AN: I am not the original author of the story below my goal is to gather Beatles stories from around the web and have them in one area so that they don't get deleted. If you are the original author and would like me to remove this story I will.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Beatles and no offense or disrespect is intended, nor defamation of character. The stories are completely fictitious, so NOT real.

Stage Fright Epilogue

"So who was that bloke who tried to murder me?"

Paul was sitting up in his hospital bed, feeling much more awake and alert than he had since the last time he'd been awake. The doctor had been by to tell him what was ailing him, and he'd been assured that the most serious injury he had sustained was a concussion. Of course, that didn't mean that he wasn't in pain; his headache, though lessened to a dull throb, was still there, his throat felt like it was on fire, and it was going to be a while before his voice was quite back to normal again. But all in all, he was feeling rather fortunate he'd come away with his body more or less intact.

As he looked from Neil to Brian, who were both standing at his bedside, he felt strangely calm, which was the exact opposite of how he'd been feeling the past few days. Or weeks.

"His name's Jordan Tanning," Neil replied to Paul's raspy question. "Ring any bells?"

Paul's eyebrows bunched together thoughtfully. "No," he said finally. "Should it?"

"His step-brother's name is Joshua Tanning. The guy who attacked you before."

At that, Paul's eyebrows shot up. "You're joking!"

Neil shook his head. "There's no way to know for sure why Jordan Tanning had it in for you, since he's dead, but we're-"

"Hang on," Paul interrupted, looking intently at Neil. "He's dead?"

"Yes, Paul," Brian spoke up. "When the police found out where he had taken you, it didn't take them long to break down the door, and they found him in the middle of- of strangling you." Brian was fiddling with the cuff of his suit jacket, and it was obvious to Paul that he was feeling very uncomfortable talking about this subject. "They shot him," Brian went on. "You were already unconscious by then."

Paul slowly took in that information and mulled it over. Could it finally all be over? God, he hoped so. But…what if some other blithering idiot decided they wanted to take down one of 'The Beatles', too?

"They're still not sure why that bastard went after you," Neil's quiet voice interrupted his thoughts, "but they reckon it's because he-"

"He wanted to avenge his brother," Paul said absently, staring into space. "When he had me cornered in that storage room he told me he was doing this because he wanted revenge, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how he'd achieve in getting his revenge by killing me. I couldn't think of anything I might've done to him." He swallowed, his throat becoming increasingly sore. "I suppose it's quite obvious now, isn't it? He blamed me for getting his brother into prison. Fuckin' bastard."

After a moment of awkward silence, Neil patted his leg. "It'll be all right now, Paul. It's over." He glanced over at Brian, who nodded to him. "I'm gonna ring the lads to let 'em know how you're doing; we sent them home about an hour ago. Kickin' and screamin', of course," he added with a grin, before leaving the room.

Paul had to smile at the mental image of John, George and Ringo desperately clinging to his bedposts, screaming at the top of their lungs as Neil, Mal and hospital security tried to drag them away.

His attention was drawn back to Brian when he heard him nervously clear his throat. Paul looked up at him expectantly, noting the rather flustered look on his manager's face.

"Paul, I-" Brian stopped and took a breath, "I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for what happened. I should never have pressured you into touring again. This would not have happened if it weren't for me."

Paul blinked. The thought of blaming Brian had never even occurred to him, and he was utterly surprised to realize that Brian was obviously blaming himself. This was something he needed to set straight.

"Brian, don't be daft. The decision to start touring again was mine, and mine alone. Nobody could've foreseen what would happen, and at any rate, you couldn't have talked me into anything I didn't want to do no matter how hard you tried."

At that, Brian smiled slightly. "Thank you, Paul, but I still hold it against myself. If we had not found you in time- if we had lost you… I- I could not have lived with myself." He looked away quickly.

Brian said it so seriously that Paul did not doubt his words, and he shuddered at the implication. Thank God they had found him in time; if they hadn't, it might've cost them more than one life.

