The study had been closed off as soon as the police arrived, as they needed the area clear while the police investigated the scene. Neither Paul nor Pattie minded, and they had quickly taken refuge in the kitchen, where they had sat down together at the table. Pattie held on to a cup of tea with trembling hands as she simply stared down into it, while Paul stared out of the window into the dark night and tried to control himself as he smoked. Upstairs they could hear thumps and stumbling of police officers, making it hard for them to calm down. Paul wished he could leave, his mind continuously bringing up the sight of his best friend sitting slumped in his chair with his throat slit from side to side, sparkling blood dripping to the floor as the moonlight fell on him. Two. Two of his friends had died in the most horrifying ways in such a short time and the murderer was still out there. Ringo was still out there.

The thought terrified him. Not because he thought that he would be next; if Ringo wanted to kill him for whatever reason, he would have done so already. No, it was that he thought he had known Ringo. That he had loved him and that Ringo had loved him back. They had slept in the same bed together so many times, laughed together, eaten together, gone to the theatre together, attended parties together and never had he thought Ringo could ever hurt anyone, and yet... The Ringo he had known was gone now, replaced by a monster, who seemed to kill without reason.

"Mr McCartney?" Paul slowly turned his head into the direction from where the voice had come from and saw detective Buckley standing in the doorway, his sergeant standing dutifully behind him. Paul nodded at them, but didn't say a word in reply. "Could we have a word? We'd like to ask you some questions."

Paul and Pattie glanced at each other, asking one another if they would be alright. When Pattie started to get up to leave, Paul stopped her, seeing how weak she was on her feet.

"We'll go into the living room," he said, and Pattie nodded thankfully as she sat back down. Paul got up from his seat and followed the detective out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. He squeezed Pattie's shoulder as he passed her, telling her wordlessly it would be okay. Pattie did not reply and stared down at the wood of the table, fighting back tears over the loss of her fiancé, which she had to endure.

"Mr McCartney, please have a seat," Buckley said as they entered the sitting room, and gestured at one of the couches. Paul did as he was asked and started playing with his fingers as the detective and his sergeant sat down opposite him, just to have something to do. The only thing separating them was a glass coffee table, for which Paul was glad. Or as glad as he could be, considering the circumstances.

"So, here we are again. The murders almost seem to be following you around, Mr. McCartney," the detective said. Paul didn't even bother to reply, the light-heartedness of the comment being too inappropriate to take seriously.

"If we didn't know better, it would look very suspicious. You realise this, don't you?"

"Please, just ask your questions, so I can go home," Paul said, quickly growing tired of the two men before him. He didn't bother to look at them as he spoke.

"You seem eager to leave, sir."

"Of course, I'm eager to leave!" Paul snapped, finally meeting their eyes. "I'm not sure you are quite aware, sir, but two of my closest friends have been brutally murdered and my third is still missing, so for all I know he could be dead as well! I don't know what happened! I don't know who's doing it! I don't know anything! And on top of that, these last two days have been exhausting for me, leaving me unable to sleep properly, so yes, sir, I am eager to go home. Now, please, ask your questions." Paul sighed deeply once he had finished and ran a hand through his hair. His fingers were shaking and he felt he was on the verge of breaking down and crying. He just needed to hold on a little while longer.

"Right. Of course," detective Buckley said, and got out a notebook and pencil. "Please, tell us what happened here. In your own words, if you could."

"I came here at around eleven. I knocked on the door, Pattie opened. We had a cup of tea and when she said she hadn't seen George at all for far too long, I started to worry, so I went upstairs. The whole study was a mess, but we couldn't see George at first, so we looked around until we... we saw him. In the chair by the window. He..." Paul shook his head, not being able to continue and took his head in his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees, feeling himself getting sick.

"And how did you get here, Mr McCartney? I doubt you walked all the way. Your home is quite a few minutes from here."

"My er... my carriage brought me here. I sent it back home."

"Why did you do that, sir?"

