At the London Rose Garden Hotel, Michael's early arrival did not draw any gathering of fans.
The news had been tightly sealed, allowing Michael to finally get some proper rest in his room.
He was exhausted. He had still been rehearsing yesterday afternoon, then flown to London that night. He had been unable to sleep at all on the plane, and when he arrived at the hotel at one in the morning, he had barely wanted to do anything. Lying in bed, he was consumed by anxiety.
"I'm too tired, Morey. I need sleep," Michael pleaded with his doctor.
His private physician, Morey, asked, "Why were you so determined to come to London?"
Michael said, "This is my final concert. My health is too poor, and I don't want this concert to disappoint my fans. I had to come early to get used to the venue."
Morey neither agreed nor disagreed. "You're addicted to Propofol. I haven't given you an injection for two days. You should quit it, Michael..."
Michael closed his eyes in silent acknowledgment. Morey then injected him with 10 milligrams of Diazepam to help him fight his anxiety.
Half an hour later, Michael was still lying awake in bed, unable to sleep through his anxiety. He suddenly opened his eyes and instructed, "Morey, there may be fans coming to see me during the day. My assistant Williams will select representatives from among them. If I'm asleep by then, have them wait."
"You're this exhausted and you still want to see your fans?" Morey asked.
"That's why I need sleep now, Morey," Michael said.
"You took Diazepam, and it had no effect at all," Morey said.
With his eyes closed, Michael said, "You have a way, don't you?"
"Of course." Morey smiled and injected 2 milligrams of Lorazepam