Death Flu ( 4 Parts)

[Raining Strawberry]

Hi everyone! First thing I have to make absolutely clear is that I did not write this amazing piece of fiction. It was written by "Paulie" on a fan fiction website.

It's unfinished, which is unfortunate for a couple of reasons. It was archived back in 2001, and Paulie's listed e-mail address appears to decommissioned at this point in time (I checked ), so I highly doubt that we'll ever see the ending of the story by the original author. The second reason why that sucks is that it ends in a rather unhappy spot.

Sooooo, after you've read it, I invite anyone who has the interest to complete it. You can change elements if you like; I'm sure that nobody here will complain.

There's some slash alluded to (Torksmith and John-Ringo), but it isn't too terrible. For the most part.

It's super-long, so I'll add it in multiple posts, because I don't know what the text limit per post is, if there is one. Enjoy!!

Death Flu

Mike Nesmith lay unconscious in the muddled confusion of cough-syrup-induced sleep. The near-coma was a welcome change from the hours of misery endured before. He no longer felt his pounding headache, his swollen throat, his burning sinuses, his aching joints, or his churning stomach. In this blissfully unaware state he hardly heard the commotion coming from downstairs in the kitchen. He did vaguely become aware of the din as it travelled up the stairs and approached his door. He was startled awake by a frantic knocking.

There was a brief scuffling before the door flew open and Micky Dolenz and Peter Tork wedged themselves into the doorway. Peter scowled at Micky before giving one final jerk and landing on the floor. He immediately sat up and shook his head in confusion. He remembered what he was here for, and approached the bed.

"Miiiiiike!!" Peter whined pitifully, as if Mike could possibly have overlooked their entrance.

"What is it, Peter?" Mike muffled voice came from beneath a mound of pillows, blankets, and laundry.

Flustered, Peter shifted from foot to foot, attempting to string together something coherent. Pointing a finger towards the doorway, he opted for the accusation, "Micky stole my fork!"

Micky's jaw dropped as he adopted an expression of shock and disbelief at having been accused of such a hideous crime. "I did *not*!!" He shot back. The argument continued as Mike watched through glazed eyes and a fever-induced haze.

"For cryin' out loud, guys! There're enough forks for both of you to have one!"

"But this one MINE!" They both whined in unison, then glared at each other.

"Listen, guys," Mike rasped, then cleared his throat, "Give me the fork."

Micky, hesitantly but obediently, crossed the room and handed the offending utensil to the miserable Texan. Mike pretended to inspect the fork for some kind of distinguishing mark that would indicate which of the two was the owner. He then rolled out of bed, drew himself into a moderately dignified stance, and, still gripping the fork, shuffled into the bathroom. With a clink and a flush, the four-pronged nuisance was no more. Peter and Micky watched as Mike shuffled back into the room and collapsed into bed. They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. The front door slammed and the refrigerator door opened and closed. There were some rummaging sounds and, in an English accent, came the exclamation, "Hey! Where's my fork?!" Mike groaned and Peter and Micky snickered. Davy hopped up the stairs, eating last night's leftovers from a Tupperware bowl. "Hey, mates! What's happenin'?"

Micky's eyes widened. "Hey!! That's MY fork!!" He yelled as he went after Davy.

"Oh," Mike moaned and put a hand over his eyes.

"Hey, Mike, what's the matter?" Peter asked as the Tupperware bowl flew by and narrowly missed his shoulder.

"I've got enough nausea to light up the city of Toledo," Mike replied, "I feel like I'm gonna die."

"You're going to DIE??!!" Peter shrieked, alarmed.

Micky and Davy screeched to a halt, mid-brawl, and stared at Mike.

"No, Peter, I just--"

"Hey, Mike! When you're gone, can I have your guitar?" Micky asked eagerly.

"What?"

"Hey, Mike! Can I have your fork?" Davy put in.

"For cryin' out loud, guys! I'm not even dead yet!"

Peter's eyes widened. "So you ARE gonna die!!" He exclaimed as tears welled up in his eyes.

Mike groaned and pulled the blankets over his head.

A few hours later, there were three piles of belongings in the living room floor. One was labelled "Micky", one was labelled "Peter", and one labelled "Davy". Micky poked his head into the bedroom. "Hey, Mike? Who gets your fork?"

"Davy."

Davy was next, "Hey, Mike, can I have your shoes?"

Mike chuckled in spite of himself. "They don't even fit you!"

"Yeah, I know, but all I've got so far is a fork!"

Mike looked up in a few minutes to see Peter in the doorway.

"Mike?" Peter asked hesitantly, fidgeting, not wanting to ask what he wanted to ask.

"Yes, Peter, you can have it. I know you'll take good care of it. If Micky gets mad, tell him it won't fit over his hair."

Peter grinned broadly. "Thanks, Mike." He turned to go, but something occurred to him. "Mike?"

"Hmm?"

"Um-- Where did you, I mean, who-- It's just, where did it come from?" Peter sensed he had breached forbidden territory by asking.

Mike gave a half-smile. "Maybe when I'm really dying, Peter. Right now, I'd just like to get some sleep. I may not be dying, but I *am* still sick. Goodnight, Pete."

"Goodnight, Michael," Peter said with a smile as he closed the bedroom door.

