John's P.O.V.
There I was. Sitting in some stranger's car on the way to the vet with Paul's burning, feverish body in my arms. He was still out of it, which was bothering me, but, at the same time, I was relieved because, at least this way, he wouldn't be in pain, plus he wouldn't have to worry to death about his beloved dog. Martha was lying in the back and I was praying she would be alright as well. I mean, I honestly don't think Paul could live without her.
I looked out of the fogged-over window to find nothing but more, raging snow. I wondered if it would ever stop as I then began to grow anxious. For some reason, I've always felt that if nature was unsteady, I would feel unsteady as well and, right now, it was having that effect on me.
"How much longer until we get there?" I asked impatiently.
"Not too much longer. Maybe ten minutes. Sam is just driving a little bit slower because of the weather," Robert replied, his dark eyes meeting my almond-shaped ones. "Why? Is your friend okay?"
"I don't know, honestly. I hope so," I exhaled as I looked down at Paul's childlike face, which was lined with sweat.
"Well, don't worry. We'll be there in a jiffy."
"Okay. I'll try not to."
******************
Omniscient P.O.V.
Ten minutes later, the black car carrying the two men, half of the Beatles, and Martha pulled into the parking lot of a small, yet sufficient-looking veterinary clinic. John, still holding his unconscious friend, was more than relieved that he and Martha both would finally get the medical help they so desperately needed. He still thought it was too bad Paul wouldn't be treated in an actual hospital, though.
"Alrighty, then. We're here," Sam declared as he parked the car. "I think we've made it before they closed."
"Thank gosh!" John breathed as he prepared to carry Paul in, but something happened which caused his preparation to become useless.
"J-John?" drifted faintly and weakly from Paul's mouth.
"Macca!" John exclaimed happily. "You're awake, thank goodness!"
"What happened?" the younger Beatle croaked as he rubbed his bloodshot, hazel eyes.
Before John had a chance to respond, Paul suddenly cried out in agony as he winced and bit his finger, as an attempt to push away the awful, tremendous pain in his ailing leg.
"Oh gosh, it hurts!" he yelped.
"I know it does lad, but that's why Sam and Robert here have taken us to the vet's."
And that's when John knew he had messed up terribly. The vet? Why couldn't he think before he spoke?
"Wait a minute, why are we at the vet's and not the hospital?" Paul inquired, puzzled.
But, as soon as the words had left his lips, a look of pure anguish and worry spread across his flushed face. John knew his mate was about to flip out, but how could he really do anything about it?
"Martha!!" Paul screamed causing everyone in the car to cover their ears. "We've got to get her in there now! What the heck are we doing still sitting here?!" he demanded, his glassy eyes darting around wildly.
"We'll get her in now! Don't worry, lad!" Robert bellowed as he quickly opened the door and got out, which caused a blast of icy, cold air to shoot through the inside of the car. Paul shivered a bit in response and, once more, John felt sorry for his feverish friend.
Sam mirrored Robert's actions and, before anyone could blink, the two had gotten Martha out and were carrying her inside. Paul, of course, was frantic as he watched two strangers take his dog away.
"No!! I've got to go with her!!" he wailed.
"We will, Paul, but your leg is broken. You can't exactly keep up with them. Besides, she's in good hands. Sam and Robert are here to help us," John soothed. "But, we do need to get you inside as well because you need some help too."
Paul simply moaned in response, almost alluding to the fact that he had just spent up all of his energy. John sighed.
"Alright then, lad. Let's get you in there," the older Beatle said as he opened the car door and picked the lighter-than-normal Paul McCartney up using bridal style, of course being careful not to jostle his leg too much. Paul, surprisingly, didn't do anything. He didn't complain about John's softness nor did he whine about the cold. He didn't do anything, which worried John, but, he decided to blame it on the shock. After all, the lad had gone through quite a lot.
Seconds later, the two Beatles made it into the warm clinic. Once inside, John was greeted with the dirty smell of dog and every sight you'd expect to see in a veterinary clinic: a few chairs to wait in, a front desk, which had bookshelves filled with paperwork towering behind it, and, lastly, various dog and cat food selections. The concrete floor was intensely mottled with scratches and John figured they hadn't been cleaned in centuries. But, he ignored the smell and the dirtiness and took a seat, Paul now sitting in his lap, as he watched Sam and Robert talk to an older woman nurse, the two men seeming sincerely worried. John gulped before turning his attention to Paul instead.
"How ya doin,' mate?" he asked his hurt and anxious friend.
"I-I'm f-fine," he shivered. "I'm j-just worried about M-Martha."
"I know you are, but she's gonna be just fine. It's you I'm worried about," John sighed as he placed a hand to Paul's burning forehead once more.
"Y-you shouldn't be. I-I'm fine."
"Right," the older man smirked as he stared at Paul with an incredulous expression.
Before Paul had a chance to respond, Sam and Robert approached them, seeming as if they had something to say.
