Chapter Text
When John awoke, he noticed the woman beside him was distinctly not Yoko. This woman was white and brunette.
He patted around for his glasses, shoved them onto his face, and frantically looked around. Where was Yoko where was Yoko where was Yoko? He needed her he needed her he needed her.
This was not his flat in Montagu Square. This was some other flat with psychedelic paintings and hippie slogans on the walls. Some other flat with random hippies laying all over the place. How had he gotten here? Where was Yoko?!
He stood up, feeling very nauseous. He went over to the window and pulled open the curtains. In the distance, he could see a river he knew very well, and a church with a distinctive bird statue on the roof. When had he gone to Liverpool?! Without Yoko?!
“Too bright,” some hippie on the couch complained.
She was another random white woman with really long, brown hair.
“Where’s-” John began, clutching his stomach when he felt it threaten to dispel itself out the wrong end.
God, he wanted heroin. But he wanted Yoko more.
“Where’s Yoko?!” John demanded.
“Who?” the hippie replied.
“Fucking Yoko Ono. Where is she?”
“Dunno. Close the curtain.”
John groaned in frustration, forcefully pulling the curtains shut.
“Where’s the phone?” John asked as he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket - the pocket in the day clothes that he had never seen in his life.
They were No. 6 cigarettes, which were not his usual brand and smaller than he usually smoked, but a cigarette was a cigarette. He lit it and felt some slight relief within the panic.
“Jimmy sold it, remember?” the hippie replied.
John questioned if this hippie even had any idea who she was talking to right now if she was expecting him to remember things he had no involvement in. Whatever, he just had to get out of here, find a phone, call Yoko, and then call Anthony to get him to take John home.
When John found the door, his hands were shaking so much on the door handle, he realised he couldn’t go just yet.
He turned back to the pile of hippies, trying to keep his stomach intact and push through the throbbing headache.
“Any of you got junk?” John asked.
“Hold on,” the hippie on the couch stretched her arms, leaned over to a box, and chucked a vial to John.
John tipped out a bit of off-white powder and snorted it. He felt… a whole lot of nothing.
“What are you snorting it for, lad?” the hippie laughed. She leaned back over to the box and pulled out a spoon, needle, and syringe.
John stepped back in disgust. “I’m not stabbing meself with needles. Is this even heroin? I don’t feel shit.”
“‘Cause you’re snorting it,” the hippie replied, busying herself with stuffing a pipe with pot.
John snorted some more. It slightly relieved his dopesickness at least.
“Can I have some of that pot?” John asked.
“Yeah, hold on,” the hippie lit it and had a puff.
Some boy about Julian’s age wandered over from another room, holding a marmalade sandwich.
“Alright, John,” he greeted. “Morning, Ma.”
He sat beside the hippie on the couch, and got the pot pipe off her to have a smoke himself.
“Give some to John,” the hippie said.
“So you do know who I am,” John remarked.
The hippie laughed. “Yeah? I haven’t lost all me marbles yet.”
The five-year-old stuffed the pipe with more pot and passed it to John.
It wasn’t the best pot John had ever smoked, but at least it helped relieve some more of the withdrawal symptoms.
“Alright, thank you. I owe you one,” John passed the pipe back to the hippie, who passed it back to her son to finish while he munched on his sandwich.
John pushed the door open, glad to be out of there.
“Hippies are fucking weird,” John muttered to himself as he headed down the staircase and out into the streets of the city.
He found a payphone quickly, and fortunately there was a coin in his pocket, which he used to make his call.
He dialed the number of his flat in Montagu Square. It said the number didn’t work, so he called the operator instead.
“I’m tryna reach a number in London. Address is 34 Montagu Square,” John said.
His call was directed. A random man on the other end of the line said, “hello?”
Anger and jealousy flared inside John. Who was this man?!
“What the fuck have you done with Yoko?” John snapped.
“Who’s Yoko?”
“You know who Yoko Ono is!”
“I don’t, mate. Who are you?”
“Yoko’s boyfriend, that’s who.”
“You’ve got the wrong number, mate,” the man said, and hung up.
Well, John would just have to go down there and see what was happening himself.
Penniless, he scanned his eyes over the ground, and fortunately found some change. When he was leaning down to pick it up, he noticed bruises and pinprick scabs on his left arm.
What the fuck?! Had he, for some reason, started shooting heroin, and ended up on a bender that made him forget he ever started?
He took a breath. He just had to get back to Yoko. Yoko would explain everything.
He called his chauffeur Anthony. Nothing. Back to the operator.
“I wanna call William Lesley Anthony,” John said.
The call was connected.
“Hello?” came Anthony’s voice.
John sighed in relief. “Hi, Anthony, I’m in the ‘Pool for some reason. Can you come pick me up?”
“Who is this?”
John frowned. “John. Lennon.”
“Who?”
“John Lennon.”
“Who?”
John groaned. “What is this, April 1st?”
