So, I threw this story together more quickly than I've ever written before, but that's mostly because it's based very tightly on the novel "Five Feet Apart" by Rachael Lippincott. All credit for plot goes to her, of course. I changed only the names of the main characters and a few minor details to fit this story into the Sherlock universe. Also, the nature of the book has forced me to do something I've never done before: write Johnlock. In all of my other stories, they have a strict bromance/friendship-to-end-all-other-friendships, but here things get a little different. Now, I didn't go crazy or anything. In terms of the degree of intimacy, think Disney movie. Regardless, I found it very useful for my versatility as a writer to do something new, and I hope you enjoy reading.

Chapter 1:

Take a deep breath. That's what people always say when they're trying to calm someone down, whether from panic, excitement, or rage. For most people, it works; it forces them to focus on something that rarely requires any attention at all, therefore diverting their brainpower from whatever it was they were freaking out about. But it doesn't work for me. Primarily because breathing isn't necessarily so automatic. If I were to make a pie chart of all the things I think about on a daily basis, breathing would take up a pretty sizeable chunk—alongside reminders to take medication to ease breathing, fears of missing out on important things because of breathing (or lack thereof), and worries about inevitably stopping breathing one day.

I have no intention of stopping anytime soon, which is why I'm settling in for yet another extended hospital stay. I'm supposed to be preparing for a ski trip with my mates James and Mike and the rest of our school class, but a persistent sore throat and fever have forced me to make other plans. Which sucks, because I'm the one who planned the whole thing, but at this point in my life I'm kinda used to disappointment. Cystic fibrosis always gets the final say on what I can and can't do.

Yep, cystic fibrosis has been my 'buzzword' since before I could even pronounce it correctly. One would think that a buildup of mucus in the lungs wouldn't be such a big deal, but I can avow that it is, in fact, quite a huge deal. Not just because it clogs everything up, but also because certain somebodies get trapped in the stuff like it's quicksand. Bacteria are the nemesis of every kid with CF. If it weren't for bacteria, I'd be off having fun like a teenager is supposed to.

Instead, I'm reacquainting myself with the hospital and unpacking my things. I have it down to a science now, and I pull everything out and sort it while practically on autopilot, trying not to let myself focus on all the fun I'll miss over the next few weeks. I don't even notice the objects I'm removing until I stumble upon the drawing. My sister Harry made this drawing for me ages ago—a pair of lungs made, not of alveoli and bronchi, but of flowers and stars. It represents the ultimate goal of all CF kids: healthy lungs. Many hope for it and never achieve it, but some are lucky enough to climb the transplant list and be granted more time by some late good Samaritan. Right now, I sit somewhere on that list, patiently waiting my turn until there's nobody left who's sicker than I am.

I go through a few more photographs of me and Harry from the past couple years. Some were taken during various hospital visits, others on holidays or on the occasional trip we managed to take somewhere exciting. I've always wanted to see the Sistine Chapel, but we never got around to it. I pin the lung drawing up over the head of the bed and stare at it a bit longer, as if I can speed up the process by sheer force of will. I just have to keep myself alive until I can get those new lungs. Shouldn't be too hard, right?

Before I can mull over that thought for too long, there's a knock at the door. "Come in," I chime robotically, assuming it's a nurse checking in on my progress. Instead, James and Mike enter the room.

"Why are hospitals so difficult to navigate?" James asks. "It took us ages to find this place."

"Maybe that's just because you're too proud to ever ask for directions," I counter. No matter how many times they visit me in this same hospital, they can never find the room within a reasonable amount of time.

"Or maybe they just need better signage," he sighs.

"Maybe they're just trying to keep imbeciles like you away from the patients," I tease. "They're worried you might rub off on them."

"Hey, that was uncalled for. We came all this way to say goodbye," James says.

"And to say we're sorry you can't come with us. It won't be the same without you," Mike laments.

"Of course not. It'll be better, you won't have to wait for me to catch my breath all the time. You can go as fast as you want."