"I suppose if you insist on holding yourself responsible, there's nothing I can say to make you think otherwise. But I hope you'll be able to forgive yourself once you realize that nobody blames you for what happened. Least of all me." Paul paused for a moment, not feeling very comfortable talking about this sort of thing. "Christ, I need a smoke."

Brian actually laughed, something he rarely did these days. It effectively broke the tension between them, and Paul was grateful for it.

"I'm sorry, Paul, you know you're not allowed to smoke here," Brian began seriously, "and I don't believe smoking will do your voice any good-"

"Bri…" Paul said warningly.

Then Brian smiled at him, a wide, genuine smile he only reserved for 'his' boys. "I'll see what I can do," he said, giving Paul a conspiratorial wink. Then he grew serious again and glanced at his watch. "Right. I'm afraid I must leave; there are some things to be taken care of with the press. Your father phoned in; he'll be visiting later today. Oh, and a police detective will be by in a minute to take your statement." He leaned forward and gave Paul an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I'll come by again later."

With that, Paul was left alone, marvelling at how Brian had so easily slipped back into his manager role after having just laid bare his soul.

.

"Why do people do this?"

John Lennon looked up at his writing partner, who was still confined to his hospital bed, looking pale and depressed. The doctors had expressed a wish to keep Paul under observation for one more day, and Brian hadn't argued, even if Paul had. The latter was not enjoying his stay at all, but John had to admit it made him feel better that his friend was being properly looked after. At least for another day or so.

"Eh? What are you on about?"

Paul waved a hand at the bruises on his face and neck. The bruises were showing even more clearly now than they had the day before.

Catching on, John shrugged, setting aside the magazine he'd been reading. "Come on, Paul, you're not naïve. A crazy world has crazy people living in it. There are bound to be some crack-pots around ruining it for everybody-else. That's the way it's always been, and it's not about to change now."

Paul was silent, staring up at the ceiling, and John had a feeling that there was something else on his mind. He leaned forward, studying the bruises on the pale skin, the angry red marks in his neck where fingernails had dug into his flesh, the matted dark hair, and thinking it was a good thing the bloody bastard was already dead or he would've finished off the job himself. "What's the matter, Paul?"

Paul let out a long, tired sigh. A sigh that conveyed a multitude of emotions, ranging from anger to resignation to hopelessness, and John raised an eyebrow at his partner's moodiness.

"Why do we keep doin' this, Johnny?" Paul finally spoke, turning sad hazel eyes on John.

John blinked. He knew what Paul was referring to, but in all the years he'd known him, Paul had never expressed any doubts about touring or performing live in front of audiences. Not only had he not expressed them, he'd never even let on he had them in the first place. Not until recently, anyway. As far as he knew, Paul had always enjoyed the tours, as they all had. But where John, George and Ringo were sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of their popularity, Paul had always seemed to drink it in eagerly.

Of course it was only natural that Paul was having doubts now, considering what he'd been through, but something in the way Paul posed his question made John think there was more to it.

"Because we want to, Paul. Because you want to."

Paul snorted sarcastically. "Well, if this is how every future tour is going to work out, I'd rather not do it anymore."

John frowned. Was Paul saying he wanted to stop touring? Or was he saying he didn't want to be a Beatle anymore? One thing was clear, attacked or not, this wasn't Paul McCartney he was talking to. Or at least, not the one he befriended many years ago. "What happened to all that shit about gettin' back on your horse after you fall?"

Paul shrugged, looking away. "What's the point of trying when your horse keeps running away from you?"

John shook his head, not believing what he was hearing. "Enough with the negativity, McCartney. It doesn't suit you. And you're daft if you think I'm going to believe you want to quit being a Beatle."

Paul turned back to him, eyes angry and hurt. "I didn't say I wanted to quit being a Beatle."

"You didn't have to. Your eyes are telling the story for you."