"How is everything?" John inquired nervously.
"Your dog is in surgery now. They're doing everything they can," Robert replied, his thin lips curling into a forced smile.
"Thank you two so much," the older Beatle answered with much gratitude evident in his voice.
"You're very welcome," Sam said.
"Oh, yeah, and we told the nurse," Robert began as he gestured to the short and somewhat plump elderly nurse standing behind them at the front desk, "that your friend needed help too, so she agreed to doctor him up while you were waiting for the dog."
"That's great!" John exclaimed as he turned to Paul, who, at this point, looked half asleep, if you can believe it. "Again, thank you so much! How can we ever repay you?"
"There's no need for that. Our reward is in Heaven," Robert smiled.
"Still, I feel like I need to repay you somehow!" John begged.
"No need. Well, we best be off now. Our wives are probably worried about us anyway. You can get a taxi, can't you?" Sam said.
"Yes, we'll be fine. You just don't know how much I appreciate your kindness."
"It's our pleasure."
And, minutes later, the two left, leaving John, Paul, and the nurse alone, the latter of which now making her way over to the famous duo.
"Hello!" she greeted. "My name is Miss Bloomfield and I heard that one of you lads had broken a leg and was running a temperature. Is that right?"
"Nice to meet, you," John answered. "I'm John and my mate Paul here is the one who needs help," he said as he shifted Paul so that he was facing the nurse, rather than having his head resting on John's shoulder as he had been before.
"I see," she frowned as she observed the semi-conscious version of the bassist, his cheeks bright red and his leg sickly crooked. "Well, let me see what I can do."
She then went into 'nurse mode.' It was obvious to John because, instead of the bubbly energy she was letting off before, there was a certain serious and sympathetic vibe she was now giving off.
"Alright, I think we'll take care of that leg of yours first, okay Paul?"
Paul, still seeming a bit out of it, tried his best to be polite, but, in all reality, he was scared to death of what she was going to do to fix his leg.
"O-okay, ma'am," he smiled weakly.
"I will warn you, though, lad, it may not feel very good," she sighed as she took out a roll of bandage.
"Do what you must," John answered for the bassist as Paul frowned intensely.
"Okay."
She then got to work. Carefully and gently, she pulled up Paul's pant leg, instantly revealing the awful gore that presented itself. Poor Paul's leg was now completely blue and purple-colored and was strangely shiny in the places where the bone was tempting to come through.
Miss Bloomfield seemed genuinely disgusted as she swallowed thickly, John feeling the same way. Paul, though, had decided not to look, which I believe was his better option.
"Well," she spoke up, her voice sounding higher than it was before, "it's not too terribly bad, but I do think you'll need more medical attention than I can give you here, so I'll just have to stick to these bandages for now. I'm so sorry," she apologized.
Secretly, Paul was rejoicing. He didn't want anything more than a bandage anyway, but then he thought of what the hospital would do when he actually got there. He moaned in misery.
"It's gonna be alright, Macca," John soothed.
"I'm, I'm just scared," he merely whispered.
"I know, but you're gonna be just fine," the rhythm guitarist reassured him.
"He's right, lad," Miss Bloomfield agreed as she tenderly brushed Paul's dark hair off of his sweaty forehead, which had previously been plastered against it.
Paul just nodded.
"Okay, let me wrap your leg now. It won't take but a minute," she said as she unrolled some of the bandage.
She then began. Being extremely careful, she wrapped the Beatle's broken leg, only receiving a wince every now and then from him.
"Alright?" John pressed.
"Fine," Paul answered through gritted teeth, his eyes clenched shut.
Before he knew it, though, his leg was effectively wrapped up, a splint now in place as well.
"All done!" she exclaimed happily as she patted Paul's trembling shoulder.
Paul exhaled deeply in relief before thanking the experienced nurse. She smiled in response and then got on to his other ailment: the fever.
"Now, let me take care of that fever," she said as she placed her aged, wrinkled hand to Paul's sweaty face. "Hmm," she sighed as she furrowed her brow. "It seems to be pretty high, poor lad. I'll go wet a cloth and maybe it'll go down a bit."
She then scurried out of sight to somewhere else in the clinic. John turned to Paul to see how he was doing as he shifted Paul's weight a bit, for his fever was beginning to burn the older man's leg.
"Feeling any better now?"
"Not really. I'm just worried about Martha. I mean, why is it taking so long?" Paul worried, tears beginning to brim in his tired eyes.
"I don't know, Macca, but it will be alright. After all, everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
"You're right, Johnny. You're right."
"I know," John smirked.
"Cheeky," Paul laughed as Miss Bloomfield came back in carrying a dripping wet towel.
"Okay, this should help you out. I just wish we had medicine for people and not dogs," she added with a little chuckle.
"I don't know, Miss Bloomfield, Paul might be able to pass as a dog," John quipped.
"Oh my!" the nurse exclaimed as she realized the joke. "Very witty!"