Mike awoke with a start. He sat up in bed and furrowed his brow as he scanned the dark room. It was silent and well into the night. Everything seemed to be in order. Micky was snoring softly, which was unusual, but otherwise, he didn't hear anything strange. Ordinarily, he would have gone back to sleep, but Mike sensed he was awake for a reason, even though he still felt like a truck had run over him. Not just a truck, a big truck. A really big truck. A really big evil truck with one smashed-in headlight and driven by a guy named Bubba. Boy, what a truck had run over Mike Nesmith. He got slowly to his feet and pulled his housecoat around himself. He tied it around the waist as he approached the door adjoining his and Micky's room with the room Davy and Peter shared. The only light was from the nightlights Peter and Micky insisted on getting after they all saw "The Thing That Ate Kalamazoo" last Halloween. It was usually a somewhat comforting light, but tonight Mike thought it cast an eerie glow on the room he had just entered. He reminded himself that fever can alter one's perception somewhat, and with that, he swallowed his uneasiness and approached Peter's bedside. He began to wonder why he had come in here in the first place. There hadn't been any reason-- he'd just rolled out of bed and strolled in. But then he looked down at Peter and what he saw made his heart sink. Peter was curled up into a ball, soaked in sweat from head to toe, shivering. Most of the blankets and sheets had been balled up or kicked onto the floor during what must have been a fitful night's sleep. Peter coughed weakly. Mike reached down and brushed away the bangs that had stuck to Peter's feverish face, and was hit with a debilitating surge of maternal instinct. He quickly pulled his hand away, resisting the temptation to mother his friend. Peter had fallen victim to what Mike had come to refer to as the "Death Flu". It got its name from its peculiar trait of causing the victim to wake up sick and force these two words from his or her swollen throat: "Kiiilll mmeee..." Everyone that got the Death Flu had a death wish. In fact, the first day Mike had had the Death Flu, every conversation he had engaged in had gone something like this:

Other Person: "Whoa!! You (look/sound) awful!!" Is there anything you need?"

Mike: "Kiiilll mmeee..."

But apparently, there was some mass conspiracy to keep him from dying; no one seemed to be willing to carry out that order. Mike was hit with a coughing spasm and ducked into the hall before letting it take complete control. He coughed dryly and deeply for what seemed like an eternity. Mike hated this part of the Death Flu the most. The runny nose, the sneezing, the aches and pains, the sore throat, all of those could be controlled or at least hidden to a certain degree. But the coughing... *that* had complete control, and it was devious enough to strike unexpectedly and without warning. It was a nightmare. He was doubled over, using the hallway railing for support, when he realised he was going to need some help. As if reading his mind, Davy appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw Mike, and he rushed over to assist his friend. He laid his right hand on Mike's back, and his left on his upper arm. Mike was coughing uncontrollably into his right hand, and, although ashamed to be seen in such a vulnerable position, he was comforted immensely by Davy's touch.

"It's okay, Mike, "Davy soothed. His voice softened to a tone that reminded Mike of Peter-- Peter!! Mike needed Davy to go check on Peter, but he couldn't seem to speak a full sentence. All he could say was:

"Peter..."

"No, I'm Davy!" Came the voice from behind him.

"No, Peter..."

"No, really! I AM Davy! Hear the accent?"

"--got the Death Flu..."

"I know you've got the Death Flu, Michael, we all know."

"...Peter got it..."

"Yeah, he gets it, he understands. He may be dense but he knows when you're sick. He's been worried, you know."

"...sick..."

"What? You're gonna be sick? Don't you want to be in the bathroom for that?"

"No!"

"Okay, um, well, lemme find you a bucket or something..." Davy said as he turned to go.

"No, wait! Peter..."

"No, I'm Davy!"

They were interrupted by the sound of heavy sneezing coming from Mike and Micky's room. Mike thought at first that Peter had come into the bedroom looking for him, but then he realised that the voice wasn't low enough to be Peter's. Mike recovered enough to follow Davy to Micky's bedside. Micky coughed weakly a few times, trying to catch his breath. Davy spoke first.

"Micky!! Are you okay?!"

"Kiiilll mmeee..."

The Death Flu had struck again. The Monkees were dropping like flies. Davy helped Mike back into bed.

"Davy, Peter's sick."

"No, Micky's sick, Mike."

Mike had had it. He sat up and looked into Davy's eyes with all the sobriety he could muster. "Peter is sick, Davy! Peter!! Go and check on him!"

Finally, comprehension flashed in Davy's eyes. "Death Flu?"

"I think so."

"How long has he been sick?"

"I don't know. I just got up and found him looking feverish."

"I'll go look in on him, then."

"Davy?"

"Hm?"

"Don't wake him. If I was that sick, I'd want to sleep through it, too."

"You are that sick."

"Yeah, and I want to sleep through it." Mike lay back and folded his hands across his stomach. He closed his eyes and sighed. For a moment, he hesitated to let sleep close over him. But only for a moment. The next time Davy made his rounds, Mike was sound asleep.

Edited May 11, 2010 by Raining Strawberry

[Raining Strawberry]

Davy heard Peter's voice from his bedroom.

"Mike?" Peter was just rousing from a long but restless sleep into a much more miserable state of semi-consciousness. Davy ducked into the room to comfort Peter, lest he inadvertently disturb Mike. He knew that if Mike woke up, he'd probably never get back to sleep for fussing over Peter and Micky.

"Shh, Peter, it's all right," Davy soothed.

Peter cringed as a wave of general sickness passed through him. "Mike... I feel really bad..."

"It's okay, Peter. You'll be all right. Just try to get some rest, now, okay?"

Peter nodded.

"If you need water, it's here by your bedside, and I'll be comin' 'round every once in a while to see that you're all right."

Peter opened his eyes, for the first time emerging from the drowsy delirium into a more cognitive state of mind. His eyes landed on Davy, recognition flashed in his eyes, and a look of confusion passed over his face as he furrowed his brow. "You're not Mike," he stated, as if Davy would be shocked by the news. He raised his head slightly and looked around the room. "Where is he?"

"He's still sick."

"But he always keeps me company when I'm sick..."