"Because I thought it would be best if I slept here. I thought that maybe being in a different house would help me rest. It would also be far too late to travel and I didn't know how long George and I would be," Paul explained, and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself, fearing he might throw up if he didn't. His stomach stopped churning at that, but he still felt weak.

"And what was it you wanted to discuss with him? It's a bit of an odd time to pay someone a visit, don't you think?"

"I wanted to know if he had seen Richie. He... He still hasn't been home and I haven't heard from him at all. What with what happened to John, I was worried about him. I thought George might know where he had gone."

"You said you were worried about Mr Harrison. Why is that?"

"I... It's... Pattie told me Richie had been here and had been with George in his study all day, presumably because of some scientific stuff George was working on - Ringo is his assistant, you see. Well, Pattie said she hadn't seen George since Richie had left, and seeing as he was the last one to see John alive... there was a possibility."

"You suspect him?" Buckley asked with a raise of his eyebrow, his hand briefly halting its scribbling.

Paul shook his head. "I... I don't know what to believe or who to suspect anymore. Richie... he can't have done it. He can't have killed someone. It doesn't make sense, but..."

"And you still haven't seen him? Richard, that is." Paul shook his head. "You realise, Mr McCartney, that with Richard being the last to have seen both men alive, and having ran away, he is our prime suspect at this point in time?" This time, Paul nodded. Detective Buckley sighed and closed up his little notebook, before he stood up. His sergeant followed his example, but continued to look down at the young man with a calculating look.

"That will be all for now, sir. I would suggest you go home and have some rest. You are clearly upset. My sergeant can bring you home," the detective said, but when Paul started to shake his head in objection, he forced a kind smile and added. "Please, sir. I insist."

The city was almost completely deserted as they drove through the usually busy streets, passing only the occasional beggar or the odd lost couple on their way home from the theatre, or the opera, or any other form of entertainment. The carriage hobbled from side to side as it drove over the cobblestones, making the two young men inside hold on to their seats to keep themselves from bumping into something, or worse each other. They sat at opposite sides of the carriage, both with their heads turned into a different direction to keep the communication as minimal as possible. Paul didn't mind the lack of communication, preferring his isolation with just enough distraction from the world outside to keep him from thinking about the last two days too much. Not having his dear Richard beside him was hard enough as it was without the murders of his two best friends to think about.

Yet, he couldn't help but wonder about the man beside him: he hadn't said a word more than what had been necessary and yet he caught him glancing at him with a calculating and disapproving look every so often, as if he didn't dare to trust him. To Paul, it was now obvious that he had indeed recognised him from the opium den so many years ago and that he knew who he had before him and where they had met. It was surprising, though, that he had not brought it up yet. Paul hoped he wouldn't.

With a sigh, he looked back out of the little window by his side and searched the street with his eyes, hoping in vain that he might see Ringo somewhere. Once they reached the lesser part of town, which they needed to pass through to get to Paul's own home, he drew back again; he did not want to have to look at those poor souls when his own troubles were already so far beyond anything he could have imagined about a week ago. From the corner of his eye, he caught the sergeant looking at him again. This time, he didn't look away when Paul turned his eyes to him.

"Thank you. For bringing me home," Paul said with a faint smile in an attempt to make at least some kind of friendly conversation with the other man. They were almost at his house, after all, and it would be rude not to at least thank him for his trouble. The sergeant, however, did not seem to share this idea.

"The inspector only asked me to because he fears for your life. He is of the opinion you might be next - if Mr Starkey is, indeed, the murderer, that is."

"Richard won't kill me," Paul answered with a wry smile.

"Won't he? And what makes you so certain?"

"If he wanted me dead, he would have done it already. He had enough opportunity to. He even has the key of the house and knows my habits," he explained, but the sergeant scoffed in return with a shake of his head.

"Opportunity is not always the issue, sir. Besides, we are obligated to protect you if we have reason to believe you might be in danger, and at the moment there seems to be sufficient evidence to suggest that it might be the case."

