George awoke to find himself lying on a cold and uncomfortable bed. Dots danced in front of his weary eyes, heavy with fatigue and lack of sleep. Shivering, he looked around the room, and spotted a glass of water and a thermometer resting on the bedside table next to him. When he saw the water, he realised his throat was scratchy and as dry as a desert; and he desperately needed to drink.

He reached out to grab the glass with his left arm, but the pain from his wound ricochetted around his body and he pulled back, gasping in anguish.

Grimacing, he tried to call out for one of his bandmates, but all that came from his parched throat was a thin scratching sound. He rubbed his neck gently and tried to slide out of bed, placing his feet gently on the hard floorboards. A slither of sunlight crept inside from a chink in the curtains, stinging his eyes, and he stood up slightly clumsily with one arm shielding his face from the light.

He felt sick and feverish, even more so as the smell of John's cooking wafted up the stairs towards him. What was that scent? Probably buttered eggs on toast, covered in marmite and jelly or something eccentric like that. He could hear the voices of Paul and John bickering over something or another. As usual.

George couldn't help but smile at the small shred of normality.

***

Ringo sat at the table awkwardly, poking at his mushy toast with his fork. John and Paul had decided to work together to make a special meal for everyone as "a compensation for all the horror that happened yesterday", in Paul's words, although Ringo wasn't sure that his bandmates' cooking was going to help in any way.

"How d'you like your eggs, Ringo?" John asked, flipping an omelette like a pancake and barely keeping it in the pan.

"Don't mind. I guess I'd like them to be edible."

"Are you mocking my cooking, young man?" John demanded, putting on the poshest accent he could muster. Paul raised an eyebrow at him but didn't say anything, concentrating instead on his baked beans.

A creak from upstairs interrupted Ringo's thoughts and he stood up quickly.

"I think George might have woken up!" He announced and practically leapt out of his seat, "I'll go and check now!"

"Alright then!" John replied sunnily as Ringo made his way up the stairs.

Paul gave John a funny look, "If you don't mind me asking, why are you in such a good mood this morning? This isn't really something to be happy about."

"I'm just trying to be nice for George and Ringo." John looked unusually serious now; "They've had an awful time, and think being a bit positive might cheer them up. Or help a little at least."

Paul smiled at John's kindness. He could be cruel sometimes, but he was definitely good inside.

"Although," John smirked, "I could go back to being in a bad mood if it pleases you." He hunched his shoulders and put on a grumpy frown, pouting and pulling his most sullen expression.

"Oh, sod off, John." Paul laughed and pushed his friend playfully. John grinned cheekily and went back to frying his eggs with a broad smile on his face.

Ringo walked briskly up the stairs. "George?" He called, spotting the guitarist at the top of the stairs.

"Morning," George replied weakly, but with a smile on his face that suggested he was feeling much better than he had previously.

"Are you okay?" Ringo asked, still concerned. His friend's left arm was hanging limply by his side, crimson blood staining the sleeve.

"Yeah," George answered shortly, casting his hazel eyes down to the floor, "I'm just a bit dazed, that's all. I always seem to wake up somewhere new, and all these terrifying things have been happening to us, and... and I'm scared of myself, Ringo."

"I'm scared too," Ringo said quietly, but instantly regretted his words. George looked at him miserably, and Ringo realised with a jolt that the guitarist had taken his reply the wrong way. He tried to save the situation desperately, "No, I didn't mean it like that! I don't mean I'm scared of... of you... I... I just..."

"No, it's fine." George interrupted, his voice only just rising above a whisper, "Let's just go downstairs and get some food, shall we?"

"Okay, then."

As they walked downstairs, John hollered at them cheerily.

"Breakfast is served! Eggs, bacon, toast and beans!" He announced, handing knives and forks out to everybody before joining them at the table.

Ringo pushed the slimy beans around his plate before tentatively trying one. It wasn't actually too bad, and he nibbled the corner of a piece of toast quietly.

George didn't even try to eat anything but just stared absently out of the window, listening to the radio show silently.

"Aren't you hungry?" Paul asked gently, nodding at George's untouched plate.

"Hmm?" George looked up, snapping out of his daydream, "Oh, no. Not really. Sorry."

John looked a little disappointed. "Are you sure?"

Paul gave him a glance, but the rhythm-guitarist ignored it.

"I'm sure, John," George replied firmly, not taking his eyes away from the window.

"But me and Paul-" John started, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. There was a tightness in the air, and the whole room felt taut and uncomfortable.

"Leave it, John." Paul interrupted, desperate to avoid an argument.

John looked momentarily annoyed and opened his mouth to say something, but quickly thought better of himself and turned back to his food silently. The tension, however, didn't leave his face.

Ringo glanced at Paul, who made eye contact with him and shrugged gently. The drummer could tell what he was saying... Phew; that was a close call.

***

"That wasn't necessary, John." Paul sighed. It was just him and John sitting together - Ringo had gone upstairs to help a reluctant George get his arm bandaged up properly.

"What?" John blinked, playing the innocent, although Paul knew that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

"You nearly had a go at George back there."

John sat silently for a moment, unclenching and clenching his fists. "I didn't though, did I? I didn't have a go at him."

"But you nearly did."

"So?" John snapped, frowning in annoyance. "Why does he have to be the victim here? We made an effort to be nice to him and he didn't even care."

"Stop being so naive! Of course he cared." Paul glared at John, shocked at how insensitive he was being.

"I'm not." John snarled, "Our friend has some kind of bloody demon living inside of him and we're all just acting like it's perfectly normal. Like it's safe."

"The 'it' that you're referring to is George Harrison, and I don't believe for one moment that he would ever hurt any of us."

"You're right. He wouldn't. But whatever's inside of him would. It already has."

Paul nodded sullenly, trying not to look at the bruising on John's face where George had previously hit him. "What do you suggest we do about it?"

"I don't know." John threw his head up and looked at the ceiling desperately, as if the damp plaster would offer him some kind of advice. "The only thing I do know is that we aren't safe around him anymore."

With that last comment, John stood up and walked out of the room. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. He shuffled through the doorway, only to walk straight into a silent George, who was stood outside the room with a stone-cold expression on his face.

"George..." John murmured in surprise as he bumped into his friend. Oh no... Had he been listening to their conversation?

"George, I... I can explain..." John stuttered, and for once in his life, he was lost for words.

"It's fine," George spoke sardonically, his right hand clenched tightly by his side and his left arm bundled up in a messy sling. "I've heard enough."

John could only watch, his stomach churning, as George turned on his heel and walked away. Left him.

At that moment, Ringo came trotting down the stairs, struggling with a huge pile of clean bandages. "Oh, George!" He smiled, and held out the fabric, "I brought the..." The drummer stopped midsentence as he saw George's tensed jaw and shaking hands, and he looked up at his friends with concern plastered all over his face.

"Are you okay?" Ringo asked anxiously, trying not to sound too uneasy.

"I'm fine." George marched straight past him callously, not caring what the others thought of him anymore.

Why try? Why even try when nobody believed you could pull through? Ever since last night, George had been fighting a mental battle inside himself. A battle which he was losing. Only once had he let it take control, but it was an experience he would never forget. The foreign movements; his arms hitting and lashing out; his legs straining and running without his consent.

He was strong, and he knew that, but the mental wall he had built up inside his head was being ground down slowly, bit by bit. Maybe the others were right, after all. Maybe they wouldn't be safe until he was somewhere else.

It was only a matter of time.

Eh. Sorry for a bad chapter. And for not updating. I'm suffering from extreme writer's block at the moment, but I'm trying to get over it. Suggestions and comments are really appreciated, and thanks for all your support :)