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Post Mortem: a beginning
Harder than it looked, actually. Being dead. He'd never liked sitting still before, but it was damned frustrating to find out you couldn't in the Great Beyond. John hated couldn'ts.
He ignored the sharp tug behind his navel, and concentrated very hard on just keeping his hands still. Worse than withdrawals for trembling, it really was.
"You know, it's tough luck for you that I'm not moving on. Not without. Not yet," he growled upwards. Nothing happened, so he took a few shaky breaths. His first since being dead.
He relaxed slowly onto the hill, and settled down to wait.
Fools on the Hill
"You've already said you're waiting," George said twenty one years later, sitting down beside him. "I'd just like to know who you're waiting for, if not Yoko. And what you're waiting for."
"None o' your business, Georgie."
"It's not right. What's here but you and the hill? There's something waiting beyond, John--something good. Can't you feel it?"
John exhaled. "What are you still doing here, then, Harrison?"
"Well. Waiting," George admitted.
There was silence as they both looked out at the horizon.
"You get used to it," John said with a dull ache.
"Well. Yeah, I suppose you would."
Arguments Long Since Lost
"Bit crap song, isn't it? I always thought."
"Mm. Yeah. I deserve better."
"No, you don't."
"Probably. Shh, I want to listen."
"…It's him, right? The one you miss."
"I missed all of you, brother. I miss all of it."
"I never thought, you know. Before. But here he is, still playing his love songs, and here's you, still listening."
"Harrison, you're a brother to me. Now fuck off."
"Heh. Alright."
….
"If I say I really loved you and was glad you came along…"
"Stupid bugger."
"You were here today. You were in my song…"
"Always has to win, doesn't he?"
Are We There Yet?
The great thing, John mused, was that death really gives you some time to figure things out. No room for doubt when you've had thirty years to think things over--you get pretty sure of the things that confused the hell out of you before.
The problem with death, as he saw it, was the whole 'inaction thing.'
He was sure of Paul, like he'd finally told George when he left with Olivia. He was utterly sure. But here he was, still waiting on the hill.
"God, Macca," he muttered. "I'll wait forever, but I'm fucking sick of waiting patiently."
64 Years (No Rest for the Wicked)
Cold bed, warm room suddenly turns into warm body, hot kisses trailing up his spine, strong fingers stroking up and down.
Linda, he thinks muzzily, leaning back into the touch. A low laugh resounds in his ear, and he shudders. "Not quite, darling," achingly-familiar softrich voice, just, just the, sound of it's unbearable, and he can't breathe with those godcoldknowthemdon'tI hands closing around him.
"I," he begins, and oh, isn'thetoooldforthis more, more please--
"Paul," the voice purrs, and he's coming, coming, and he thinks he sees a glimmer of spectacles, hears a whispered "Happy birthday, Macca."
Then he wakes up.
Dead Men Walking
"I've been waiting," was John's first comment.
"Rather expected to find you waiting down below," Paul returned.
John shrugged, and slowly stood. "Never went. I told you, son--I was waiting."
"Well." He was smiling. "'Spose we'd best get moving then? After all, you're long overdue."
John drifted closer. "You sure? After all, there could be things out there."
"Hell?" Paul challenged, hands slipping to John's waist.
"Heaven," John countered, a whisper away. "God, even."
"Come on," Paul laughed, and kissed him. "Let's go."
"Well, turn me on, dead man," John murmured, and together they wandered off into the universe.