Wake up to the sound of music 6/?
Title: Wake up to the sound of music (6/?)
Author: beama_casey
Pairing: eventual John/Paul
Rating: R for this chapter, I think
Warnings: sensitive themes, AU, self harm in this chapter
Summary: When you can't speak your mind, you can only play your heart
Word count: 1,676
Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles
Thank you guys so much for your fantastic comments! I'm sorry this chapter was a long time coming, but I hope the wait was worth it.
Chapters 1 - 5
Chapter 6
“Are you really leaving?”
Paul shrugged at George’s question. “Dunno. I’ve been thinking about it. I really think we could work, you know. Me and Jane.”
“Yeah, but you’ve only known her for a week,” George reminded his friend gently. “Don’t get too serious too quick, eh?” He pushed Paul’s shoulder softly, chuckling when the cup of Horlicks almost shot out of Paul’s hand.
“That could’ve burnt me!” Paul chided, though he was grinning too.
George waved a dismissive hand. “It’s cold anyway.”
The phone rang, and both men looked at it, then at each other. Without a word, they raised a clenched fist in front of them and bobbed them up and down three times.
“Crap!” George threw his hands into the air when Paul cut George’s ‘paper’ with his ‘scissors’. He got off the chair with a groan, and, with all the air as if he were being marched to the gallows, went to the still ringing phone.
“Hello? No, it’s George, his flatmate, d’you... What?!” He leaned over and tapped Paul’s shoulder, getting his attention. “Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on a second.” He held the phone out for Paul to take. “It’s that Richard Starkey guy from work. Something’s up,” he said with an urgency in his voice that immediately put Paul on edge.
“Ringo,” Paul greeted. “What’s wrong?”
“Paul you have to come in right away,” the tinny voice was alarmed. “It’s John.”
Paul’s eyes widened, and his heart suddenly skipped two or three beats. “John? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“He’s calling for you.”
And that in itself stopped Paul’s mind short. “He’s... he’s *calling* for me? He’s talking?”
“Not really talking, just - just screaming. Please, Paul, you need to hurry!” Ringo hung up, and Paul wasted no more time. He grabbed his car keys from the shelf, and his jacket from the back of the chair, and he was out the door, George looking on in concern, having heard the whole conversation.
He drove to the home like a madman. Luckily the streets were empty, being quite late. As he got closer and closer, scenarios kept going through Paul’s head.
Ringo had sounded terrified. What if John had been really, seriously hurt? What if by the time he got there, it was too late and he was- Paul shook his head. It didn’t do to dwell on things like that. He wasn’t going to lose John.
He parked up and sprinted out of the car, as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse were on his heels. Paul hesitated only when he reached the first floor and heard the screams. They sounded more animal than human, and Paul had to fight himself to stop covering his ears, as if he were a scared child. He ran to John’s room. A nurse was standing outside, a hand over her mouth as small sobs escaped her throat, and tears fell from her frightened eyes. Paul touched her gently on the shoulder, somehow thinking that this could reassure her.
Ringo was standing outside the bathroom door, as were two other male carers, pushing against the door.
“What’s happening, Ringo?” Paul asked, his voice not able to rise above a whisper. “What’s going on?”
The older man ran a hand through his hair in a hopeless gesture. “John’s in the bathroom,” he said, and his trembling voice made Paul panic even more. “He won’t come out, and he’s blocked the door.” He suddenly grabbed Paul’s wrist. “Paul, I heard something smash in there. I think he may be hurting himself.”
One of the men knelt by the door looked up from what he had been doing. “No use, Ringo,” he said, shaking his head. “We can’t get it open. We’ll need to break-”
Suddenly, a long, piercing, tormented screech came from behind the blocked door, and Paul finally recognised it as his own name being screamed. Again, he fought the need to cover his ears, and pounded on the door instead. “John!” He shouted. “It’s me! It’s Paul!”
“PAUL!” The scream was a little quieter, but no less tormented.
“Let me in, Johnny, please.” He didn’t know if he was more frightened by the agony in his friend’s voice, or by the fact that John was *actually* speaking. He pounded on the door again with his fist when he heard no response. “Johnny, please.”
