Chapter Text
John Lennon’s ashes had been scattered in the ocean forty-four years ago. Today, his body washed up on a dock in Liverpool.
John’s first thought when he came to was that he had for some reason relapsed, engaged in a little too many substances, and had lost memories to it. He didn’t have his glasses on so he couldn’t see much, but he recognised Liverpool, which meant he must have had another Lost Weekend to end up all the way back here. But why?
The last thing he remembered was being shot in the back. A memory that sent all of his nerves into a panic. His heart raced. He smelt blood. He didn’t know what had happened- He didn’t want to die-
John squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think about anything else. He was fine now. He was alive. Everything was okay.
He was left in a daze until he finally came back to himself and his surroundings.
He realised he was naked as his hands slid away from the places the bullets had landed, which had by now scarred over. How much time had he lost?
The strangest part was that he felt completely fine, physically. He didn’t feel hungover, and he didn’t feel any kind of withdrawals. He had never felt this good. So why couldn’t he remember how he had gotten here if he had apparently been sober?
The only thing really wrong was the chill that was seeping through his bones. At least that meant it was still winter, so he hadn’t lost too much time.
John just started walking out of the dock. He had to find clothes, he had to find a phone, and he had to find his way back home.
People stared at him as he walked, but fortunately no one approached him. Someone yelled at him to put some clothes on. He yelled back that he was looking for some.
Things were different in the city. This was expected; he hadn’t been here for nine years. Though, he hadn’t expected it to change so drastically. Not only were there different buildings, but even the people looked strange. A lot of them were walking around staring at something in their hands.
John was stopped in his tracks by a yellow submarine on a brick wall. He squinted to read the words on the wall. This building was home to The Beatles Story exhibition. That seemed like something they would have had to have John’s permission to make, but he couldn’t remember being asked. Perhaps, it had happened during the time he had no memory of.
John was getting increasingly worried about his memory loss. Something was seriously wrong. At least during his Lost Weekend he had had snippets of memories, but this time it was a complete blackout. And with the way everything seemed wildly different, he had the funniest feeling that it had been years.
John came across a clothing shop that had some clothes hanging outside. The clothing style in Liverpool seemed to have changed while he was away too. When no one was nearby, he nicked some trousers and a jumper, and quickly put them on. Shoes would have been nice, but he couldn’t see any around, so the chill ran through his feet.
He walked off wearing a hoodie with a logo on it that he didn’t recognise, and slim jeans.
People weren’t staring at him now that he was wearing clothes. Well, he couldn’t see their eyes, but no more heads turned. He blended into the background. John wasn’t sure if he liked that or hated it.
The sun began to set, and it was getting colder. He wanted to tuck Sean into bed and read him a book. He wanted to cuddle Yoko as they went to sleep.
John soon found a red telephone box. He scrounged around for coins on the ground, and then dialled ‘100’ for the operator so he could request an international connection. When that didn’t work, he dialled in his home number instead.
The call didn’t go through. The number was invalid. John’s heart fell to the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what to do.
He tried Paul’s number, and the same thing happened. He wished he knew the address of Paul’s farm.
There were no more coins lying around, so that was that.
John could ask around for help, but that felt like a last resort. The media would have a field day if they found out about the amnesiac John Lennon who had washed up back in Liverpool, completely naked.
This all felt like a bad dream. He wanted to wake up. Except some part of him knew this couldn’t be a dream, and this couldn’t be a trip. Something horrible had happened and he didn’t know what to do about it.
But as hopeless as John felt, he wouldn’t let himself give up because he had to get back to his wife and five-year-old son. Then again, Sean could very well be older now. John batted that thought away.
He left the phone box, and continued walking. He came across a news agency, and he was intrigued by the colours on the newspapers. He picked one up, and did a double take when he saw the year. 2024? That couldn’t be right. He didn’t feel 84.
He felt his face, and it felt usual to him. He had middle-aged wrinkles, not elderly wrinkles. The year must have been printed wrong.
Though, the rest of the date felt right. December 9th. Of course it was the ninth; that number wouldn’t leave him alone.
John walked into the news agency, and approached the person at the front desk. The person boredly asked how they could help.
“Is this date printed correctly?” John asked, pointing at the paper.
The person looked at it, looked to the side, and looked back at John. “Yep, that’s today’s date.”
