They came that night -- John and Mike were coming the next morning, and Eric had gone missing again, and it... it seemed right to go now, before anyone else. David had said they could, and Graham was still conscious -- and Terry had to see.

Alison drove, and it was good that she was at the wheel because Terry was feeling strange and separate. It was dark outside, late evening. His thoughts ran circles around themselves. It was as if there were two Terrys inside his head, one that was him and one that was... not the same him. The other him was wondering loudly what was going on, where he was, what was happening -- which was all ridiculous, because Terry knew what was happening, and where he was going: He and Alison were going to Maidstone, and Graham Chapman was dying.

Oh. That, said the other Terry, and became silent again.

David met them at the entryway of the hospital, and led them to Graham's bedside. Terry had never got on with David -- not in the virulent sort of way David and John didn't get on, which was the most entertaining part of any of the gang's most recent get-togethers, but rather in the way of two men who didn't have much in common but were compelled to be friendly regardless. Terry supposed he would like David if he had to sit down with him and actually talk, but he'd never felt the urge to put it to the test.

All of which made it damned awkward now to follow behind him and say, "I'm so, so sorry."

David shrugged. "He's not gone yet," he said. His voice, always a bit nervous, seemed to have an added layer of strain. Unsurprisingly.

He pushed open a final door and waved them into the room. Terry went in, Alison behind him, and stared at what mankind's rapacious brute of a cousin was doing to Graham. His friend.

Rapacious brute. That was one of Graham's phrases. From... yes, from Biarritz. Fifteen years back at this point. The best time he'd ever had with Graham, and one of the most memorable writing jags he'd ever experienced

What? said that other Terry, but Terry ignored that.

"Hello," Graham whispered, and smiled. He looked dreadful, not at all like the hedonistic Christ -- like Brian before they'd thought of Brian -- not at all like he'd been in France. It was all wrong.

Terry stepped forward and touched Graham's hand, very lightly. "Hallo," he said. "You look a damn sight worse than you did in Biarritz."

Graham looked confused. "What?"

Terry pulled back, and quickly looked at David. "Good God, his memory?"

David frowned. "Is fine," he said. "When was Gray ever in Biarritz?"

"Surely you remember," Terry said. "The summer of '74. A week's jaunt. Writing."

David shook his head. Terry looked to Alison. She was staring. "You didn't leave the country," Alison said slowly. "Except Scotland, for the filming. Sally was too young, I didn't want you going anywhere."

Terry looked at the pair of them, then back to Graham.

The hospital room's windows were black and wide.

"Never Biarritz," Graham said. "Never wrote together." He smiled sadly. "Shame, that. Wish I could rewrite history now."