"Well, I don't want to wake him up," Davy thought, and the smell of something burning filled the air, "We could move Micky in here to keep you company. He was awake when I was in there a second ago."

A few minutes later, a disheveled Micky Dolenz slumped into Davy's bed and slowly crawled under the covers. Peter was satisfied to simply have another presence in the room. Micky was satisfied to be asleep again, and Davy was satisfied that his patients were satisfied.

The next day was the quietest the pad had ever seen. Except for the coughing fits, the sneezing fits, and the occasional "kiiillll meee...", all was quiet on the western shore. At about 11:30, a ragged Davy descended the spiral staircase. He hadn't slept since he'd found Mike out in the hallway at about 2 AM. He stumbled groggily into the kitchen and made himself some chamomile tea; his throat was a bit scratchy. He sipped it slowly and tried to relax. The lull was brief; he soon heard Peter launch into a sneezing fit. Davy grabbed a box of tissues from the table and hurried up the stairs. He stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs and gripped the hallway railing; he was feeling a little dizzy. He coughed twice to clear an intensely irritating tickle that had lodged itself in his throat, but it only got worse. He tried to suppress the coughing that ensued, but with no luck. Mike ambled out just as Davy caught his breath. He flinched at Davy's condition; the Death Flu had claimed another victim. He leaned over and put his hands on Davy's shoulders. "Come on, shotgun, it's all right. Just breathe slowly and it'll pass."

"Kiiilll mmeee..."

Mike had a better idea. "Let's get you some cough syrup instead, how 'bout that?" Mike suggested as he led Davy into the bathroom and began to root through the medicine cabinet. But as he was doing so, he was hit with another coughing fit. It was a sheer nightmare. He couldn't breathe, and he could feel Davy's worried gaze upon him, but he simply couldn't stop. And so he stood there, eyes watering, nose running, and coughed dryly until he gagged and finally vomited. He sat back and leaned against the wall, exhausted from the ordeal. He wiped his eyes on one sleeve and produced a tissue for his nose. Davy stood back. He knew better than to try and mother Mike Nesmith. He also knew that he was going to be that sick very soon. They were running out of Monkees (That's the whole barrel!!), but Davy was determined not to let the Death Flu win. He helped Mike back into bed again (though there was much protesting on Mike's part). Afterwards, he stumbled downstairs, picked up the kitty, and dialed a familiar number.

53 minutes later, a black car pulled up to 1334 Beechwood. A group of men got out, went up to the house, and knocked on the door in a silly rhythm. This startled Davy, who had fallen asleep waiting on the living room couch. Now dressed in pajamas and a housecoat, he shuffled over to let them in. He opened the door and greeted his guests with a breathy "Hullo," before turning his head and sneezing deeply over his shoulder. Everyone in the doorway said, "Bless you," to Davy and he motioned them in with a stuffy "Thagks." He drew a tissue out of his robe pocket and blew his nose noisily, but sounded no less congested the next time he spoke. "Hope you don't mind the informal attire, but we could really use your help."

Micky scuffed heavily into Mike's room wearing a white robe, white pajamas, and white fuzzy slippers. He looked at Mike, who was on his side with his back toward Micky. He could not figure out whether the Texan was asleep, and decided it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Miiike?"

The sound of his own name drew Mike out of a feverish sleep.

"What is it, Micky?"

"Are you awake?" Micky asked quietly.

"I am now," Mike answered, "What's the matter?"

"There's a Beatle in my bedroom."

"Well, swat it with a newspaper."

Micky nodded sleepily and shuffled out. Mike heard a SWAT and an "OW! Whadja do that for?!"

Micky shuffled back into Mike's room. "It didn't work, he's still there."

Mike furrowed his brow, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"'He'? How do you know it's a 'he'?"

"Well, the girls love him," Micky thought out loud, "and he had a 5 o'clock shadow in a picture I saw of him once. Are you really suggesting that Paul McCartney is a chick?"

"Hold it, shotgun. You're not making any sense. Why are we talking about Paul McCartney?"

"Because he's sitting in my bedroom."

Mike opened his eyes and turned over to look at Micky. He saw a delirious, fuzzy-headed drummer with a high fever, a stuffy nose, too much cough syrup in his system, and a rolled-up newspaper in is hand. He remembered the English accent that had protested after being swatted with a newspaper. "Micky," Mike sighed, exasperated, rubbing his eyes to try to calm his headache, "go tell Davy you're sorry you swatted him."

"I didn't swat Davy."

"Right, Mick," Mike gave up trying, "Why don't you just come back in here and sleep in your own bed? Davy can keep Peter company now. I'll be here, and if any Beatles show up, tell them to come see me, okay?"

"Okay," Micky agreed distantly, nodding slowly. He scuffed over to his bed and crawled under the covers.

________________________________________

Mike woke up later in the evening, shivering. He got to his feet to go search the hall closet for another blanket. He stumbled into the hallway and put his hand to his eyes to shield them from the light. He looked up as he was halfway down the hallway and saw a familiar blue-eyed drummer coming toward him.

"Hi, Mike," said the drummer with a smile and a nod.

"Hi, Ringo," replied Mike as they passed each other.

Mike walked to the hall closet and was rooting through the blankets when he froze. Ringo? His eyes widened to the point where he thought they were going to fall out of his head. He turned around slowly, not knowing what to expect. He saw an empty hallway. He left the hall closet open and dashed into Davy and Peter's room.

"Davy? Davy!!" Mike whispered frantically, and looked over to make sure Peter was still asleep.

The Englishman stirred, but didn't bother to open his eyes. "What is it, Mike?"

"Th- th- th- there- there's-" Mike stuttered, not able to force his stubborn tongue to articulate the words that already sounded ridiculous.