“Is it? No, it’s October 9th.”
“You’re joking.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, you probably got the wrong number. Are we good here?”
John hung up.
What the fuck kind of birthday present was this? Did everyone hate him so much they had thrown him in Liverpool and decided to pretend they didn’t know him?
He knew yesterday had been October 8th. Yesterday when he had had Yoko in his arms. So he can’t have really gone on a bender. Unless it had been an entire year or more? Or Anthony was lying for some despicable reason?
John crumpled into a ball in the telephone booth. God, he needed to be high on heroin. He needed to be floating in and out of consciousness, numb to the world, with only his own pleasure to concern himself with. Even though there was a possibility this had started because of a heroin bender he was unaware of.
And he fucking needed Yoko. But Yoko had shacked up with another man and forgotten about him. Why had they dumped him in Liverpool, though? Couldn’t they have just killed him instead? He would be much happier dead, than rejected and forgotten.
Someone else wanted to use the phone, so John was kicked out.
He aimlessly wandered the streets, dragging his feet. Maybe he would be better off jumping into the Mersey if nobody wanted him.
He seriously considered it while his insides churned with fear and anger and the deep, deep, all-too-familiar feeling of being completely alone. Abandoned. Destabilised. He stood by a fence covered in locks placed by people who loved and who were loved - must be nice - and stared into the river below.
Just the night before, he had wanted to die because the world hated him. All he wanted was to be alone with Yoko forever. He had wished he had never gotten famous so he and Yoko could live in domestic bliss, rather than in fear of the outside world. An impossible dream, but he wouldn’t kill himself over it because at least he had Yoko. At least he had a reason to wake up each day. Now he did not have Yoko.
He continued to contemplate the river below. Water was so pretty. It was constantly moving. Peaceful. He was a sailor by blood, and the ocean was his home.
And now he was distracting himself from the whole killing himself thing.
But, maybe he was a coward. Maybe Yoko had been kidnapped or something! He couldn’t die. He had to save her. And he didn’t need a damn chauffeur, he could get back to London himself.
Determined, he headed in the direction of Lime Street Station. If, when he got back to London, he discovered Yoko had in fact moved on from him, then that would be the last thing he would ever witness.
He was so, so tired of trying to find some sense of peace; some answer that would fill the hole inside of him, some reason to exist. When he was with Yoko, or specifically when he was close enough to her that he forgot he wasn’t Yoko, he could escape everything that was wrong with him and the rest of the world. Without Yoko, though, he could barely stand to open his eyes.
On the chance that Yoko hadn’t moved on, he had to carry on. He had to get his soul back.
He was being so dramatic, anyway. There were a million other explanations for waking up in Liverpool and having a random man in his flat and having his chauffeur pretend not to know him. Right? It wasn’t exactly his forte to believe in the best possible scenario, but he could try to hope it wasn’t the worst.
He wanted more pot. He wanted more junk. He wanted Yoko…
John was jolted out of his thoughts by a familiar voice rolling down Lime Street.
He made a beeline towards it. Sure enough, Paul was sitting on the ground with a guitar, singing his little heart out. Relief swam through him. At least Paul hadn’t abandoned him.
“Paul!” John called. “Do you know what the fuck is going on?”
Paul looked up from his guitar. “Huh? What do you mean?”
“Why am I in Liverpool? Where is Yoko?”
“Ah, I dunno, lad. Sorry.”
The way Paul had said that was not very ‘you’re my best mate and I’m also confused’, it was more ‘I don’t want to talk to you’.
“Don’t tell me you’re playing this game too,” John said, trying his hardest to hide the nervous tremble in his voice.
“What game?”
“Where you pretend you don’t know me.”
“Uh… I don’t know you.”
“Cut the crap, Paul. I’m freaking the fuck out here!”
“Look, I don’t know how you know my name, but I don’t know you. I’m sorry you’re freaking out, but I don’t know how to help you with that.”
John scratched his arms and forced words out of his tightening throat. “Come on, mate! I’m sorry I became a junkie and went on some fucking heroin bender, but I don’t even remember doing that. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Please, won’t you at least acknowledge me? I’m sorry.”
Paul shuffled uncomfortably, and he started gathering up his earnings from busking. John had no idea why Paul was busking in the first place, but that was the least of his concerns right now.
John continued, “I’m sorry I’ve been so focused on Yoko instead of you. But she doesn’t even want me anymore, I think. Just please look at me, Paul, I wanna know what’s going on.”
“I don’t know who you are,” Paul reiterated.
“Fucking hell, Paul! What the fuck is your problem?! Trust you to pull an act like this and leave me-”
“Leave him alone, lad,” some stranger cut in, walking between John and Paul.
John tried to push him aside, and when he seemed to be an immovable brick, John just shouted, “this is between me and Paul!”
“I have no idea who this bloke is,” Paul said.
“Like they’ll fucking believe that. We’re the Beatles. Everyone knows we know each other.”