"John, you know we don't mind slowing down. 'Stop and smell the roses' and all that." Of course they never complain about having to wait for me, but I can feel it. Sometimes they want to move at their own pace, and I can respect that. I wouldn't want to be held back by someone slower than me.

"I know. But I also know you're going to have a great time in Switzerland. It's probably better this way. Mountain air is thinner, not ideal for shitty lungs," I explain. Now that I think about it, it might be serendipitous that this illness is keeping me from the ski trip. Had I gone, I probably would've been miserable. At least I know I'll be breathing easier when I finally get to leave here.

"Good you're seeing the positive side of things. But won't you be lonely here?" Mike asks concernedly. He's the type of person that would go crazy if left alone for longer than an hour; he needs company or his life force drains away or something. Sometimes I secretly wish I could lock him in an isolation cell and just see what happens.

"No. The nurses around here are amazing, and my parents will visit occasionally. Who knows, maybe Greg's here too. If anyone spends more time here than I do, it's Greg." Greg Lestrade is a fellow cystic fibrosis patient; I met him many years ago on my first visit here. It's great to have a friend who understands exactly what it's like to have CF. However, there are certain drawbacks to having CF friends. Most importantly, the two meters rule. Two people with cystic fibrosis cannot get closer than two meters or they run the risk of inhaling each other's bacteria and developing the be-all-end-all infection. It makes conversation a little awkward, but Greg and I have found our ways around it. When we're both here at hospital, we spend a lot of time Skyping from our respective rooms, which is almost the same as face-to-face.

James glances at his mobile to check the time, evidently time for their departure, as he and Mike wish me good luck and say their goodbyes. I make them promise to send lots of pictures from Switzerland. Now that I'm alone again, I check the hospital to-do list I made. I have a to-do list for pretty much every day, especially while I'm here. They help keep everything straight in my head. I cross off the first item on the list (unpack) and move on to number two: write up blog post. For the past couple years, I've kept a blog about my journey with CF, informing my followers about the ups and downs of my life.

I open the computer and write up a quick post: "Well, here I am again. This fever has refused to drop, so I'm in for another round of antibiotics and breathing treatments before I can be on with my life. Hopefully, things will go smoothly and I'll be home again in two weeks or so. I'm missing a school trip to Switzerland, but I'm focused on staying positive and staying healthy. What more can a guy do?"

Deciding that's a sufficient summary of the current situation, I hit post and watch as the hit count immediately starts to climb. After a few minutes, I scroll through a couple of comments and drink in the follower support. Many of them are fellow cystic fibrosis patients that use my story as encouragement to get them through their own treatments, but others are friends from school, family, or strangers genuinely interested in my life for some reason. Regardless of the reason, they're all rooting for me, and reading their feedback is usually helpful.

Just before I can hazard another glance at my to-do list, Molly enters the room with a characteristic smile on her face. Molly's been a nurse here for as long as I've been here, and she's become like a second mother to me. She can be strict at times, but she's also a shoulder to cry on, a darn good advice-giver, and a half-decent conversationalist.

"Hello John," she greets cheerily. I will never understand how she manages to stay cheerful when she works in a hospital full of sick kids, some of which are terminal, but her positivity has yet to wane even the least.

"Hi Molly," I reply. In her hands, she carries the first of many doses of antibiotics I will be flooded with during my stay here. Expertly, she starts an IV and hangs the bag on the stand beside the bed.

"You'll be pleased to hear that Greg's here in room 224," she says as she finishes fiddling with the tubing.

"Really? Why?" I question eagerly. That's just down the hall my current residence at 220. Greg's presence will make this stay so much more enjoyable.

"Bronchitis," she explains. She can see me already moving to stand up and go find him, so she instructs, "Finish your IV first, then you can go and see him." I sit back down on the bed, somewhat dejected, and watch as she turns to leave. "And you know the rules: two meters."

"Of course," I say. That rule has been drilled into my head so many times that I couldn't forget it if I tried. I turn my attention back to the to-do list, and add 'visit Greg' to the bottom. The next thing I had listed was to work on my app, although I'm not sure I have the energy to do that right now. The app started off as a concept for a school project, to design something to help people in their everyday lives. Of course, when given this assignment, my mind immediately jumped to illness and medication management. I'm on so many different medications that it's hard to keep track of when I take them, how much, and with what. An automated reminder system would make things so much easier, so that's what I submitted.