"Whoa, Mike," Davy interrupted Mike's valiant effort to create speech, "Just slow down, take it easy. I'm not going anywhere."

Mike exhaled and looked skyward as if asking for heavenly assistance. "I s-saw a Beatle in the hallway..."

Davy sighed. "So hit it with a newspaper."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Not THAT kind of a beetle! I mean the moptop kind!"

"Oh, yeah, those. They're all over the place. I called them over because I figured we needed someone to look after us since our whole house has got this bug. They said they'd all already had it, except for...

"Wait-wait a minute," Mike narrowed his eyes and looked at Davy from the side. "You're telling me I'm NOT hallucinating?" he asked, clarifying Davy's reaction. He had fully expected Davy to be on the phone to the hospital at this point.

"No, man, you're fine," Davy chuckled inwardly at the thought of how wide Mike's eyes must have gotten when he first saw one of them.

Mike glanced in Davy's mirror. He was unshaven, unshowered and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair had adopted the "hurricane" look, and his robe hung unevenly on his shoulders. "Davy, man, I wish you'd told me you were asking people over. We're not exactly at our best."

John Lennon casually leaned his back up against the wall outside of Davy's room, eavesdropping. He lit a cigarette, bent one knee and planted one boot firmly on the wall behind him, greaser-style.

Presently he was approached by Paul McCartney, who glanced at the cigarette and then at John. "They don't have any ashtrays, John," Paul informed his bandmate.

John smirked. "That's what sinks are for, Paulie," he replied, and took a long draw on his cigarette.

Paul rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Johnny, give it up," he prodded, and held his hand out, thumb and forefinger poised to receive it.

"Yes, mummy," John responded, with bitter sarcasm and a sneer. Nevertheless, he handed it over. Paul turned to go, and John quickly made a face at him behind his back. Paul looked over his shoulder with a devilish grin, raised his eyebrows, and drew on John's cigarette. "Stole yer ciggie," he teased. John grinned and pounced toward Paul, knocking him to the floor, where they mock-wrestled until they heard raised voices. They froze, listening intently.

First came Davy. "Yeah? Well, I was just trying to help!" he defended himself angrily.

And then came Mike. "And I guess 'Mean Ol' Mike' is too incapable these days to see that!" Mike said, and stormed out into the hallway, stopping when he saw John lying on Paul in the floor. His eyebrows drew together and he shook his head. "I don't wanna know," he said as he passed. Mike snatched a pillow from the hall closet and disappeared hastily into the guest room at the end of the hall, slamming the door behind him.

"I was afraid of this," John remarked, eyeing the closed door with concern.

Paul looked at John for a moment, puzzled, then grew impatient and gave him a shove. "Get off me," he said, and John complied. They both got clumsily to their feet and rushed into Davy and Peter's room to survey the damage. But George and Ringo had beaten them to it. The argument had drained all of Davy's strength; he lay miserably and listlessly in bed. His face was uncharacteristically pale, and his skin glistened with feverish perspiration. Ringo gently sponged Davy's face with a cold washrag. Ringo was kneeling; he had given his chair to Micky, who was holding a softly crying Peter. Peter had been upset by the exchange he had witnessed, after which Davy had all but collapsed. Micky had come in, knowing that Peter would need someone "in the family" to calm him down. Peter was in a state; his symptoms had been agitated by his distress, and the crying wasn't helping either. Micky could do nothing except hold on. George draped a blanket around Micky's shoulders. Micky was shivering steadily, and was drawing a bit of comfort from the embrace as well. Had he not been so sick, he would have been angry with Mike for having such an argument in front of Peter.

"Cor," was Paul's reaction to scene before him.

John felt a sharp flash of hot emotion and narrowed his eyes. Paul looked at John questioningly, sensing his friend's change in mood. John's jaw tensed. "Stay here," he commanded. And for once, Paul obeyed as John turned swiftly and left the room.

TBC... ahhh maaaaan, it takes forever to format these...

[Raining Strawberry]

(Finally found a moment to go back and post the rest of this! There is more sneezing in this section. Personally I think this one is the best, sneezing-wise... however, it does show that the author may not have been quite so interested in the Monkees' plight as his/her namesake's... )

John opened the guest room door without knocking, stepped in, and closed it behind him. He looked a startled but indignant Mike Nesmith straight in the eye and shot a question at him. "Exactly what in the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily, but did not shout.

Mike curled his upper lip menacingly. "Excuse me, did you knock??" his words were biting and laced with an irritated condescension.

"Shurrup, Nesmith, I'm tryin' to save your arse!" John commanded, visibly agitated. He placed a hand on his hip and another on his chin, thoughtfully. Slowly, he took a few aimless steps away from the door.

Mike looked at the Beatle with an odd mix of dumbfounded incredulity and fascinated amusement. Someone had actually told him to shut up! But Mike did not shut up. This man was obviously out of his mind, and someone needed to put him straight. "Look, I don't care who you are, you can't just come in-"

"Do you have ANY idea what you've done?!" John demanded. He shook his head, "I expected more from you."

"Listen here, Lennon! I'll have you know that we are getting along just fine without you and all your wisdom," Mike snarled bitterly, "In fact, you can take all of your wisdom and sho-"

"Peter is crying," John interrupted matter-of-factly.

