a little. “Night, Macca.”
Paul turned out the light and settled on the floor, falling asleep and silently dreading the morning back pain as much as his friend’s morning agony.
