..

She stepped out into the light after what had felt like years in the darkness. Penned up inside as friends, family, fans had passed by the house. They left without a word, save for the choked sobs and many free-flowing tears. All that remained to show they were there at all were the mementos-- flowers, candles, cards-- but she was thankful that they had taken time out of their lives for even a moment.

It was a normal evening, so far as she remembered. He wanted to go out for a while, as he so often did. He liked to mingle unnoticed in the bumping, gyrating mass of New York denizens. In a group so quick to move from place to place, cocooned in their own little world despite the pressing throng, he had fit right in. Those who stopped him were, nine out of ten times, more interested in gleaning the time of day from him than an autograph.

So safe. So secure. Secure and anonymous in his adopted home.

Safe.

Secure.

Dead.

The words ate away at her brain.

Dead.

She cried. Not with bitter remorse or heartbreak. She only cried because it seemed appropriate to do so. It was expected of her, wasn't it? To weep in buckets, laying prostrate on his grave, shaking violently until a group of friends would scoop her up again and hold her comfortingly.

Hold me. She thought. He used to do that all the time. She coughed. It covered the tears well.

Shock. That covered the tears well too. And their son. Holding their baby boy helped too. Sure, at five he wasn't technically a baby anymore... but the little black haired ball of energy was all she had left of her husband now. Even if there was no one to hold her, she could hold on to him. Her son. All he knew was that that morning his daddy had fed him his cereal, tied his shoes for him, took him for a walk.. and now they were supposed to be getting ready for bed. But they weren't. Daddy should be kissing Mommy goodnight and then going off to play his guitar for a while. But he wasn't doing that either.

No. Daddy wasn't doing much of anything. He was laying in the morgue of some hospital downtown, body broken and stained with blood. For some reason, she thought of his hands, then. Strong hands. They were motionless now. Probably stained with the same blood the rest of his body was. Hands that had held other hands. Had they broken his fall when he was shot? Had they just broken?

Shot.

Gun.

John.

Oh god.

God! What had he wanted?! Cremation? Or a casket? Open or closed? George wanted cremation, she knew. He was Hari Krishna, though. They wanted that sort of thing. Their ashes were spread over sacred places. But that was George. Despite the media portrayal, the Beatles were separate people. Just because one would be cremated and have his ashes blow about India didn't mean they all wanted that. John really didn't like India that much, she reflected. And he didn't have any sacred place to blow over either. Unless you counted the corner Seven Eleven. But ashes and convenience stores just didn't mix, she reasoned.

Tea. I want tea. She moved on to the kitchen. John had bought a new box of tea bags at Seven Eleven over the weekend, right?

Yes. They were there after all. Cup, bag, water... sugar. John liked sugar in his tea. He always had, from what she'd been told. Back in Hamburg. God, she wished she'd known him then. Or, at least right now she wished she had. Wished she could have stepped back in time to see the young John in action. He would be so impressive... and young...

And not dead.

She poured herself a cup of tea.

Only if Julian was coming over was John's past even up for discussion. The little boy was a product of John's past, and it was quite clear he loved him. Clearly, he also felt bad for leaving him alone during all those years of Beatlemania. Cynthia was the only one around---

Cyn. The call had to have been hard on her. The last time she had seen John, they had been fighting, and that was an awful last memory for anyone to have. The press liked to label Yoko as uncaring and cold to John's first family and, well, in many ways, his first life. Before Sean. Before her. Yoko swallowed hard as she realized that she would have to see Cynthia at the funeral.

His funeral.

John.

"Mommy?"

John.

"Mommy?"

John.

"MOMMY!"

Sean. Where had he come from? The last time she checked, he was still asleep. It was too soon for the little boy to be awake. Wasn't it? She took her eyes from the amber liquid in her cup, to the clock on the wall. Two in the afternoon. When had that happened?

"Yes?" Her voice was shockingly soft to her own ears.

"When's daddy coming home?"

To the store. To the car. To the door. To the ground. To the hospital. "To Heaven." She proceeded to explain everything as best she could to a little boy who only yesterday had had precious few cares in the world.

"Why did he shoot daddy if he liked him?" Sean asked, genuine confusion on his face.

He's so innocent. Like John. In his little fantasy New York Utopia. "Mark was a confused man."

"We should ask." He sat down and waved to Yoko with his little hand. "Ask if he was contused--"

"--confused --"

"-- confused." Sean tried the word out on his tongue. "Or if he really meant it. To shoot."

Yoko swallowed hard. "That's up to the court."

The little boy wasn't trying to joke when he asked, "Which court? Tennis or Basketball?"

Then... she cried. Scooping him up into her arms, she never wanted to let him go.

Outside, it began to rain.

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PART II

It was like the house had no roof. Pretty groovy, actually, he thought. Cellophane ceilings and see-through walls. Sounded almost poetic.

That would make a good song. If only there was more time...

But there wasn't.

Life would have to go on.

Funny how this place was exactly as he'd imagined it. All white and really quiet. Wasn't Hendrix around here? Or at least that David boy from the Bible who played the lute. He'd go mad without music the rest of... eternity!

A choir of angels and a harp began playing gentle music.

Bloody... and Ah'm not spendin' eternity listenin' ta sleepy elevator music, either.

The choir tried picking up the tempo a bit.

No, no, no. He sighed. What he wouldn't have given for a guitar right then. But wait. There! This is too much. He smiled and cradled the instrument that had appeared out of nowhere. Okay. Now Ah wish Ah 'ad a million dollars!

Nothing.

"Guess ya get that one a lot, eh?"

So he tried again. "Alright, God man... 'ere's one ya can't argue with." John smiled as he saw the scene before him changing. What a beautiful sight.