Mike's facial expression softened as all traces of anger melted from his psyche. "Peter?" he repeated in a tone so tender John scarcely believed it had come from the same man. He wondered for a moment if he himself sounded like that when he was worried about Ringo. Just then, Mike moved to get out of bed, but John was at his bedside in a flash. He held a firm hand against the Texan's chest and looked him straight in the eye with an unwavering, narrow-eyed gaze. "No." John commanded with every bit of authority he could muster. He was determined to let the Beatles handle this one. And then he noticed Mike's eyes. John had been looking at Mike's eyes, but not really *seeing* them. And now he saw them. Eyes with a deep, pleading, instinctual need to nurture such as John had never seen. This time it was John's expression that softened, and his hand lowered slowly. He knew then that he *didn't* sound like that when he was worried about Ringo. It simply wasn't in him. And somewhere, in the infinite reaches of his heart, John was humbled by the great devotion and concern emanating from this man. "All right, Michael," he surrendered, moving to the side, "Go to him, then."

Mike shot out of the room and said nothing to John on the way except, "Call me Mike."

John felt himself smiling a bit. He followed Mike into Peter and Davy's room. Mike looked from Davy to Peter, decided that Peter was in worse shape, and approached Micky, who hadn't even seen him come in. Micky felt a pair of hands rest gently on his shoulders and looked up groggily. He was holding Peter to his chest, trying to ease his friend's distress. Relief crossed Micky's face as he recognised Mike. But then uneasiness crept into his expression; this was all Mike's doing, anyway. Mike saw anger flash in Micky's eyes before the drummer turned away.

"Aw, Mick, now, come on, man..." Mike prodded.

John jerked his head toward the door and motioned for the other Beatles to follow him out of the room. Paul and George realised they were in the way and left with John. When Ringo didn't budge, John raised his eyebrows questioningly. Ringo held up his hand. He knew what he was doing. The three filed out, and the only remaining Beatle knelt beside Micky and looked up at him. Micky looked into Ringo's soft blue eyes, not knowing what to expect.

"Nobody likes to be sad," Ringo stated simply. Micky felt his anger dissipate. He couldn't argue with that. It was the truth. And with that, Ringo rose up off the floor, patted Micky's shoulder supportively, and went to join his bandmates.

The three Beatles were in the living room, awaiting Ringo's descent of the spiral staircase. Immediately, they all gathered around him to ask how it went.

"They're gonna be fine," Ringo assured them. The others smiled.

"Howdja do it, Ritchie?" John asked as he playfully punched Ringo in the shoulder.

"Yeah, whadja say?" Paul put in, curious.

"Not much," Ringo answered truthfully. That was all they were going to get out of him, and they knew it.

George smirked and spoke out of the side of his mouth. "How come nobody ever congratulates me for not saying much? I've been the quiet one for a long time and it's never done anybody a bit of good..."

"Maybe you need more practise," John hinted.

Micky gradually looked up at Mike. Mike's eyes probed Micky's face and then penetrated his eyes. Micky could almost feel the emotions contained in that gaze hitting him in the face. There was no anger, no rage, no trace of the man he had been earlier. Only an intense regret of past actions and the familiar Nesmith protective instinct were present. Mike needed to comfort Peter. Micky felt the words as if he had heard them: "He needs me." Mike had spoken to him without opening his mouth. And he was right. Micky, astonished at the sheer power of Mike's emotions, slowly released Peter to let Mike take his place as caregiver. Peter looked up during the transition, confused, tearful, and sick. Mike sat on the edge of the bed and took the distraught musician into his arms. "Why did you yell, Mike? I don't like that," Peter blurted out between gasps for air. He had stopped crying long enough to catch his breath. Mike brushed away the tears from Peter's cheeks. "I dunno, shotgun. I think I was scared that someone else was going to take care of you guys. I was afraid they were gonna do somethin wrong. But it's okay now." And with that, Peter buried his face in Mike's chest and sobbed. Mike gently stroked Peter's hair, calming his friend with a soothing tone of voice. Micky watched the scene in amazement; it seemed as though Mike was emitting comfort. Micky himself suddenly felt tranquil, as if his anxiety had been washed away. And then he was nothing but sleepy. He looked toward Mike, who had already noted his drowsiness. "Go to bed, Mick," Mike told the drummer quietly. Micky nodded sluggishly and was abruptly reminded by his body that he was still sick. He sneezed twice, and the force made his head swim.

"Ugh," he moaned as Mike handed him a tissue, "I'm gonna sleep this off if it takes me the rest of my life."

A few minutes later, Mike felt Peter relax. The Texan breathed a sigh of relief and laid the half-asleep bassist back in his bed. The corners of Mike's mouth turned up slightly as he watched Peter drift back into blissful slumber. He tenderly laid a light blanket over his childlike companion and rose from the edge of the bed. Arms folded, he watched Peter in fond reflection for a moment before his thoughts turned to Davy. His face fell as he remembered the hurtful things he had said to his friend just hours before. He turned toward Davy's side of the room, where the Englishman lay. Mike did not run away from his mistakes. He approached Davy, who had his back turned on his leader. Mike was unable to see Davy's stubborn scowl as he knelt next to Davy's bed. "Davy?" Davy tensed his jaw in obstinacy. "Davy, I'm sorry..." Mike drawled gently. Hidden from Mike, tears welled up in Davy's eyes. But still he didn't stir, nor did his expression change. Mike became troubled at his friend's unresponsiveness.

"Aw, come on, man! You know I ain't been thinkin' right since everybody got sick! And I know I still got no excuse for what I've done to you, but you could at least talk to me if nothin' else." He paused. "I love you, Davy." Davy's expression softened and a tear fell into his pillow. He said nothing.Mike sighed. "Well, no use in me standin' here talkin' to the wall, makin' fools outta the both of us. I'm goin' back to bed."

MEANWHILE, DOWNSTAIRS...

"How much longer... is this... gonna take?" John said through clenched teeth. He was struggling to maintain his balance on a bed with Paul perched on his shoulders.

"Sh!" Paul reprimanded, ear to the bottom of a glass, the rim of which was pressed to the ceiling, picking up Mike's one-sided conversation on the floor above. His expression became grim when he heard Mike's closing remarks and his subsequent exit. "Damn," he growled in irritation as he lowered the glass.