“You’re telling me it’s 2024?”
“Yep.”
“It’s the 21st century?”
“Are you going to buy something or what?”
Without saying anything else as his thoughts spun around, John left the paper and the shop.
Though he often thought he was special, logically he knew the whole of Liverpool wouldn’t pull this elaborate prank on him. Then again, how else could this have happened? It still didn’t feel real.
More importantly, even though it was still only the early afternoon, he would need to find somewhere to spend the night soon or he was going to freeze to death.
He spotted the Liverpool Cathedral not too far away. It was slightly disappointing to John that those still existed in the 21st century, unless of course it had been transformed into something else.
He wasn’t sure if he would rather ruin his reputation by asking a random stranger for help, or ruin it by going to a cathedral for help. Undeniably, the world would be better without religion. But also undeniably, the church was pretty good at helping those in need, and it wasn’t as if he was going to participate in the religion.
He could also go to a police station, but the idea of going to the pigs for help made him even more uncomfortable than the thought of going to the bible thumpers.
So, off John went in the direction of the cathedral.
The cathedral was massive, and inside, the space and decorations were stunning.
There was a little sign John squinted at and he saw it was a crossed out cigarette that said ‘no smoking’. That was fascinating, but churches were weird like that. It was then that John noticed his body hadn’t been screaming at him for a hit of nicotine, but now the thought made him start craving it.
He shook the thoughts away and looked around for a staff member.
He approached someone with a brown name tag on. This clergy member was called Amy. As uncomfortable as John felt, he pushed through it for his family.
“Hey,” John said. “Quick question: is it 2024?”
“Uh, yes,” Amy replied. “It isn’t the new year just yet.”
“You’re serious? You’re not just being paid to say that?”
“No?”
John sighed. “In that case, I was wondering if you could help me, y’know, find some place to stay for the night? I don’t have any money on me…”
Amy smiled at him. “Of course! I could refer you to The Whitechapel Centre if you’d like.”
“Thank you. Or y’know, alternatively… do you happen to know where Paul McCartney or Ringo Starr or George Harrison live?”
“Well, no, but you could tour The Beatles’ childhood homes.”
John internally scoffed at the idea of that. It felt awfully commercial and invasive, even worse than everything else he had seen around Liverpool so far.
“Speaking of, you look very similar to John Lennon,” Amy continued warmly.
John chuckled. “Do I? Must be because I am John Lennon.”
Amy laughed. “If he’d miraculously survived, I think he’d look a bit older than you.”
John paused. His heart thumped in his chest. He surely hadn’t heard that correctly.
“Wait, what do you mean ‘if he’d survived’? What happened to me? Him?”
“Well… He, well, he died in 1980.”
“I what?”
John felt sick to his stomach at the thought. It felt like the scars on his back were burning. For a moment, he was lost. He felt nothing. His thoughts were far away. He didn’t know who he was, and the body below him didn’t belong to him.
“Are you okay, sir?” asked the person in front of him.
John dug his nails into the skin of his arms as he slowly integrated back into himself.
The fact that he was dead was the only thing that made sense. It explained why he couldn’t remember a thing. He had died, and somehow, he had come back to life decades later.
“I’m the second coming,” John muttered, a slight laugh to his voice.
Amy tried to laugh along, but she was now unsure if John was joking. “According to the Bible, the second coming isn’t really supposed to go like this, but-”
John shook his head, more present now, but at the same time, mildly manic.
“No, no, not of Jesus. Jesus can suck my cock. I mean I’m the second coming of John Lennon,” he said this very loudly and it echoed around the spacious nave.
Amy took a step back. “Ah, sir, are you sure you’re feeling okay? It- it sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”
“No, I’m not doing great,” John admitted.
“Would you like to come this way then, sir?” Amy asked.
John hesitated, but he followed her.
He was brought over to some other clergy members. Amy spoke to them, and then they started speaking to him about being referred to a mental health service or using one of the church services for his supposed ‘psychotic break’. John refused, and there wasn’t anything they could do about that since he wasn’t endangering anyone. So instead, they took him to The Whitechapel Centre, which apparently provided lots of services for homeless people. Because that was what he was now.
It was already pitch black as John was driven through the streets of Liverpool in a modern car. He hadn’t even thought about putting his seatbelt on at first, but the car had beeped as they started to drive, so the clergy people had made John put the seatbelt on. It was fascinating.
