Chapter Text
Marylebone, London
Sunday 12th January 1969
George woke up in bed next to a semi-naked Yoko Ono.
His vision was a little blurry and the dim winter morning light was only just beginning to seep through the curtains; but yes, that was definitely Yoko lying next to him.
Yoko, with her head of thick black hair spread on the pillow, facing away from him on her side with her bare back showing, and the sheets covering her lower half.
He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the blurry vision to no avail.
Now, how he got into this peculiar situation was beyond him. The memories of the last two days were... a little confusing.
On Friday, he had left the studio, not in a huff but certainly not pleased. He'd left the band - that he was certain of. The Beatles, or at least Beatle George, was over. He hadn't made a scene or started up a fight, just uttered one quiet notice of his intentions. An ironically fitting end.
He hadn't stayed around long enough to gauge the reactions - he'd driven straight home to lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling in a silent house until it was dark.
He hadn't shouted or cried that an era of his life was over. He'd just stared at the ceiling, maybe hoping it would give him the answers. Maybe just feeling empty and so fucking tired.
And Saturday... well, Saturday he didn't remember much of. His words from Friday had still been ringing in his head when he woke up. ("I think I'll be... I'm leaving the band now." "When?" "Now.")
He'd tried to meditate in the morning, sitting in the frosty morning grass of the back garden, under the grey cloudy sky, bundled up in a fur coat and scarf. It hadn't cleared his mind at all. He'd ended up shivering, then smoking, and staring blankly at the walls, and he'd smoked a blunt next; and when that didn't make him feel anything, he'd dropped some acid, and downed several glasses of the nastiest-tasting gin in his liquor cabinet.
Perhaps he had overdone it a bit.
The memories after that were - terrifyingly - not present.
And then he'd... what, slept with Yoko Ono?
George gave a low groan and wriggled out from under the covers. Thankfully Yoko didn't stir.
The idea that he - George Harrison - would sleep with Yoko Ono was laughable. Not that he hated her, no... but he didn't particularly like her. Especially not in that way. He tolerated her constant presence, he respected her as a person, but... he wasn't attracted to her. And she and John were so in love that he'd never even dream of coming between them.
But then again, after the past week, George didn't know himself anymore.
There was a bedside table that hadn't been there before, and George winced as he stubbed his toe on it while shuffling himself out of bed.
"Ow," he hissed.
Everything was still a bit fuzzy, and the low light wasn't helping. But, as he took a look around to take in his surroundings... the bed was in a different place, and there was a wardrobe in the corner... and, shit this wasn't his room! It was John and Yoko's room, if the familiar clothes and artworks on the walls were anything to go by.
So, he'd slept with his friend's partner, in his friend's bedroom. Bloody brilliant.
And where was John in all of this? John was barely ever two feet from Yoko's side - those two were permanently stuck together like glue.
John could be home any moment. John could even be just downstairs.
Oh, what had he done?
George didn't feel like hanging around - the cold coils of regret were squeezing his gut already, and he most certainly didn't want to be here when Yoko woke up. He most certainly didn't want to be here when John came back.
Hopefully Yoko had been off her head too and wouldn't remember anything. And then they would never speak of it again.
Thankfully George was wearing boxers. He hoped they hadn't done anything - maybe they had just... laid in bed together talking all night, and happened to be semi-naked...?
Oh, who was he kidding.
This was a massive fuck up.
The hangover hit him like a ton of bricks, with a pounding painful headache that felt like it was splitting his brain apart. He groaned quietly and sat on the edge of the bed, putting his head in his hands and massaging his scalp. But the texture of his his hair felt different; it was thicker and wiry, and was it longer? He hadn't had a haircut in a while, maybe it was time for one. And why did his fingers feel bonier and longer than before?
Something felt not quite right - but maybe that was just the lingering effects of the acid trip.
But the wrong feeling persisted when he stretched and cracked his back. He stumbled a little when standing up, feeling a bit off-kilter. His balance was all wrong - and his ribs were showing, was he always this skinny? George had always been thin and lithe, but he thought he must have lost some weight. Not surprising, given he had barely eaten in the last few days.
Yoko sighed and turned to the other side in her sleep, wrapping herself in the duvet.
"Fuck," George murmured to himself, feeling a little sick. "Fuckin' hell."
He grabbed an orange patterned shirt and plain trousers from the pile of clothes on the bedside table, not caring if they were clean or not.
They were John's clothes of course.
He couldn't have felt like a shittier friend in that moment. Here he was, in John's bedroom, with John's girlfriend, wearing John's clothes.
By now, the guilt had settled like a cold stone deep in his stomach, and combined with the pounding headache, he felt a little dizzy and overwhelmed.
He needed to escape as soon as possible.
A pair of sweaty socks were on the floor; he pulled them on, wrinkling his noise a bit. It would have to do for now.
On his rush to get out, he almost missed it. He doubled back to check how tired and worn-out he looked, and the state of his rat's nest hair. And there - in the mirror on the dressing table...
His reflection was blurry, and he squinted his eyes a bit. He looked - different. Wrong. What the hell?
His nose was longer, his hair lighter and redder, his skin had a slightly different tone to it... he looked like John.
George breathed in sharply. This must be some kind of dream, or a bad trip-
But John Lennon's fuzzy reflection stared back at him, his eyes wide and mouth agape.
He grasped at his hair - John's hair - pulling it in front of his eyes as if to check this was really happening.
There was the hazy shape of a pair of round glasses on the dresser, and George grabbed at them desperately.
Disbelieving, he didn't expect them to do anything.