"What?? What's going on?" The others prodded eagerly.

"Now Davy's not budging. And Michael's left the room, so it doesn't look like..." Paul's voice trailed off as he adopted a curious expression.

"Doesn't look like what?" Ringo asked.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose and gritted his teeth. "I- I'm gonna... ah- Hut-CHOO!"

The force tumbled both him and John to the mattress below, amidst great commotion. "Bloody 'ell, Paul!" John complained, dusting himself off, then looked at his companion. He noticed some faint circles under his friend's eyes that hadn't been there earlier. "Hey, man, you okay?"

"Yeah, sorry about that." Paul replied, and John thought he noted a hint of congestion, "Just bein' up there in the cobwebs an' all that."

John nodded and climbed off the side of the bed. Paul didn't budge from his seated position. John leaned over, concerned. "Hey, Paul, you hurt?"

"Hurt? No, I'm fine. Just a little.. ah- ah-choo!" Paul sniffled. "Tired, I guess." He stifled a third and then a fourth sneeze in the crook of his elbow. "Cor, I can't seem to cut this out!"

LATER, UPSTAIRS...

Mike awoke to a warm wave. He tried to shove a few layers of blankets to the foot of the bed but noticed his arm was pinned. He opened his eyes fully and found that Davy had stolen it and was snoozing soundly next to him. He smiled. Davy really looked angelic when he slept, all curled into the fetal position. But today he looked especially endearing, as this was obviously his way of accepting Mike's apology. Mike's smile widened with amusement as he tried in vain to loosen Davy's vice grip on his arm. Davy roused and looked up at Mike with affection before his expression sobered and he lowered his head in regret. "Mike, I'm sorry I didn't talk to you earlier," Davy admitted tearfully.

"Aw, Davy, don't worry about that. I'm just glad you let me know you forgive me. You sure made me sweat, though. That ol' Texas temper of mine never got me nothin' but trouble." Mike's tone softened. "For a while there I thought it might have cost me the best friends I ever had."

A brief calm silence filled the air. Davy drew in a shaky breath. "I love you too, Mike." Davy nuzzled into Mike's chest and cried quietly. Mike laid a comforting hand to Davy's head and fought back his own tears. Never had he heard such a loving comment from a friend. But, then again, only Davy had received such a loving comment from Mike. A single tear coursed its way through unfamiliar territory down Mike's cheek.

Mike made his way down the stairs, having showered, shaved and dressed for the first time in, well, way too long for Mike. An hour before, he had lulled Davy to sleep in his own bed. He still had a long way to go before he felt "well", but for the most part, Mike didn't believe in lying around. He intended to get the pad back on track. And to thank four special someones for their help. He stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, unable to immediately locate the Fab Four. Shrugging his shoulders and feeling tired again, he slumped down on the couch and pulled his hat over his eyes. A few minutes later, for what seemed like the thousandth time that week, the sound of relentless sneezing accosted him. He looked up to see a ragged Paul McCartney being led out of the bathroom by the other three Beatles. Paul was wearing his white, long-sleeved pajamas, and was complaining about having been forced into them by his bandmates. Paul also complained about having the cuffs of his sleeves buttoned and how that bothered him. And how he couldn't find his black-and-white striped robe. And how cold it was in the house.

In fact, Mike was sure that Paul had the unenviable talent to gripe about multiple things at once. George and Ringo became bored now that their help was no longer needed, and disappeared into the back bedrooms to explore. Paul scuffed into the living room and coughed deeply a few times. He looked up to see Mike on the couch. His sense of meet-the-press British dignity returned in a flash. "Oh, hullo. Excuse the appearance, won't you?"

Mike stood up with a smile and offered the empty sofa to Paul. The Beatle gladly took him up on the offer; he was feeling the Death Flu set in fast. "Ohh, thanks, man," Paul said gratefully, "You guys are right, this flu takes the micky outta ya."

He lay down heavily on the couch and pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to mollify his intensifying headache.

Mike noted the move as he had used it many times himself in the past few days. "You, uh, need some aspirin?"

Paul began to nod when his expression changed. "No..." he replied slowly, his breath becoming shaky, "I need a Kleenex..." he said, gesturing at Mike frantically. Before the Texan could react, Paul buried his face in both hands and sneezed so wetly that Mike cringed.

John busted out laughing and Paul glared up at him, but didn't move his hands. "Got a problem there, Paulie?"

Paul's retort was too muffled for John to hear as he headed toward the bathroom to clean up. Mike shook his head. "You guys," he chuckled, "You're somethin' else."

"Yeah, me an' Paul, we're good mates. Sometimes he's a bit full of himself, but I know I ain't exactly a prize meself, so... Mike?" John noticed his newfound friend had assumed a somewhat glazed-over expression. "Mike?!" John's tone rose in fear.

"I feel kinda... is it cold in here?" Mike's eyes were unfocused. He felt himself break out in a cold sweat. "I think I'm comin' down with somethin'," he noted. John watched in dismay as Mike put a hand over his eyes and promptly collapsed.

[Raining Strawberry]

(Alright, final section. No sneezing, but now we see where the story was left unfinished. As I said earlier, not a happy spot. So if anyone would like to continue it or merely suggest an ending, please feel free to do so. Thank you for reading!)

The quick-thinking Beatle caught Mike as his knees buckled and lowered him gently to the ground. Images of what Stu's last moments must have been like flooded his mind as he knelt on the floor holding Mike's head in his hands. Panic washed over him and he called out for help in an uncharacteristically frail voice, throat constricted in fear. "Ringo! George! Anybody!!" There was a clambering as Ringo and George dashed out of the back bedrooms. John looked down. Mike was pale but flushed, and had started shivering steadily. "Mike, what's the matter? Mike!"