"Well, you must be overjoyed then, since you were starting to get fed up with being a Beatle long before all this shit happened."

John narrowed his eyes. "I think that knock you took on your head did more damage to your brain than we thought," he snapped, angry over what Paul was implying.

Paul glared at him, but remained silent.

John glowered back, then took a deep breath. Arguing with the lad was not going to get them anywhere. "Macca, I know you're afraid," he said more gently, "We all are. But I saw you up on that stage yesterday, and you were havin' the time of your life. You looked like you were high, like you were the happiest man alive. Making music and performing is what you live for, I'm not going to let you throw all that out the window."

Paul closed his eyes. "But I don't want to have to go through all this again, John," he said, the helplessness evident in his voice.

"You don't have to. We're not going to rush things this time. And I'm not saying you should go back to touring right after you're healed. I'm not saying you have to go back to touring at all. I just want you to give it time; you don't want to be rushing into things or you'll be regretting it for the rest of your life." He paused. "Now stop being such a cynic, or you'll turn into me and we wouldn't want two me's walking around without your eternal optimism to counteract my negativity, now would we?"

That surprised a laugh out of Paul, and John sat back in his chair, content that he'd managed to avert a crisis. For the moment, at least.

Paul opened one eye and looked at John critically. "When did you become so wise?"

John smirked. "I've always been wise. Genius, remember? They don't call me your leader for nothing."

"Our leader? Don't make me laugh, Lennon," a voice from the door said mockingly.

"Aye! Ring! Geo!" John exclaimed, looking over, and watching his two fellow band mates approach Paul's bed.

They both ignored him for favour of asking Paul how he was doing.

"Good, good," Paul replied, smiling, and he meant it.

"You're lookin' a bit pale," Ringo remarked casually, though the concern was evident in his eyes. "Has that git been mistreating you?" he said, nodding his head in John's direction.

"Aye? Me? Mistreating him? You wound me, sir!" John exclaimed, dramatically crossing his hands over his heart, and they all laughed. Including Paul.

To Paul it felt good to be with the four of them again, for once without the tension and fear that had been clinging to each of them over the past few weeks. Watching his mates larking about eased his own lingering fear. He hated to admit it, but John was right; there would always be mad people who had it in for others. Living a life without doing the things he loved to do for fear of getting hurt or killed was really no life at all.

"Okay, Paul?" George, who had obviously noticed his unusual quietness, was watching him.

Paul looked up at him, at all three of his mates, and grinned. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm all right."

"You scared us, lad," Ringo said seriously, obviously referring to Paul almost getting himself killed only the day before.

"I know, Ritchie. But I'm all right now."

"You know," George began uncertainly, clearly unsure of how to breach the subject, "Brian has arranged counselling for you."

"For all of us, really," Ringo added.

Paul made a face, though he knew he was probably going to need the counselling. He would undoubtedly be plagued by nightmares again for some time and he realized now that he would not be able to deal with them on his own. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

"And we're not going to be doing any shows or tours or whatever until we all feel comfortable with the idea again," John said.

Paul nodded. "Have you told Brian?"

"He was the one who suggested it," Ringo replied.

Paul nodded again. Even though it meant Brian was taking his guilt seriously, Paul was glad that he was taking their personal feelings into account this time.

John leaned forward and waited until Paul met his gaze. "We're in this together, aye, Paul?"

Paul nodded once again, secretly moved by how much they were willing to do to help him get through this; John especially was not a fan of therapists. He didn't like them sifting through his mind, pinning all kinds of psychological stigmas on him. But the fact that John was willing to subject himself to one of those 'quacks', as he liked to call them, spoke volumes to Paul.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. Odd how nearly getting killed tends to make one more emotional about things, he reflected. He gingerly cleared his throat. "Anybody got a ciggie?"

John, George and Ringo exchanged glances and then broke into grins; all was well again with the world.

Well, nearly.

The end