“Alright, come on,” said the stranger, trying to lead John away.
John tried to get out of his grip. “No, no, no, hold on, wait, you do know the Beatles, right?”
“Which beetles?” the stranger asked, still trying to push John around.
John’s heart beat faster and faster as this all got so much more confusing.
“Oi, you,” John pointed to someone else who was walking past, “do you know who I am?”
“A divvy,” he said, and kept walking.
John pointed at a random young woman. “You’ve gotta know who I am, right? You know the Beatles, right?”
She didn’t say anything, just sped up her pace.
John stared after her in disbelief. There was no way, right?
“Something is very wrong,” he muttered.
The stranger let him go, and he wandered off with a sick feeling stuck in his guts.
If he just made it to London, to Yoko, things would make sense again.
At Lime Street Station, he couldn’t get on a train without a ticket. He couldn’t get a ticket without any money, and he had none on him other than that one coin he had spent on a pointless phone call.
“Look, I promise on me dead mother, I’ll pay you later, I just need to get back to me girlfriend,” John said to the ticket guy.
“Then make some money first,” the ticket guy said.
“I have money, I just don’t have it with me.”
“Not my problem.”
John gave up for now. He just wanted some junk, and then maybe things would all make sense again tomorrow.
He followed his footsteps back to the flat of hippies.
More of them were awake now, and it smelt even more strongly of pot.
“Happy birthday, John,” said the woman he had woken up next to.
John had no energy to respond to that.
“You lot know the Beatles, right?” he asked.
“What beetles?” the bed woman asked.
“I was mates with a beetle once,” another hippie said. “It died.”
Someone rubbed that guy’s back comfortingly.
John sat down with a heavy sigh, a random cat jumping onto his lap. “I have the funniest feeling me wish came true. But not in the way I wanted. Fuck, if I lost everything except Yoko, I’d still be happy. But this…?”
“Seriously, John, who’s Yoko?” asked the couch hippie.
“Who are you?”
Everyone who was conscious looked at John.
“Are you being philosophical, love?” asked the bed woman. “Or did you take too much acid again?”
“Don’t call me ‘love’ when I don’t know who the fuck you are.”
“Too much acid…” she said quietly.
John buried his hands in the fur of the cat, holding back his tears. He wasn’t mad, was he? He was a Beatle, right? Yoko was real, right? She had to be…
“Doesn’t even matter,” he mumbled. “I just want some fucking heroin that actually gets me high.”
The bed woman fished out the heroin and intravenous supplies.
“Me name is Janet,” she said gently as she held the supplies out.
“Stop it,” John snapped, though he grabbed the heroin. “I don’t wanna use any fucking needles.”
The room was very quiet. He didn’t care. He just kept his eyes away from the foreign trackmarks on his arm, and snorted a line of heroin while everyone watched him. And another line. And another. Until he finally felt high.
He curled up on the bed, blissful. Nothing really mattered, and when he woke up, he would be with Yoko.
When he woke up, he was not with Yoko. All he had was a cat he did not own pawing at his face, in a flat of strangers.
The guy who befriended a beetle was fucking Janet, in full view of John, but he didn’t even have the energy to be voyeuristic about it.
He just needed to get to London to get to Yoko.
It was, however, the evening, and he still had no money. The city streets outside were filling with people. If people knew who he was, he could easily get a gig in a club, and he would have money again. But nobody seemed to remember.
With a sigh, he laid back down on the bed and did more heroin.
When John awoke, he noticed the woman beside him was distinctly not Janet. Nor was it any of the other women he shared a flat with. This one was Asian.
John groggily sat up, patting around for his glasses, which he found on the desk beside him.
Yes, there was an Asian woman asleep next to him. And this was not his flat. It was so white.
He held his stomach as it threatened to regurgitate itself. He just needed some junk, and he could work out how the fuck he had gotten here and how to get back to his girlfriend.
The awful trouble of not being in his own home, though, was that he had no idea if there were any drugs here, or if he would have to drag himself out and buy new heroin with the money he didn’t have.
He was completely naked, so he didn’t have anything on him.
He started frantically digging through drawers while his head incessantly throbbed, and found an off-white powder. Testing it on his tongue, he could confirm, to his immense relief, that this woman had the very drug he needed. But no needles.
Digging around some more, he found nothing but a lighter and some expensive cigarettes. He lit up while he continued his search, until the woman stirred awake.
“John?” she croaked. “What are you looking for?”
John did not want her to know he had stolen her heroin, so he said, “ah, me clothes.”
She hummed in response, clearly still half-asleep.
John left the bedroom and went into the kitchen. He found some tinfoil and a straw, and got to work smoking his junk.
Oh, oh, this woman must have the good shit because John hadn’t felt such a pleasurable rush since- since-
He crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. All he could do was try to cough past the bile in his throat, choking him, until he lost the energy to fight back.
Oh… this was it…
In the gentle embrace of an incredible high, the world… went… black.