"Which is why I thank you for your trouble," Paul said with a smile, but the sergeant didn't return it, and instead frowned at him, once again with distrust.

"I know who you are," he spoke after a brief moment of silence, taking Paul by surprise. "The detective knows it, too."

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what you are talking about," Paul said as he looked away, but sergeant Lowell wasn't about to give up yet and shuffled a little closer.

"I know what you are. I saw you, at the opium den. I know what you were doing, and if I had been a moment earlier, I would have caught you too, with those boys." His voice dripped with disgust, but Paul refused to let it get to him. He turned to look at him again, meeting his eyes and giving him a long hard look in an attempt to affirm his dominance.

"You had no evidence, and you still have none to this day."

"But you don't dispute it."

"I do not need to dispute anything, sir. You have no case."

"Oh, but I might have. I know why you think Mr Starkey won't hurt you. Because I know I am right, about you, about your Richard, and I will prove it. I failed last time, but you won't get away this time. I will get you both and this time you will be punished for your crimes, I promise you." The carriage came to a sudden halt, and the two men would have fallen off their seats, if they hadn't grabbed at the sides of the carriage to hold themselves up.

"We've arrived," Paul remarked with a huff and a charming smile as he pushed his hair back and out of his face, before he moved to get up and step outside. Sergeant Lowell cursed under his breath before doing the same. Neither said anything as they walked up to Paul's front door, where he was greeted by Mrs Field, who ushered him inside, telling him it was no good to stay out in the cold for longer than necessary and that she had made him tea and lit the fire in his room and warmed his bed for him, so he'd be comfortable for the night. Before Paul could step inside, however, Lowell grabbed him by his elbow and pulled him back to him so his mouth as right beside his ear, leaving Paul with no other choice but to listen to him.

"Don't forget, Mr McCartney. I'll get you eventually. You and your companion," he hissed at him, and Paul swallowed thickly at the threat, but brushed him off and let the door slam shut behind him.

The words stuck with him for a long time after. He didn't want to let it get to him, but he couldn't help but be afraid that Lowell would find the evidence he needed, which wouldn't have to be much, as people would be too disgusted by the general idea of it already, they'd gladly see him rot in prison for two years. Paul knew he wouldn't survive that. He wasn't made for prison: his looks were too feminine, his mannerisms and way of speaking too posh and his crimes only an invitation. Under normal circumstances, he would fear for Ringo too, but with all that had happened and what he had allegedly done, he was almost convinced he would make it in there. Perhaps that was a good thing. Perhaps, if Ringo did still love him - something Paul had started to doubt with the extent of the changes in his lover's personality - he would protect him. He hoped so, but the doubt alone was enough to make it impossible to sleep.

His bed was nice and warm, like Mrs Field had promised him it would be, and the smouldering fire had a soothing effect on him as he watched the small flickering flames dance for him. But no matter how comfortable he was in his bed, or how calm the flames made him feel, there still was an empty spot beside him where Ringo's head ought to be resting, his calm, warm breath caressing Paul's bare shoulder as he slept, and it served as a constant reminder of what had transpired over the last few days, keeping him from drifting off to slumber. With a deep sigh, he rolled over onto his belly and reached out for that empty spot, draping his arm across it as he grabbed the bed sheets and closed his eyes, imagining he was holding Ringo.

Outside it had started to rain, the strong wind making it clatter against the window panes that rattled in their frames. Paul hoped Ringo had found himself a place to sleep, where he was warm and comfortable. It didn't matter what Ringo had done, he couldn't help but worry about him. Perhaps because he knew it wasn't really Ringo who had committed those horrific murders, but a side of him that he would never have allowed to let out if it hadn't been for the potion. The real Ringo - the Ringo that he loved and always will love - would never have allowed anything like that to happen. The real Ringo was probably overcome with guilt, and Paul wished he could be there with him to sooth him. To tell him everything was going to be okay.