"I, uh..." Mike's breathing was heavy as he attempted to answer, "I dunno... I'm so cold..."

A thought occurred to John, and he touched Mike's cheek lightly. He pulled his hand back with a start. "Oh, Jesus fookin' Christ!" John had never even seen Ringo's temperature this high. He noticed George and Ringo standing over him.

"John! What's happened?" He looked up at them, his face blank with incomprehension, his eyes wide with fear.

Ringo chanced a guess. "Did you check him for fever?" John nodded slowly, his eyes returning to Mike. "Yeah, yeah, I did. Ringo, he's burning up! We need to call a doctor or something--"

"I got it." George was way ahead of his bandmate. He stood in the kitchen holding the base of the resident red phone, earpiece cradled on his shoulder, and dialed the number labeled "Dr. Peterson" that had been taped on the psychedelic fridge. Ringo took off to find a bit of cold water to cool down their patient. John snatched a pillow off of the sofa and slid it under Mike's head. The shivering increased at an alarming rate. John leaned over the Texan. "Mike? Mike? You still with us?" Mike's eyes opened and, for a moment, seemed to focus on John before they rolled backward and convulsions wracked the thin man's frame.

"Shit!" John almost gasped the word, and realised it hadn't just come from him. He looked up to see Paul, slack-jawed, returning from his preening session. Paul's confusion as to what had happened went unanswered. All he was greeted with was a string of feverishly grumbled expletives; John spat them out under his breath as if possessed. He turned to look over his shoulder. "George! Where's that doctor of theirs?!" He then turned a pleading gaze to Ringo, asking for answers. Ringo, having spent most of his childhood in hospitals, was more or less the M.D. of the group. "Ringo, what's happening to him?"

Ringo shook his head, "I don't understand it, but it looks to me like a..."

"...Fever-induced seizure," George informed them from the kitchen, holding the earpiece to his chest. "Dr. Peterson says to clear the floor around him and turn him on his side. We need to get him to the hospital as soon as we can. Dr. Peterson is going to call us an ambulance and meet us there."

The group willingly commenced to carry out the orders, but suddenly, the convulsions stopped. An apprehensive silence gripped the room for a split second as everyone adjusted to the change in circumstance. John came to his senses first and lowered his ear to Mike's lips. John's face fell as he righted himself in panicked disorientation. "He's not breathing..." The Beatle's voice came in a frightened whisper. He jerked his head around and fixed his gaze on the kitchen. "Dammit, George!" He cried, choking back sobs, "Tell the doctor he's not breathing!!" As John turned once again towards his friend's limp form, he felt thunder roll deep within his chest.

He furrowed his brow as he remembered something his mother had taught him. She had said it might one day save a life. John reached a hand to Mike's face and opened the unconscious Texan's mouth. "You won't die on them, you son of a bitch," he remarked as he lowered his mouth to meet Mike's. Forcing one strong breath after another into the other man's stubborn body, John barely controlled his sobs. After what seemed like an eternity, Mike drew a laboured breath. John all but collapsed onto the floor next to him, breathing shakily, wet streaks down both cheeks. The next few minutes before the ambulance arrived were a blur to everyone. Davy, Peter and Micky received a rude awakening via ambulance siren.

A blur of medical personnel streamed into the pad as the Beatles watched in shock and amazement. They shot rapid-fire questions about what Mike had been doing prior to the seizure, his medical history, if he had been sick before, his family history, etc.

They seemed to attach something to their patient everywhere they could see skin. A mask went over his mouth, a needle into his wrist, a light shone into his eyes, electrodes were strapped to his chest, a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

But above all this, John detected a slight gasp from the upstairs walkway. He was sick with apprehension as he turned his head upward in that direction. Peter, flanked by Micky and Davy, had ambled out in his orange pajamas upon hearing the sirens. He gazed with horror at the scene in the living room below. Jaw agape, the blood drained from his face as he clutched his beloved teddy bear closer to his chest. He was unable to speak, but it was clear that his brain simply screamed one word: "MIKE!"

John's heart sank within his chest. Oh, God. Now what? He refused to panic. First thing's first. "Davy?" Frightened English eyes turned toward John and shone with fever. "These medical guys need to know stuff that I don't have the answers to. Can you fill 'em in for me?" Davy nodded and proceeded down the stairs.

John climbed up the stairs and was greeted with two pairs of worried eyes. Micky, protective hands gripping Peter's shoulders, found his voice. "What happened?" John summed up their condition with one glance and took a deep breath. "I think you guys need to sit down," John answered as he motioned them towards their rooms.

Meanwhile, Davy, Paul, George and Ringo spoke with the ambulance personnel until they had Mike ready to go to the hospital. One of the EMS workers looked at them all. "So who's coming with him?" "I'll go," Ringo answered. He knew Mike's bandmates were in no condition to go anywhere, and he was the expert on hospitals anyway.

Paul leaned over to George. He gestured towards Ringo and said, "Don't you think you oughta go and keep an eye on him?"

George rolled his eyes and whispered, "Why do I always have to babysit Ringo? Can't you do it this time?"

"Aw, come off it! I'm not goin' anywhere with this flu! You must be soft or somethin'!"

George made a low noise in his throat and followed Ringo out the door. Paul and Davy made their way back upstairs, feeling worse with every step. John emerged from Mike and Micky's room, closely followed by Peter and Micky. He was on his way to the staircase to find Ringo to look after the both of them (unaware that two of his bandmates were en route to the hospital) and stopped short when he nearly ran into Paul. Peter and Micky slammed into John from the rear, having followed him too closely. Irritated, John looked over Paul. "Where's Ringo?" He demanded.

