Chapter 10:

From my spot in the hospital pool, I can just make out the lights in the park a few blocks away. Ever since I was little, I've always wanted to see those lights up close in person. I have no idea what they are or if they signify something special, but they're mysterious and alluring. Maybe it's only because I cannot see them clearly from here.

"You know," I tell Sherlock. "Those lights in the park over there, do you know anything about them?"

"No. Why?" he asks.

"I've always wondered about them. My parents never took me to see them."

"They're probably just part of some display. It's not Christmas."

"I know that. I just think they're pretty." Just like I think you're pretty, I want to say. But I don't, of course, because I'm afraid of scaring him off. Just the thought of such a forceful statement makes me jump. And then I actually jump at the sudden noise from the side of the pool.

Both of our phones are buzzing with a nighttime medication alert. Sherlock and I meet eyes, and I see my own panic reflected in his multi-colored irises.

"Molly," we state simultaneously. She'll be in to check on us any minute now, and when she doesn't find us where we're supposed to be, she'll go on the warpath. If she discovers us here, together, less than two meters apart, she'll murder the both of us and stuff our bodies in the morgue with false toe tags.

Sherlock and I leap out of the pool, dry off as quickly as possible, pull our shirts over our heads, and start sprinting back to the hospital. Without verbal discussion, we veer on the path towards the NICU. At least that's a reasonable place for us both to be; we visit there all the time. By the time we get there, we're breathless and about to keel over from exertion. A few minutes later, Molly storms in. Fortunately, we've both managed to stop heaving and she doesn't suspect we've been up to no good.

"Sherlock, John, why are you up here so late? And why are you together?" she asks inquisitively.

"I was already here," I explain. "Spending time with the babies. And then Sherlock showed up, presumably to do the same." He nods in acknowledgment that what I said is true. It's a perfectly reasonable story.

"I want you both in bed," she commands. We nod and follow her outside. Apparently, she trusts us enough to leave at the entrance to the CF ward. It's a misplaced trust, but I'm glad she still has faith in us.

"I had fun tonight," I tell Sherlock, once Molly's long gone.

"Me too," he replies.

"Almost as much fun as I'm going to have on your birthday." A plan is already formulating itself in my head, and I'm probably going to stay up late to execute it. Sherlock's eighteenth birthday is immensely important to him, and I want to make it one to remember.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"You'll see. We bid each other goodnight and close our respective doors.

~0~

I go to bed that night with my head buzzing excitedly. I've broken countless rules in my lifetime, but none filled me with such a sense of accomplishment. And having a partner in crime makes all the difference.

I wake up on the morning of my eighteenth birthday and my first thought isn't of my newfound freedom. I've dreamed of this day for years now, and I thought I knew for sure that I'd awaken thinking only of my new life without Mycroft's rules. Instead, I'm focused entirely on John and our time together the previous evening. I can still feel the energy between us, resonating up and down the length of the pool cue.

The first thing I want to do is go and see John, but Molly's out patrolling the corridors and I can't run the risk of being discovered. She's already suspicious after finding us together in the NICU last night, and another interaction would cause her to watch us even more closely. I still remember her story about Victor and Gloria, the couple she allowed to break the rules. They were in love, and Molly had considered that more important than their health. I don't want me and John to end up like that. His death is not one with which I could cope.

Instead of going to see him, I take my morning meds alone, eat breakfast, and idly flip through books. Whatever hospital we go to, Mycroft ensures we bring a small library. I don't even like to read all that much, especially not about the topics he enjoys, but apparently he considers it a necessity. Whatever Mycroft considers necessary is what's brought along on our travels throughout the world. My preferences always play second fiddle.

He's coming to visit today both for my birthday and for an update on the Cevoflomalin course. Actually, those are listed in the wrong order—he's coming for a medication update that just so happens to fall on my birthday. I'm not expecting much to come out of this, as I didn't have any faith in the drug trial to begin with, but I know that Mycroft is clinging to the hope that this will work. If it doesn't, he's out of options and will be forced to let me go. That's an eventuality I've been awaiting almost my entire life.

Mycroft arrives around midmorning, flouncing about the place in a finely tailored suit. No matter where he goes, he acts like he owns everything in sight. As a matter of fact, he could own everything in sight if he chose to purchase it; he has that kind of power. Most people find him intimidating. I find him annoying.

I hear him coming before I see him. He carries this stupid umbrella with him wherever he goes, using it as a walking stick or something. He doesn't need a walking stick, he just uses it to look pompous. It gives his gait an unmistakable sound with a sharp thwack punctuating every few steps as the tip strikes the floor.