To try to sleep now was useless. He couldn't get his mind to shut up, either about his friends' deaths, Lowell's threat, or Ringo, and lying in bed and doing nothing wasn't going to help. He forced himself out of bed and decided to go downstairs for a drink in the hope it might help him forget and allow him to finally sleep. His eyelids were heavy, and he rubbed them with a yawn as he took his robe and pulled it on. Mrs Field, he knew, had been picked up by her husband, meaning he was alone and wouldn't be disturbed.

He quietly descended the stairs, every little sound being much louder in the quiet house, and went to the kitchen at the back of the house. Not bothering the turn on a light, he went for the cabinet where he kept his strong alcoholic drinks and skimmed through all the almost empty bottles. All the way at the back he found a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey, and eagerly took it, deciding it would have to do. He blindly reached for a glass and stumbled over to the kitchen counters under the window that looked out over the small backyard, and poured himself a drink. Raising it to his lips, he took a large gulp, finishing his drink in almost one go. Tears burned up behind his eyes and his throat burned as he swallowed it down, but he ignored it, the pain making him feel alive. He slammed his glass back down and grabbed the bottle again, filling his glass back up to the brim. He could hear George's voice in his mind, telling him he shouldn't be drinking like this, but he ignored the words. George was dead. John was dead. Ringo had vanished of the Earth. He could be going to prison. He deserved this.

"Goddamnit, Richie," he grumbled before cocking his glass back again, pouring the fluid down his throat. When he looked back down, however, and his eyes gazed through the window into the darkness of the garden, he let out a high-pitched yelp and jumped back in fright as he dropped his glass, which shattered at his feet. Right there, outside the window, stood a dark figure, his nose almost pressed up against the glass, as his bright blue eyes gazed inside.

"R-R-Richie?" Paul asked with a quivering voice, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man behind the glass. With trembling hands, he approached the figure, keeping his body alert and ready to make a run for it if necessary. The man behind the window was staring straight at him, his eyes wide and puffy, his lips parted and trembling, his skin pale, and his clothes and hair completely drenched from the rain; he looked awful, and was swaying on his feet. Paul stared back at him for a moment, his brain trying to make sense of the situation, before he turned around, ran to the hallway, grabbed his keys from his coat, and hurried to the back door to let the man in.

"Richie!" Paul shouted as he threw the door open, the wind blowing the rain into the house, and the younger man stumbled over from the kitchen window to the door. He looked weak.

"Richie! Oh, Richie! What happened to you? Are you alright? Come in before you catch a cold," Paul said in an almost motherly fashion, and reached out for the other man, grabbing him by his clothes and forcing him into the hallway, where he collapsed against him. His body was heavy, but Paul managed to keep them both up as he closed the door with his foot to keep the cold out.

"P-Paul... Paul... I-I'm so sorry. Oh god, Paul... I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," Ringo muttered, his voice barely audible, and Paul lowered them onto the ground, feeling that Ringo's body wasn't going to be able to make it to the living room. He helped him to lean against the wall, but Ringo only reached for him, grabbing at him, as he muttered that he was sorry over and over and over again. Paul let him and wrapped his own arms around the man's shaking body as he held him close.

"Shh... Richie, it's okay. You're with me now. You're safe. Shh..." Paul tried as a way to sooth him, but Ringo only shook his head, and started gasping for air as he tried to speak. Paul cupped his cheek in his hand and angled his face up to meet his eye as he gently rocked him from left to right in his arms as one would do with a baby. Little by little, Ringo started to calm down. A tear rolled from his eye over his cheek and landed on Paul's robe.

"I... I'm so sorry, Paul. I-I didn't m-mean to do it. I... I just... it happened so suddenly. I-I couldn't control it. The potion-" Ringo started, but Paul shushed him as he stroked Ringo's hair out of his face, tugging the wet strands behind his ears.

"I know, Richie. I know."

"But John... he started saying these things, about y-you and me, and I felt something snap. I-I don't know what happened, but I-I k-killed him. I-I didn't realise what I was doing at the time, b-but afterwards... I woke up and all these horrible memories came back and - Oh, god, Paul. It was horrible! And then George... he just took over, you know?"