Except, I couldn't stop there.

The idea of an automated reminder system seemed so enticing that I had to make it a reality. The coding is almost complete, but I'm in the process of going over every line and making sure there are no errors. Ideally, a person with any sort of chronic illness requiring daily management will be able to plug in their dosage, timing, and any other pertinent information, and the app will remind them when to take meds with a fun little notification. Right now, my heart's set on a dancing pill bottle, although I suspect older clientele will want something a little less whimsical.

Wishing I could go ahead and visit Greg already, I stand up from the bed and drag the pole to the door. The bag is nowhere near finished, but I can probably sneak past Molly. I've done it countless times before—when you spend as much time in a hospital as I have, you learn how to get what you want pretty easily. Grabbing a face mask from the box by the door (face masks are more crucial than underpants for a kid with CF in a hospital) I slowly make my way outside until I'm standing in the hallway.

Just across the hallway, I see an unfamiliar face outside of room 221. Unfamiliar faces are pretty rare around here. I know all the staff on the CF ward, and just about all the patients. This boy must be a new patient here. How do I know he's a patient? It's not that hard to tell. Cystic fibrosis kids usually have a look about them. The same mucus that builds up in our lungs also appears in our pancreas, preventing it from making enough enzymes to properly digest food. Because of this, we're pretty malnourished without a little boost. I take supplements with every meal to help me digest what I do eat, and I have a G-tube which goes directly into my abdomen to give me extra nutrients. This kid clearly hasn't followed the protocol. He's about as skinny as a person can be without having bones sticking out of their joints.

I make sure to maintain my distance of two meters while listening in on his conversation. He's currently talking to a boy and a girl about our age, "I've memorized the nursing schedule, so if you go ahead now nobody should bother you for about an hour. Just make sure you're not too noisy."

"You sure?" the girl asks. She's fairly tall, with dark skin and even darker, curly hair. Her hand is entwined with the other boy's.

"Of course I'm sure. And don't get too crazy, I do have to sleep in there later."

"Yeah, we know," the boy, who I've figured is the girl's boyfriend, says. It doesn't take long for me to realize what's going on here, and I'm immediately disgusted. This kid is offering up his hospital room for these two to shag each other. If it weren't for the fear I'd actually have a coughing fit, I would gag at the mere thought.

The boy and girl disappear into room 221, closing the door carefully behind them. The raven-haired boy looks to me, and I stare at him with as much revulsion as I can manage. I hope he gets the message even if he can't see the half of my face that's hidden beneath the face mask.

"I can't believe you," I growl.

"And why ever not?" he replies with mock innocence. Instead of replying, I storm off and my feet carry me to the NICU. Whenever I'm stuck here in hospital, I usually make at least one trip here to watch the babies. I never get near enough to touch them, fearing that somehow contact with me could give them CF, even though I know that's impossible. Still, watching their little chests move up and down is therapeutic. Technically, I'm not supposed to be up here, but Molly and Martha usually let it slide if they catch me. They understand that being confined to a single ward for so long is impossible, and they'd rather allow me this simple pleasure than watch me slowly go crazy from cabin fever.

My eyes focus on one particular baby, on one of those tiny ventilators for preemies whose lungs are too underdeveloped to function properly. I can relate to them especially, since non-functioning lungs are a part of my daily life. I count the breaths the machine initiates, take in their regularity and evenness, and allow the rhythm to calm me down. Just thinking about that boy makes me shiver, and I'm actually glad I have a reason to avoid him.

~0~

Another day, another doctor. That's the most concise way to summarize my life. This is just another hospital in another country offering another drug for another futile hope of prolonging my miserable life. No matter how many times I tell Mycroft that I don't want to do this anymore, he never listens, only drags me off somewhere new. I've learned to just live with his overprotective big brother complex while minimizing the amount of work I actually have to do.