"Ta," John nodded as she handed Paul the towel.
"Now, lad, all you've got to do is hold it there for awhile. Hopefully then, your fever will break."
"Thank you, ma'am," Paul yawned as his eyes began to droop.
"But, right now," the nurse started as she noticed Paul's drowsy state, "I think you need some rest."
"I think she's right, Macca. You really need some sleep...and so do I!" John added.
"If you say so," Paul yawned once more as his head fell limply onto John's shoulder. Moments later, his breathing evened and he was officially asleep, his long lashes resting against the dark circles under his closed eyelids.
"Good," Miss Bloomfield exhaled. "He needs all of the rest he can get. I'm really worried about how high his fever is. It's dangerous not to know."
"You're right. Do you think he'll be okay?"
"Yes, but I still worry."
"I understand," John said as he too yawned.
"But, what's important now is for you two to get some rest. I'll be around if you need anything else," she smiled softly as she began to walk away.
"Thank you, Miss Bloomfield. Thank you very much," the rhythm guitarist said gratefully, his eyes now only cracked opened halfway.
"You're very welcome."
And with that, she disappeared through the main door that led to some unknown area of the clinic, leaving John and Paul to contentedly sleep.
***************
A few hours later, John was stirred by the sound of a door closing. Blearily, he cracked his almond, brown eyes opened to meet the cold, blue ones of one of the veterinary surgeons.
"H-hello," John mumbled sleepily.
"Hello, Mr. Lennon, I presume," the dark-haired doctor said as he wiped his hands on his blood-stained scrubs.
"Yes, that's me. How did you know?" he then laughed, but not one of the doctors even cracked a smile and it was then and there John knew something was wrong. "How's Martha?" he diverted.
"Well, Mr. Lennon, that's what we wanted to talk to you about. We, um," he started hesitantly, which caused John to grow even more worried as he stole a quick glance at Paul, who was still asleep, "we, we did everything we could, but...but we couldn't save her. We're so sorry."
Those few words hit John like a ton of bricks. Martha, Paul's beloved sheep dog hadn't made it and Paul wasn't awake to hear the news from the actual doctor. How was John possibly going to break it to him? He would be heartbroken!
"O-oh," John croaked, his voice trembling with emotion. "T-that's terrible," and, with that being said, he began to cry. "Paul won't be able to handle this! He'll, he'll be so heartbroken!"
"We truly are sorry, Mr. Lennon, but there was just too much damage."
"I understand," John sobbed.
"John? What do you understand?" Paul faintly spoke up as he opened his heavy, hazel eyes.
Once he had, he instantly noticed his mate crying and the doctors surrounding them.
"John? Why are you crying? Why are there doctors everywhere?" he pressed as he looked nervously between each doctor and nurse, his gaze finally falling on Miss Bloomfield, who held an intense expression of grief and regret.
"Paulie, I don't know how to tell you this," John whimpered.
"W-what's going on?" the bassist tried, his heart beginning to pound harder and harder.
"It's Martha, Paul. She, s-she didn't make it," John finally answered as tears streaked down his face liberally.
"W-what?" Paul whimpered, and he didn't know if he was hallucinating because of his fever or if what he was hearing was true.
"We're sorry, Paul, but Martha isn't with us anymore," Miss Bloomfield bemoaned as she began to tear up due to the crestfallen, frenetic look on Paul's fever-glowing face.
"N-no! She can't be!" he shrieked as he wrenched out of John's grip.
"Paul, you need to stay where you are! Your leg is broken!" John chided, trying to regain his grip on Paul, but he was too late—Paul was already on the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
"She can't be gone!! She can't!!" he screamed. "Please tell me she's not!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. McCartney, I truly am."
"No! She can't be gone she can't!"
"Paul, calm down, lad. It's going to be okay," Miss Bloomfield soothed as she attempted to calm the hysteric bassist down.
"No! It won't be okay when she's gone! I lost me mum and now I've lost me dog! I can't do it anymore!" he cried.
"I'm sorry, Macca," John whispered as he patted Paul's silky hair. "I'm so sorry."
"Why don't you get some more rest, Paul? You're not well," Miss Bloomfield insisted.
"No! I can't! Not when Martha's gone!"
"Paul..." John started, but was interrupted by more of Paul's frantic rambling.
"Martha! Please! Why did you have to go? Why?!"
"Mr. McCartney..."
"Martha!! No!"
"Paul!" John yelled as he tried his best to contain Paul, but it was no use. He was a hysterical, emotional wreck.
"Martha my dear, where have you gone?" he repeated over and over almost like a mantra. "Martha please, why did you forget me? Martha!!"
And it was then, the world began to spin before Paul's eyes, colors swirling together to create pure and utter chaos. And then everything went black.
Martha! :'( I'm so sorry I just did that to you all! But, you'll find out why in the next and final part. Thank you so much for the votes and comments! I really appreciate it! ❤