"He?" Paul asked with a frown, and Ringo nodded as he looked down in shame.

"He. My other half. He's growing stronger, Paul. I-I can feel it. The more he kills, the stronger he becomes, the more he can do, the longer he can push me out. He killed a man, Paul. A young man. A prostitute. For p-pleasure." He shuddered at the words and on instinct, Paul pulled him closer, wanting to make him feel better, to sooth him, but he couldn't think of a way to do that, other than just hold him. How could he possibly help Ringo with something like this when George couldn't even do it?

"I-I can't live like this, Paul. No one can help me. George was the only one who could have tried, but even he failed and now he is dead, because of me! I-I can't do this anymore. Too many people have died already. What if he does something to you?"

"He won't, Richie," Paul said, but even he didn't believe that.

"But what if he will?" Ringo asked, but Paul didn't have an answer to that. "I can't go on like this, Paul, knowing what I've done and always afraid of what might happen when he takes over again. B-but I can stop it. I can make sure he'll never hurt anyone again." Paul looked down at him in shock as he had a faint idea of what Ringo was talking about. His fears were confirmed when Ringo reached into the pocket of his wet coat and got out a knife. It looked rusty, yet sharp enough to do the job.

Paul moved away from it. "No. Richie, there must be another way."

But Ringo shook his head. "Please, Paul. There is no other way. You know what I've done. You've seen it. Who knows what might happen in the future if we don't do anything now. If you kill me, he'll die too and then he won't be able to hurt anyone ever again," he said as he reached out for Paul's hand, bringing it closer to him.

"Wait! If I kill you?" Paul asked in shock, his body tensing up at the suggestion as he stared down at the smaller man in disbelief, who nodded. "No! I can't kill you!"

"Please, Paul. You have to do this. We cannot let this continue. Please, Paul, I beg you," Ringo pleaded as he thrusted the knife into his lover's hand and forced his fingers to close around it, making him hold it. Paul tried to push him away, to free himself and jerk his hand back, but Ringo was surprisingly strong. "You have to do this," he repeated.

"Richie... I can't, love," Paul begged, his voice ending on a sob. He shook his head and looked at his lover with pleading eyes as he felt a tear escape his eye.

"Yes, you can! I know you can. Please, Paul, you cannot let me live like this, with that monster. I cannot control him," Ringo pushed on, but Paul still shook his head. He gasped for breath as he felt Ringo guide his hand to his chest, pressing the tip of the blade against his chest, right where his heart was. Paul tried pulling back, but he couldn't.

"Please, Paul. Please, kill me. Do it. Before he comes back. Before he takes over and hurts you. I don't want him to hurt you, too. You're all I have left. All that matters."

"But I love you!" Paul tried, and he could feel he was crying now, his fingers firmly gripping the knife as he attempted to pull the blade from Ringo's chest, but Ringo wouldn't let him.

"Which is why you have to do this, Paul. I love you, too. You have to do it now, before he can hurt you. Please, Paul. I need you to do this. I need you to put an end to this. I love you," and with those last words, he leaned in and forced their lips together, kissing him with all of his energy and passion, allowing himself to drink in the pleasure and closeness, that familiar warmth. Paul grabbed the younger man with his free hand, holding him close and refusing to ever let him go. Ringo's hand tightened around his and before Paul knew what was happening, he pulled back and jabbed the knife into his chest with as much force as he could muster. He gasped in pain, and broke the kiss as he stared down at where the knife entered his body.

"No! Richie!" Paul cried out, desperately trying to pull his hand away from the knife, but it was futile; the knife was already in too deep. "No! Oh god, no! Not you too! You cannot leave me here alone, Richie!"