When I first arrived, I thought this would be just like all the other hospital experiences (none too interesting), but all that changed when I caught sight of him. I had just lent out my room to Philip and Sally so they could 'fraternize' or whatever, and he appeared out of nowhere, fuming. Why did he care what I chose to do with my room? It was a need to answer that question, and nothing more, that prompted me to chase after him.

His trail leads me to the NICU, where I find him staring at newborn babies as if they contain the secrets of the universe. I can't make out much of his features due to the face mask obscuring his mouth and nose—a rule-follower, obviously—but he's pretty short with sandy, blonde hair and blue eyes. When he catches sight of me, those blue eyes once again fill with rage.

"What makes you think you have the right to even do something like that?" he asks, voice dripping with venom. I can't help but be slightly taken aback at the severity of his anger. Geez, what is this guy's deal?

"Well, it is my room," I say.

"A hospital room, not a university dormitory."

"Your point?"

"It doesn't seem the least bit wrong to you, offering up your hospital room to your friends for that purpose?" I notice he's avoiding explicitly stating what it is they're doing, although he clearly knows. He must be a prude.

"Not really," I admit. "They wanted somewhere private, I just so happen to have exactly what they need. I call that being a good friend."

"I call it abuse of privilege."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You weren't given a private room so you can share it with your buddies. You're sick."

"And so are you, yet here we are." I take a step closer to him, my eyes narrowing in concentration. Usually, I can win an argument without batting an eye (unless it's with Mycroft) but this boy is giving me a run for my money. But I gladly accept the challenge.

"Yes, here we are, in a hospital, not a brothel." I must admit I didn't expect such fire from such a small frame, but I'm both intrigued and impressed. I'm just about to reply when that brown-haired nurse with the overly-cheery personality storms into the NICU.

"Sherlock Holmes, you know the rules! Two meters! And where is your face mask?" Suddenly I realize how close I am to the other boy and immediately step back. Not necessarily for my sake, but for his. I couldn't care less if I catch whatever he's growing in those lungs of his, but I will not be responsible for shortening his lifespan by exposing him to the bacteria inside me. The boy looks at me smugly, knowing he's safe from Molly's rage because he's followed all the rules. I, on the other hand, am breaking several just by being here. I'm supposed to be quarantined to the CF floor, because apparently I'm 'disruptive.'

"Sorry… I forgot it," I explain, although that's not the case. I actually stared at the box before leaving the room to meet Philip and Sally and actually flipped it off. Whenever I wear one, the fabric sticks to my face and I feel like I'm suffocating. I'd rather breathe in whatever lurks in the hospital air than feel like I can't breathe at all. Evidently, this other boy does not share that sentiment.

"John, why didn't you remind him?" Molly inquires. I silently thank her for giving me some pertinent information: the 'other boy' at least has a name now. John glances at me before turning his attention back to Molly.

"I'm sorry, we were a little busy arguing about something else." He doesn't explain what we're arguing about, and I silently thank him. If Molly discovers Philip and Sally, I'll be quarantined to a four by six cell for the rest of my stay here and only allowed one phone call a day. Molly ushers me and John out of the room and tells us we'd better be back in our rooms in the next five minutes or there'd be hell to pay. We both trudge back to the CF ward, maintaining that crucial two meters, and he disappears into his room without another word. I knock first, not wanting to walk in on something that'll scar me for life, and hear Philip's voice beckoning me in.

They've clearly finished with whatever it was they were doing, and have even taken the courtesy to make the bed for me. They hurry out, leaving me alone to contemplate my current situation. In just a few days, I'll turn eighteen, and then Mycroft won't be able to drag me around the world for treatments anymore. I'll be free to damn it all and live out the rest of my life the way I want to—by actually living. That birthday can't come soon enough.

Anyone who has read the book "Five Feet Apart" will recognize how closely I'm adhering to the plot. I haven't seen the movie yet, but I imagine it's also remarkably similar. Again, I am not trying to take credit for the storyline, only for adapting it onto new characters. Anyway, thank you!