Once they were there, John sat inside The Whitechapel Centre for the intake process, beside a Christmas tree. He quickly realised he would have to lie if he didn’t want to be seen as insane.
So, his name was John McCarthy. He had been born on the 9th of September 1984, because being born in the ninth month was better. He had recently lost his job, and with no income he hadn’t been able to pay his rent, so he was evicted. He had sold all his things, and ended up with no money and no possessions.
As welcoming as the environment was, John couldn’t settle. His mind was whirring. He still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he had died - presumably been murdered. He didn’t understand why he had come back to life. And mostly, all he wanted right now was to be with Sean and Yoko. It hit him that he didn’t even know if they were alive right now.
Then a horrible thought wiggled its way into his mind - what if Yoko had killed herself after John died? Surely she wouldn’t. She had other things to live for. But he couldn’t pay attention to the intake person while that thought was looming large.
He blurted out, “is Y- Do you know how old Yoko Ono is right now?”
The intake person raised his eyebrows. “Uh- No, but I could look it up for you once we’ve finished your intake.”
“Can you just tell me if she’s alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive.”
John leaned back in his chair in relief. That was one worry off his mind.
“What about The Beatles? Are Paul and George and Ringo alive?” John asked.
“I can see this is important to you, but I’d really like to focus on your intake right now. Would it be okay if we spoke about this afterwards?”
It wasn’t quite as much of an urgent matter, so he agreed to talk about it afterwards.
So once everything had been set up, John asked again.
“So are George and Paul and Ringo alive? And what about Sean Ono Lennon and Julian Lennon? What are they up to these days?” John asked.
For a few seconds, the person typed away on what John had learnt was a modern computer.
“Yes, Paul, Ringo, Sean, and Julian are all alive,” the person said.
John was happy, for a second. Then his face fell when the words processed.
“And George? What about him?”
“He sadly passed away in 2001.”
John’s heart nearly stopped in his chest. He couldn’t find his mouth for a moment.
“What from?” John asked, almost hesitantly.
“The place you’ll be living has a computer. Would you like to look up the answers to your questions yourself when you’re there?”
“Uh- yeah, alright.”
John ended up being brought to the Ann Fowler Lifehouse, which he would be allowed to stay at for up to six months. He hoped he would be back in the US long before then. He had also been booked for an eye appointment so that he could get new prescription glasses. The appointment was in a whole week, but John hoped he would be able to see decently enough in the time being; he had spent much of his life with naked eyes anyway.
As John stepped into his new room, his heart felt full at this knowledge of how kind humanity could be. He had nothing, and yet he had been given something. Even if the room was small and the wallpaper was peeling, it was something ; it was better than some places he’d stayed in the early days of The Beatles, too.
He was sharing a room with someone else. A guy with curly red hair and a beard.
John introduced himself, and the guy said his name was Danny. The interaction was brief because John was exhausted, and Danny wanted to go watch the movie that was playing in the TV lounge.
When John was alone, and he laid on his bed, all the weight of his situation crashed down on him.
This was really real.
John was dead, but he wasn’t dead. George was dead, and he was probably off having a lovely time with Krishna, never to return. John’s children were grown adults now - older than John - and he had missed both of them growing up. Worst of all, John had no idea where anyone he loved was, and he had no way of contacting them.
It felt as if John’s world had ended. It had to have been some kind of cruel joke to send him back here like this. Then again, it wasn’t as if the universe could work against you. The universe worked for you, in John’s experience. So, maybe, he could get back to his loved ones if he wanted to. Maybe he had cheated death so he could spend more time with them, and that was a gift.
He looked at the fuzzy world outside his window; the car park across the road, lit by street lamps. He formulated a plan in his head. He was going to work out how to use a computer and ask the computer his questions. Then once he knew where Yoko lived, he was going to get some money no matter what it took - whether he had to work, beg or steal - so he could get back to her. And from there, everything would be right in the world again.
Yoko may have been 91 years old now, but - although John just couldn’t picture what she would look like in his head - she was still the woman he loved, and that would never change.
It was only about 7pm. John should have been at home, making sure Sean had his daily 7:30 bath. But instead, Sean was fully independent now, in the blink of an eye.
Despite the early hour, John was so tired he quickly fell asleep.