"It's okay, Paul. You'll make it on your own. You'll be okay now. This is not the end. We'll see each other again, and this time without him," Ringo said and with that, he forced the knife deeper in. Blood gushed out from his chest, flowing over both their hands that were still wrapped around the blade, warm and sticky. The smell was strong, intoxicating in a way that made Paul's head swoon. Ringo's grip on the knife and his hand started to loosen as the life flowed out of him, and Paul let go as soon as he could, reaching up to cup the other man's face in his hands, as he leaned in and kissed him again, his heart aching as he told Ringo to hold on and not to leave him, that they would figure it out, but it was already too late. Ringo's body went slack against him, and his eyes rolled back in his head as his breathing slowed, slower and slower until it was barely there.

"Richie, please, darling... Please, don't leave me. Not now. Please, stay with me," Paul begged, but all he got in return was a weak smile, before the man's eyes fell close and he fell against him, a barely uttered 'I love you' on his lips, the knife clattering onto the tiled floor.

Paul woke up the next morning in his bed with a terrible headache and nausea. His first instinct was to grab his stomach, pull the covers from his body, get up and run for the bathroom in the hope he could make it, but before he had even had the opportunity to move at all, there was a firm hand on his chest, holding him down. Confused, he looked up to see Brian standing beside his bed, biting his nail and looking doubtful at something by Paul's bed. When the older man noticed him looking, he only looked more worried.

"E-Eppy?" Paul managed to croak out, but was shushed by another voice that came from beside him on the bed.

"Mr McCartney, please. It's best if you don't move too much," the voice said and Paul turned his head and looked up to see a doctor sitting at the edge of his bed.

"How is he doing, doctor?" Brian asked, and the doctor smiled as he got up from the bed, seemingly done with his examinations.

"You can ask him yourself," he said, and both men turned to look at Paul, one hopeful, the other with a small sympathetic smile.

"I... I feel nauseous. Head hurts. I... what happened?" Paul asked, frowning at the two men and wondering what they were doing in his bedroom, seeing as he had felt a lot worse in his life than just a headache and some nausea. The doctor nodded at his words.

"Yes, so I suspected. That's from the shock. It's not nothing having to do what he's been through. And then to have to see his friend commit suicide... Those complaints are understandable and will fade with time. He will feel better in a day or two."

"S-su-suicide?" Paul stammered, frowning as he could not understand what the doctor was talking about. Brian frowned too, and his head snapped back to the doctor, worry spreading once again over his features.

"Memory loss. That will be the shock too. You see-" he turned to Brian for this. "-sometimes the brain suppresses certain traumatic experiences as a coping mechanism. You may try to help him remember, as long as it happens carefully and slowly. If you rush, it might have some dire consequences. It might even trigger another reaction and pull him back into shock, although as long as you handle it with care and leave him to rest, there should be no trouble."

"Right. Thank you, doctor," Brian said with a thankful nod, but Paul wasn't ready yet, wishing to know what had happened to him. Had he truly been in shock? The last thing he could remember was going downstairs for a drink because he couldn't sleep! He tried to ask what happened to them, but found that his voice was still too weak to come out above the voices of the other two men, who were discussing things that were not making any sense at all in his mind. Feeling exhausted, he let himself fall back into his bed with a deep groan, and listened as Brian told the doctor goodbye and let him out. When he got back, he closed the bedroom door behind him and took a seat at Paul's bed.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and Paul nodded as he rubbed his forehead to try to sooth the terrible ache, which made it difficult to focus for too long.

"What happened? Why can't I remember anything?" Paul asked, but Brian bit his lip, reluctant to tell him. Paul pressed on.

"I don't quite know what happened myself, Paul. But... Richie, he... he killed himself - or so we guess."

"Wh-what?"

"He came here last night, or early morning rather, and either you let him in or he forced his way inside and... well... I came to visit you this morning as I was worried about how you were doing after George's passing, and I found you two together in the hallway by the back door, embracing and covered in blood. Y-you were asleep or unconscious, and Richie, he... he had a stab wound, by his heart, and there was a knife on the floor, also covered in blood. It wasn't hard to figure out what had happened."

