Reality came crashing down on him when he realized he couldn't play guitar in this condition. "Harrison, can you move your bloody hand?"

"I'm afraid not, John."

"When I strum, your hand is just flopping around, making it sound like a preschooler is playing!" John exclaimed, demonstrating. He'd never felt so enraged in his life. Not only was George following him around again, they were chained together. He shouldn't have remained still when Paul put the handcuffs on him. He should have grabbed Yoko and ran out of there like fans were chasing him.

"Well, at least you can play!" George pointed out. "I can't even play mine, because my fretboard hand is tied to you!"

"My strumming hand is tied to you!"

George fixed him with a hard gaze and said calmly, "I know why you're so angry. It's not because you can't strum properly. It's because you can't use that hand for something else!"

John's face flushed tomato red. "Why would I need to do that?"

"Your record is nine times in one day, isn't it?"

"Why are we talking about this?" John said nervously, casting a hurried glance to Yoko, who was sitting on the floor, watching them intently.

"Because I found a good conversation starter," George said simply, lifting one side of his mouth into a smile.

"What about you?" John said, itching to get revenge. "You didn't do it until you were seventeen!"

The smile was wiped from George's face and cast his gaze to the floor.

"It doesn't feel good, does it?" John taunted, smirking. "So lay off."

"I'm sorry," George said softly, not looking at him.

John's mean smirk slowly left his face and he looked away from him. He couldn't even remember why he suddenly couldn't stand being around his bandmates anymore. He couldn't even remember! He suddenly felt terrible for treating them how he had been lately, but he couldn't get himself to say sorry. He wanted to apologize badly, but he couldn't.

"What are we going to do until Monday?" John wondered aloud. "I can't live like this!"

"We've only been handcuffed together for three hours and you act like you're dying!" George cried. "I think instead of just sitting here bickering, we should do something!"

"What do you have in mind, Harrison?" He had intended his voice to be filled with venom, but instead it had just come out flatly. "We can't play cards because then you'd see my hand! We can't go out in public because that'd really get those vultures writing up their little articles, their gossip. We can't - "

"Just forget it," George said, shaking his head.

"No, let's hear it. What did you have in mind?"

George remained silent.

"Come on, tell me."

George turned his head an acted like he couldn't hear him.

"George."

Still no reaction.

"George."

Nothing.

"George!" John yelled, shoving his guitar at him to get his attention. It did get a response out of him, which was throwing John's guitar onto the floor. The guitar hit the floor with a crack and some of the strings curled up to the head. He had broken it. He'd broken John's guitar. John loved that guitar. It was his Gibson, the one he'd had for the past five years . . .

"I'm going to kill you," John said, looking at him with narrowed eyes. He didn't see any emotion in George's dark eyes, not even regret. This made him even angrier. He hit him. He hit him hard, and he drew blood. George didn't even make a peep, just felt his nose and pulled his hand back, looking at the blood in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth open. But no sound.

John's anger slowly eased away and he looked at his own hand, the knuckles speckled with blood. He'd never hit George before. Never. He'd wanted to, but he'd never done it. God . . . what was wrong with him?

"George, I'm so sorry," he said.

George didn't say anything, just stood up, and John had no other choice but to follow him. They went to the kitchen where George wiped the blood from his nose with a rag and then put ice on it.

"George, I'm so sorry," John repeated, feeling stupid.

"No, you're not," George said quietly. "You're not sorry at all. You just care about yourself. It's your ego. I, me, mine. All the time." He was then silent again, looking out the window, ice still pressed to his nose.

They stood there for a few minutes without speaking a word to each other before George turned back to him. "I'm sorry for breaking your guitar. This is my fault. I deserved this." He went quiet before adding, "It was a nice hit, John. Almost broke my nose." He let out a laugh, and John nervously forced a little chuckle out of himself.

"Are we made up?" John asked.

"No," George said matter-of-factly. "You're still angry at me for some reason. You've been angry at me for a some time now. You still hate me, and I still dislike you. Maybe we will get this sorted out by the end of the weekend, but we'll have to work at it. I don't think you want my friendship that badly, though. Not when you have her." He nodded to the living room where Yoko still was. "That's all that matters to you, but that's fine. They say love is blind, John." He let it hang in the air before asking, "Have you read The Autobiography of a Yogi?"

"No," John said numbly.

"Well, you should read it," George said, looking away from him. "It may help you. I have about ten of them laying around here for when people need to regroove. Do you feel like you need to regroove?"

"I don't know," John said, still feeling numb.

"Well, if you decide you do, take one."

"Okay." He bit his lip and almost said he was sorry again, but decided not to. He knew George wouldn't accept it, because he knew John didn't mean it. He would only accept it when John meant it, and John was going to work on meaning it.