"On his way to the hospital with George," Paul answered, uninterested in John's plight.

"What?? Then who's going to take care of all of you?" John exclaimed, eyes widening.

"Aren't you?" Micky asked pitifully from behind John.

John turned in surprise and looked at the Monkee. "I- I can't do that! I don't know how to take care of you guys!"

Peter's eyes filled with tears. "You're gonna leave us alone?! John, I'm scared!" Peter began sniffling. John looked at Paul. Paul sneezed violently, as if to indicate that he was having no part in any of this. He was going to bed, and that was that. He cemented his position by pushing past John and crawling into the guest room bed. John looked from Peter to Micky to Davy, and saw all three of them looking forlorn. They all stared imploringly at him for answers and reassurance. Not knowing what to do, he turned toward the guest room, hoping to strike up a conversation with Paul so he could look preoccupied. The three of them followed one step behind and ran into him when he reached the doorway. John exhaled sharply in exasperation. Paul took the scene in with slight amusement. "Yes, Mother Goose?"

John narrowed his eyes and smirked at Paul. "Oh, you're loving every minute, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Now get your feathered arse out so I can get me sleep."

THE END... for now?...

Edited May 22, 2010 by Raining Strawberry

[obsessed]

Oh this was cute. Makes you wonder... hmmm.

[LovelyLinda]

haha it's funny!

I stumbled over this story for a while.

And I wrote a mail to Paulie as well

Unfortunately the e-mail address isn't up to date

I wish "Paulie" would find our post her and write a better end,

I really don't like the idea of Mike getting into a hospital...

But otherwise it's just such a cute story <3

It was the first I read about the Monkees

[Raining Strawberry]

Yeah, this really does need a better ending! What say we brainstorm one right here, right now?

I vote that we get rid of the part with Mike collapsing. He's still a bit sick, yeah, but he's slowly getting over it. I love Mike, but we need to focus on the other sickies in the house! Peter! Micky! Davy! Paul!

We need more sneezing! Looking back, there is actually relatively little sneezing in the story, though it was on a sneeze fic website. So far it has been very plot-driven, much more so than content-driven. Though Paul does have some nice sneezing action when atop the Beatle-tower (looooved that... blaming the spiderwebs and dust...), but let's get back to the Monkees. There are three lovely victims waiting for some attention.

Uh... at the moment I can't think of anything specifically to do with them, but if either of you (or anyone else) has an idea, just say so and run with it. I think that there is a lot that can be done with this piece, including a prologue, since Mike had already been at his sickest when the story started.

Ideas?

[djcatdj]

the beatles are cool!

[lillian]

I know all of you posted two years ago or more, but I'm rather new, and have been reading and re-reading this story for some time. So my idea for this story would be to spell out more Monkee sneezes! And I quite agree with the getting rid of Mike collapsing. Let's get this back on track!

And I must mention, I AM NOT A GUY! I don't know why it says that...): Maybe I goofed up while I was signing up, idk

Prologue Idea:

"Huh huh-HEPTSHOO ugh..." Mike sniffled and adjusted his green wool hat, which had slipped to the side. His nose was still tingling furiously and he really needed to sneeze again, but alas, it was stuck. Oh how he hated it when this happened. C'mon Mike, get it out already. He thought to himself. The others were going to be back soon, and if they found him like this, off to bed it would be with Mike Nesmith. "Heh...uh...ha...ihhhh..." He tried staring at a light. When that didn't work, he tried blowing his nose. Then he stared at the light again. Just as blue and green spots were beginning to form in front of his eyes, the sneeze came. "Heh...AUSHOO!" He sighed with relief and blew his nose forcefully.

"Mike?" Came a worried voice from the doorway. Oh no, they were back. "Mike, are you okay babe?" He cringed and turned around slowly.

"Hey Micky." He said huskily. Whatever this was, it was getting him down fast.

"Cor Mike, that was some sneeze!" Said Davy, awe in his voice.

"I don't think we've ever heard you sneeze before." Added Peter.

"Well I-" Mike began, but was rudely interrupted by a couple more sneezes, which he attempted to stifle out of embarrassment. "Huh...HNGZ...HEPTchuh...a-ah-huh-okay, I'b dob. Sorry 'bout thad."

"Gesundight." Said Davy, his eyebrows narrowing. Peter was biting his lip nervously. Oh geeze, hope he isn't too worried...Mike thought.

"You don't look too good Mike, maybe you should-" Micky began.

Mike cut him off angrily. "I'b dot sick! Ab I'b DOT goig to bed!" He cringed inwardly at the state of his voice. He was so congested and hoarse. Thinking back, he realized he hadn't been sick since he was sixteen. Mike Nesmith didn't get sick, that was for wimps.

"Tea then?" Peter suggested quietly.

Edited March 23, 2012 by Lynne

[LovelyLinda]

Ahhhh, I love youuu!

I'm so glad someone is writing some Mike!fic <3

What do you think about moving your prologue into the story section and continuing it?

I like it very much so far, there can't be enough sneezysnifflysexy Mike with his lovely stuck sneezes

(Did I tell you that you are driving me crrrrazy with those superhot buildups?)

Pleeeeease let there be mooooore!!!! *puppydogeyes*

By the way, it's "Gesundheit", but never mind

Ohhh and I love Peter being so caring and sweet <3

[lillian]

Well I was thinking this could be the prologue to Death Flu, like you guys were discussing. I just didn't finish because I was exhausted. I was going to go on to make them all force Mike into bed, with some lovely resisting, of course, and then he would realize that his friends were just taking care of him...so in essence, they break through his shield. I tough characters, especially sneezy ones.

Edited March 22, 2012 by Vetinari