They all heard something being kicked aside, and when Paul tried to open the door again, he was successful. They couldn’t see anything in the bathroom - John had turned out the lights. Paul and Ringo both went to enter the dark room, but the younger put a hand on his boss’s shoulder, with an apologetic squinting of his eyes. Ringo nodded in response, understanding that Paul needed to do this alone.
Paul groped around in the darkness for the light switch, but when he found it, he almost did not want to turn it on, afraid of what he would find. The heavy breathing and quiet sobs that he heard coming from John made up his mind for him, however, and his fingers flicked the switch.
What he saw made him too scared to even gasp, and he just stared in terror. John was sitting on the bathroom floor, his back against the tub. He had pulled his knees up to his chin, and his face was buried in them, making his breathing harsh and his sobs muffled.
Shards of glass was around him, and when Paul walked to John, he had to be sure to step over and around them. He looked around to find the source of the glass. The mirror was smashed. A chair that John had brought in from his bedroom was lying on the other side of the room. John had obviously brought it with him with the intention of blocking the door with it. Paul’s breath caught in his chest, and he tried not to think about what would have happened to John had someone not found him.
Paul cleared a space around John so he could kneel in front of him. He blanched when he saw blood on two or three shards of glass. His charge’s hands were curled into fists, so Paul couldn’t even inspect him for harm.
“John.” He cleared his throat when his voice broke. “John, it’s me.” John’s sobs didn’t lessen at the sound of his carer’s voice, so Paul put a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s me, Johnny.” The older man’s fist did, however, unclench a little at the sound of Paul’s voice and at the feel of his touch, and Paul quickly grabbed onto John’s hand. His eyes widened when he felt it was wet.
‘Please,’ his mind begged. ‘Please, just let this be just his tears.’ He turned the hand over, and closed his eyes when he saw the blood on it. He ran a hand through John’s hair when the sobs turned to loud cries when John knew that Paul had seen the blood. “Shh, John. Shh, love.”
Whether it was the surprise at hearing Paul refer to him as ‘love’, or whether from the touch in his hair, John looked up, and Paul’s hand fell from his head in horror.
“No!” Paul moaned. “John, no! What have you done?”
Great slashes had been ripped in John’s right cheek dangerously close to his eye, horrifically making it look as if he were crying blood. His left cheek had suffered no less, and a brutal line had been cut diagonally from his temple to the corner of his mouth. All the while, tears fell from those hazel eyes, making John gasp between every sob as they seeped and stung his self-inflicted wounds.
“Ringo!” Paul shouted, taking his eyes off John for a fleeting second. “Ringo, call an ambulance!”
“What? What’s-” But John reached across, grabbing the door and slamming it shut before Ringo had a chance to even glimpse the scene.
Paul looked at him with a question in his eyes, but John only shook his head miserably, before letting his head fall again. Paul understood, though. John didn’t want anyone else to see him in this state. Rather inappropriately, a feeling of adoration swelled in the younger man’s chest for him. He felt strangely grateful that John allowed Paul to see him like this. Now all he had to do was get John to allow him to help.
“John,” he whispered. “Why did you do this to yourself?” John said something that was muffled in his knees. “What? I can’t hear you, John.”
The young patient looked up. “Paul,” he whispered.
Paul frowned. He didn’t understand. Was John saying it was Paul’s fault? “Did I do this to you?” he whispered in dread.
John shook his head. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something else, but closed it again. Two sets of brown eyes met and held. John put a clenched hand to his own chest, where his heart was, and Paul watched curiously as his friend put that hand against Paul’s chest, and pushed it flat, as if shoving the heart that John held in his hand into Paul.
And then Paul understood. That was exactly what John was doing. His eyes widened, realising what it meant: that John was giving Paul his heart - had probably already done so, in fact.
“John, I-”
But then the door was being pushed open with enough force to make it bounce off the walls, and two paramedics were walking in, and Paul was being pushed out of the way while they helped John to his feet, and Ringo was holding Paul’s arm while Paul wondered why, until he realised that he was struggling to get to John, and Ringo was telling Paul that it was going to be okay, that John was going to be alright, and then they were leading John away, and their eyes met, and Paul wasn’t sure whether he looked away from John in fear, or because he was pushed aside again by one of the men in green suits.