Paul didn't say anything as he listened to Brian speak and stared off into nothingness as images and flashes of the night before came back to him: how he had seen Ringo outside in the garden, how he had taken him inside, how Ringo had confessed and begged him to kill him, and how finally they had done it together, their hands entangled as they whispered declarations of love, and how Richie had died in his arms. Tears were once again burning behind Paul's eyes, but he forced them away.

"The police see this as some kind of confession. They er... they want you to testify, if you can. You're the only one who knows what happened," Brian finished.

Paul shook his head. "I-I don't think I can, Eppy," he said, and Brian nodded as he took Paul's hand and gave him an encouraging squeeze, telling him he was there to support him.

"That's okay. You don't have to," he said, and Paul nodded thankfully with a faint smile, which vanished as quickly as it came.

"Are you okay?"

"I shouldn't have allowed it, Eppy. It's all my fault. We knew it was dangerous, the testing, but the pay was so good and we needed the money. But I should have known better. It was bound to happen someday. It was bound to go wrong. It's my fault Richie is gone now," Paul said, taking in a shaky breath as he fought away the tears, guilt nagging at his heart. Brian shook his head and took his hand in his own, holding him as he stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.

"Paul, this isn't your fault-" he tried, but Paul had already interrupted him.

"I mean, George never made such a terrible mistake, but... but, it was bound to happen, right? Eventually? I shouldn't have allowed it. We could have made it without the extra money. We could have gotten a cheaper place to live. Richie could have taken another job. I could have-"

"Paul, stop, darling. You're not helping anyone by doing this. And you're certainly not helping yourself, understand? It wasn't your fault, you hear me?" Brian told him sternly, but Paul still shook his head and looked away from him.

"Wh-what will I do now, Eppy?" he asked, his voice breaking.

"Paul-"

"I mean, what can I do? Richie is gone. John is gone. George is gone. I'm all alone."

"You can start again. Do everything over," Brian offered, squeezing the younger man's hand in an attempt to tell him he's not alone, that he is still here.

"But I don't want to. Not without them."

"You will find other people. And I'm still here, aren't I?"

"But I don't want to find other people. I... I loved them, Brian. I don't know what to do without them. Especially Richie."

"They won't really be gone. They'll just be... someplace else," Brian offered, and Paul sighed at that, and thought for a while, leaving the room silent for a moment, until he spoke again.

"I-I think I want to go home."

"To Liverpool?" Brian asked, and when Paul nodded, he smiled. "Then I'll take you there."

"Thank you, Eppy."

"I'm still here, Paul. I won't leave you," he said, and when Paul looked up into his eyes again, he leaned down and before Paul knew what he was doing, Brian had kissed him. It hadn't been more than a quick peck, and yet it had been firm and more possessive than protective. When the older man pulled away, Paul stared up at him in disbelief, his eyes scanning his face as he wondered if he hadn't just imagined it.

"Wh-what... what was that?" Paul finally managed to speak, and Brian only smiled again, his hand coming up to stroke Paul's cheek, but the younger man slapped his hand away before he could touch him. Brian's lips twitched with annoyance, and before Paul could stop him, he had grabbed his wrists and forced their lips together again, firmer this time, and much longer, too. Paul started struggling against him, but his body was still too weak and his mind too fuzzy from all the new information he needed to process, that he stood no chance against him. He gasped as he felt Brian's rubbery tongue lick over his lips, demanding entrance rather than requesting it, and Brian took advantage of his gasp by forcing his tongue into his mouth. Finally, though, Paul managed to pull one of his hands free and slapped Brian in the face, causing him to pull back immediately. The flash of anger Paul saw on his face, made him wince. But instead of hurting him, like Paul had thought he'd do, Brian merely started to caress his cheek, cupping it in his hand as he stroked the skin with his thumb.

"I never thought it was going to be this easy, if I'm honest, but everything worked out so well.... It couldn't have gone better."