But the room came into focus as he put them on. The hazy, fuzzy world transformed into bright, clear technicolour, like Dorothy stepping into Oz.
And it was John's face alright. He had the lines of his jaw, the furrowed brow, the sharp nose, the hazel eyes. George was looking in the mirror expecting to see himself as always, but it was another body. He grimaced, and his friend's shorter, smoother teeth glinted back at him. He ran his tongue over his teeth, expecting to feel longer canines, but it felt strange. John had a filling in a tooth where he didn't.
George felt like he might laugh, or scream, but what came out instead was a dry, gasping choking noise. His throat was closing up and his palms were sweaty. Swearing loudly in disbelief, he stumbled back to sit on the bed. "Shit, oh shit," he groaned to himself.
Yoko exhaled lightly and blinked her eyes open. She sat up with a stretch, fluffing the pillows up behind her back. Her chest was bare and George flushed, averting his gaze away awkwardly to stare at himself in the mirror again.
He ran his hands over his cheeks, feeling the difference in his face, the softer curve to his cheekbones and the slightly rougher skin.
"Come back to bed, John," she murmured, wiping away sleepy dust from her eyes and yawning.
"I'm not -" George stammered. His heart felt like it was in his throat and he was breathing heavily. "I'm not John!" he yelped, gripping on to the dressing table tensely.
There was a moment of short relief as it dawned that he most likely hadn't slept with Yoko. But it turned into a seeping cold feeling of horror at the reality - he was John. The horror turned to panic.
"What the fuck," he mumbled to himself, biting at his nails anxiously. Huh. He'd never bitten his nails before - that was John's nervous habit.
Yoko, confused and sleepy, drew the covers around herself. "What do you mean? What's wrong, love?"
"I'm - not-" George gasped. His wide-eyed reflection stared back in the mirror, taunting him, haunting him. He couldn't face himself - he couldn't face John. He turned away and drew the curtains open an inch, gazing out instead over the misty London street.
"Okay," Yoko said softly, resting her hand on his. "How do you feel? Is it a bad day?"
George blinked. Yoko had never talked to him in such a comforting, soft way before. The most they had ever exchanged was a few pleasantries, their conversations filled with small talk. It wasn't that they didn't get along; they just didn't share the same interests. The only thing they had in common was John.
"Er - fucking hell," George said bluntly. "No, I mean I'm not John. Everything is wrong."
His appearance, his voice and body would contradict him though. He was even talking with a slightly different accent than usual - less thick Scouse like his own, the words slightly more pronounced, with a lower-pitched, more nasal timbre to his voice.
"That's okay," Yoko soothed him, gazing at him with love and acceptance in her eyes. "I'm here, I love you whether you're sad or happy, whether you feel like John or not today. Do you want some tea or to go back to bed?"
George shrugged hesitantly. This was possibly the most bizarre situation he'd ever been in. He had had out-of-body experiences before on acid, but... he'd never been someone else entirely.
His hands trembled as he felt tears threatening to come, but he choked them back. He and Pattie had been falling apart for a while now. He hadn't had a tender moment like this in what felt like forever. No one cared for him like this anymore.
It felt wrong though, like he was intruding on a private moment. Well... not that John and Yoko ever really kept their love private, but he had never seen their most intimate moments like this. And he definitely didn't want Yoko's love directed towards him; he didn't want it.
"Ah - er," George stuttered. Yoko was pulling on a dressing gown and he stared at the wall awkwardly. "I really need to see... George."
The feel of his own name, talking about himself in third person... it felt odd on his tongue.
It had almost slipped his mind that the four Beatles were to meet up today. To discuss his leaving the band and all that. Paul had called at some point during the blur of a day yesterday, to try and convince him to meet them at eleven on Sunday, to which George reluctantly agreed to at least get Paul to shut the hell up. He may have griped and grumbled a bit along the phone line too.
It must have been about eight in the morning now, going by the frosty morning and rising sun.
Yoko looked concerned and a little confused why John wanted to be with George instead of talking about his troubles with her. But she didn't object.
"That sounds like a good idea," Yoko said comfortingly, rubbing his shoulder. She was thankfully not nude now, covered in a fluffy white dressing gown.
George bit his lip, exercising his restraint by not shrugging her hand off, not wanting to further alert her that something was wrong.
"Er, yeah," he said bluntly. "I'm off now then."
He needed to get home as soon as possible - because if he was here, inhabiting John's body... then what's the chance John would be George? John, waking up in Esher to an empty house and a different body - would he freak out like George did?
Yoko held on to his hand for a little longer than he felt necessary. But - he couldn't be here and pretend to be sickeningly in love with her, not when he was an impostor who felt nothing for her in return. "I can come with-?" she asked gently. It was less of a question and more of a statement though. John and Yoko hardly ever went anywhere without the other.
"I'm going to George's first," he said reluctantly, making a compromise. He didn't really want Yoko there - but not having her there would raise suspicions that something was wrong. He needed to act normal, at least until he could talk to John. "You meet me at Ringo's at eleven."
Yoko nodded, looking resigned. He really didn't want her there at the Beatles' meeting either. It was a moment that would decide the future of their band - what right did she have to be there? What right did she have to be there while George aired his insecurities and frustrations with his bandmates, his best mates? She wasn't a Beatle. But John would always want her there.
They were always going by what John or Paul wanted now. No one ever asked George what he wanted.
George didn't look at the mirror again, not even giving it a passing glance, for fear of reminding himself of the different reality he had woken up to.
He grabbed John's fluffy brown coat with not another word to Yoko, and headed out into the biting chilly air to drive himself home.