~*~ . . ~*~

Yoko stood before the mirror in only her bra and stockings. Beside her lay a pile of discarded clothing. Nothing seemed right. Dress? Skirt and blouse? And then, what color? Conventional wisdom stated black and white were proper for mourning. But the artist in her-- the part that John had loved so much-- wanted to be avante garde. Something bright and bouncy was more John's style. He hated funerals.

Yer right about that, luv. John stood behind his wife, an impish grin spread across his face. A'course, if it was up ta me, ya could stay exactly like THAT. She was so beautiful. It had always confounded him why the rest of the world insisted on branding her with four letters. U. G. L. Y. Four letters came to his mind when he thought of Yoko, but they were quite different, with only one letter in common. L. O. V. E. He chuckled. Four letters. Four more letters came to mind when he thought of those nay-sayers. And, well, they weren't repeatable in polite company.

Love.

Love is all you need.

A gasp came from Yoko, calling John back to attention. Her quavering finger pointed to her powder bowl. John flushed when he realized what he'd done. That's what you get. He sighed. So much for quiet observation. Mind a million miles off, he had traced his fingers through the fine powder, outlining:

LOVE YOU

"So it's true what they say about things." Yoko cooed softly in awe. She turned around to face what was, to her, a blank wall. But to John---

John gaped as her small fingers moved up and down in a small, child-like wave.

"Hello, John."

"Hello, Yoko."

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PART III

More pictures. More flowers. More crying. Lots more.

Terribly weepy affair, this. John sat next to his wife, staring up at the minister, words droning on and on and on and on...

He twiddled his thumbs. Never mind war. John sighed. What Ah really shoulda campaigned ta end is borin' sermons.

A woman in the adjoining pew jumped. He glanced at her curiously, then overheard her mentioning to her husband that the window needed to be closed. Evidently she had just been in direct line with a sharp blast of cold air. When he answered that he hadn't heard a thing, she grew very quiet.

"I'm not crazy!"

John chuckled. Hmm. He could have some fun with this.

"John." Yoko muttered the reprimand. "Behave yourself."

"Yes, ma'am." John sighed. "Always ruinin' my fun."

"Mommy?" Sean looked up. "Whatever it was, I didn't do it." He nodded gravely.

Yoko chuckled. "No, Sean. It's not you I was talking to."

"Was it Daddy?"

She was taken aback.

"Thought so." He looked to be thinking deeply about something. "Now Daddy is part of God. I guess when you die you become much more bigger because you're part of everything."

Out of the mouths of babes. John smiled.

Sean struggled to reach for something that had slid out of his grasp. "Can't reach." He pouted a bit.

John scooted the toy across the pew cushion to his son's waiting hands.

"Thank you!" He grinned happily.

Yoko took a deep breath. Little children could see things adults couldn't. So, this shouldn't have surprised her. Heck, she was talking to her dead husband too, right?

It was just different coming from her five year old son.

For his part, John was thrilled. Before he could try communicating a bit more with Sean though, something caught his attention. Glancing up, John had to laugh when he realized what it was. The damn priest had finally stopped running his mouth. But what he saw next almost made him wish old jabber jowls had kept going for a while. It was Paul. And Ringo. And George.

What were they doing here?

He stood up, patting Yoko gently on the hand. "Ah'll be back."

She shivered a bit.

Damn cold aura thing. Why did Hollywood have to have that part right?

Ringo spoke first. He was the most composed of the group. Then George, slightly less controlled, but a deeply spiritual background clearly grounding him. Paul....

"Bloody, Paulie. Ya look awful." John swallowed as he stood to Paul's left at the pulpit. His friend was trying very hard not to cry as he spoke about anything and everything. Hamburg. Touring. Recording.

"... a man I was proud to call a friend." Paul stepped back with Ringo and George. He broke down.

They were so lonely. Incomplete. John knew what he should do, but he was absolutely transfixed for a bit. Seeing the sea of grieving people, it really hit him. He was dead.

Shot.

Killed.

Murdered.

Yoko got up before the other three Beatles could leave the podium. She motioned for them to stay.

Watching with a slack jaw, John witnessed Yoko thank everyone for coming. A personal thank you. And she wasn't crying. His chest swelled with pride.

"John would want us to go on. And we will. No matter how hard... no matter how painful life is. We make the best of it. Like he did." She turned to where John was standing. "I'll love you forever, John."

A few sobs erupted in the audience.

"See you soon." She mouthed to him, confident that her message for John had only been seen by it's intended target.

John had seen. Fighting back tears, he walked over to his bandmates. So many things he wished he had done. Ringo, he wished he'd known longer. George he had fought with. It stung to realize their last words were in anger. He patted each of them reassuringly on the shoulder. Or, at least, would have, had his hand not passed straight through.

Then came Paul. They had literally grown up together. It was the same with George, but Paul was.... well, Paul. He was creative, bull-headed, excitable. Throughout a career spent side by side, much had been made of the songwriting team who were polar opposites, but John had always seen it differently. Fundamentally, they were the same. Like brothers.

"John." Paul mumbled. "Ah'm..."

"Ah know." John's hand passed through Paul's hand when he tried to pat it. Damnit.

Looking up from rubbing at the tears on his cheeks, Paul looked directly ahead of him. If John didn't know better---

"Ah'm gonna say goodbye, but Ah know you'll be around."

John did the only thing he could do. Upon nodding his head and walking away, he passed his hand across the Bible on the pulpit. A few pages turned, seemingly on their own.

But Paul knew. And smiled despite the tears.

Across the room, a white light came from the wall. John walked through with a smile on his face, a wetness on his cheeks, but calm in his mind.

He would.

He'd be around.