"What are you talking about?!" Paul demanded, looking Brian straight in the eye in a silly attempt to scare him, but Brian only grinned in return and started to move his hand down, caressing every bit of Paul's body that he passed, until he rested his hand on his chest, right above his heart. When he locked eyes again with the younger man, something clicked inside Paul's mind.

"You?!"

"Oh, Paulie, did you really think George would make such a terrible mistake by himself. Oh no, the boy is - or was, I should say - a genius! He just needed a little push into the right direction," Brian said as he slipped off the bed and knelt down on the floor by Paul's head, his hand moving into Paul's silky hair, gently stroking. Paul didn't try to pull away, and instead stared at him in disbelief and confusement. Brian chuckled at his expression.

"You're not half as intelligent as you are pretty, dear. But that's okay. Let me explain it to you: I persuaded George to change the makeup of his little potion to make sure he wouldn't succeed and our dear Richie would change into that murdering psychopath we all got to know over the last few days. You see, a little research goes a long way. The poor lad, though, our Georgie. He probably would have done it too if it wasn't for me. He was so close."

"B-but how?"

"Killed his rat. He thought it was it was the potion. He didn't know it was me, of course. Didn't even bother to find out what killed it. I left a little note in one of his books with some clues for different chemicals he needed to use. He probably thought he was brilliant for thinking of it on his own."

"You... You killed them?! John, George, Ringo... This is all your fault! W-Why? H-How could you?!"

"Why? You, of course!"

"Me?" Paul asked, not understanding how that could make any sense.

Brian nodded. "Oh, Paul. I wanted you from the moment you first walked into that concert hall where we first met. Your eyes wide and full of wonder and excitement. Bright smile on those full lips. Gorgeous looks, terribly flirtatious. I needed to have you. But then you started to date that Ringo. I had to do something, hadn't I? And then George told me about this potion. It was just perfect! I never thought it would work this well, but as you can see... And now, you're mine and mine alone," Brian finished with a smile, but Paul shook his head and tried to move away from him. Oddly enough, the older man didn't try to stop him.

"Didn't you think it was odd, that I came here right after John's death? No one told me about it, Paul. Who could have? You and the police were the only ones that knew. I've been watching the house, to make sure everything went according to plan, ready to jump in and make some adjustments if needed, but it all worked out so well! And you never expected a thing!"

"Then why tell me?" Paul asked, and Brian fell quiet at that.

"What?"

"Why tell me now? Why do you think I'd be willing to stay with you? Why wouldn't I just call the police? I know all I need to know," Paul told him, slowly but surely finding his confidence back, but it vanished again when Brian started laughing.

"You won't go to the police. I'm all you have left, remember? And besides, if you were to tell them, I'll tell them about your affair with Richard and about all the prostitutes you've had. I'll just take you down with me. And we both know you won't survive your punishment. Two years in prison might not sound like much, but for someone like you... But it's okay. You'll love me eventually. I know you will," he said, and with that last, he leaned in and kissed Paul again. The younger man was too shocked to do anything against it and simply let his happen, his mind coming up with scenarios of how he could escape, but he knew he was stuck. Brian had him.

"Now, rest. We'll leave for Liverpool tomorrow morning. And remember, Paul. No tricks. One word and you're done for, understand?" Paul nodded in reply and didn't say a word anymore as Brian left the room, closing the door behind him. Then he had an idea. After all, how difficult could it be? He had done it once, hadn't he? Granted, that had been with help, but this was simply the next step, wasn't it? He could say it was self-defence? He could do it, couldn't he? All he needed was a knife. He had to do it, didn't he? Not just for himself, but for Ringo. Ringo deserved it. He'd do it. Once they were in Liverpool. Maybe he'd wait a week. Perhaps two. Brian might be suspecting him to do something like it and be alert, but after a week or two - perhaps a little longer - when Paul had fooled him he actually loved him, he could do it, take him by surprise. It was the only way.

Two years later, however, he was still living in Liverpool, happily and in love with no one other than Brian Epstein, his initial idea of avenging his former lover and freeing himself long forgotten.

The End