He doesn't bother to knock, just barges into my room. I want to remind him that it's poor manners not to knock, but I don't think he'd take too kindly to the comment. Mycroft finds manners innumerably important when dealing with anyone but me. I am merely his irksome little brother, and am therefore unworthy of his politesse.

"Good morning, brother mine," he greets cheerily.

"Good morning." I don't want to respond to him, but I know I'll pay dearly if I don't reciprocate his greeting.

"Happy birthday."

"I'm surprised you even remembered," I grumble.

"And why is that?

"I figured your brain is too full of appointment dates and nuclear launch codes to save a spot for the anniversary of my birth."

"Well, I assure you that this special day has a reserved spot."

"I must say I'm honored."

Mycroft sighs histrionically, and I smirk. If there's one thing I enjoy doing, it's driving my elder brother batty. His mere presence automatically dials my maturity level down to irritated toddler. However, our bickering is interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Mortimer. I can tell by the look on her face that she comes bearing news. Mycroft takes a seat in one of the chairs to the left of my bed, and I sit up on the edge, my feet dangling over the floor.

"The Cevoflomalin has had no effect," Mycroft announces. The doctor is supposed to be the one delivering news in a situation like this, but my brother never waits around for them to first placate us, then sugarcoat the bad news, and finally discuss other options. He knows what they're going to say before they even know how they're going to say it.

Dr. Mortimer is momentarily stunned by his deduction, but she doesn't deny it. "Unfortunately, you're correct," she says solemnly. "The drug has not been effective in eliminating the B. cepacia in your case. We would've expected it to start working by now. I'm sorry I don't have better news for you."

Mycroft subtly rolls his eyes—he hates it when doctors apologize for failing. I tune out for a bit while they discuss if they should bother continuing the drug administration for a while longer just to be totally sure it's a dud. As if I'd let them force feed me more magic potions now that I myself have the power to give consent. I think they reach an agreement not to continue treatment, though I'm not paying very close attention, and Dr. Mortimer shows herself out.

"Well, that was a productive use of our time," I drawl sarcastically. I'd told Mycroft countless times that I didn't want to do the drug trial, that it wouldn't work, that it would just be a waste of time and resources, but of course he didn't listen. To him, I'm just some unfinished puzzle that needs solving. He's looked all over the world for the missing pieces, and he refuses to learn that some of them simply don't exist.

"Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to play games right now." That's what he refers to sarcasm as: playing games. Apparently my dry wit is beneath him.

"Why not? It's my birthday, shouldn't we be celebrating?"

"We've just been told that our last hope for a cure has failed, and you want to celebrate?"

"Mycroft, I told you before we even came here that I didn't think it would work. You didn't listen. You never listen."

"Of course I listen—" he's cut off by my next angry outburst.

"Yeah, you listen to the doctors. You listen to the people who tell you what's wrong with me and how they plan to try and fix it. But the one person you never listen to is me. If you had listened, you would know I don't want any of this."

"Why not?"

"Because I think there's more to life than just prolonging it. There's no point in working to live another day if it'll be spent only working to live yet another. Mycroft, I'm more than just a malfunctioning pair of lungs in a body that needs to be kept alive. I'm a person with likes, dislikes, interests, disinterests, and feelings that you've never even stopped to consider. You're not doing all of this because you care about me; you're doing it just to prove that you can."

"Oh Sherlock," he sighs, looking at me wistfully. It might be my imagination, but I think I see the beginnings of a tear glistening in his left eye. "That's not true."

"You've yet to present me with any evidence to prove it's not true. Everything you've ever done is just to preserve and prolong my life. Why do you even bother?"

"Because…" The look on his face is one I've never seen before. Mycroft always wears an expression of disdain, as if he knows something you don't and is more than happy to rub it in your face. But now he seems sad, almost regretful. "…Your loss would break my heart."

Mycroft doesn't stick around to let that comment resonate. He flees from the room, and I probably won't see him again for weeks. Part of me wants to chase after him, but I know I'll get no more information out of him even if I manage to catch him. He left behind a package at the foot of the bed, likely my birthday present. I grab the box and start to open it, wondering what sort of lame gift he got me. We never talk about benign interests or hobbies, so I expect it will be something ridiculously practical, like a bath towel or socks. Instead, when I open the box, I'm greeted with a stack of books that I'd be genuinely interested in reading: one on forensic pathology and crime scene investigation, another on beekeeping, and another on some of the most famous murders ever committed.

I marvel at the books and wonder how on Earth he chose them. They represent intimate knowledge of my latest interests, knowledge that I didn't think my brother had. I thought he only saw the disease inside of me instead of the human being, but evidently I was wrong. Immediately, I feel bad for accusing him of such horrible things. Ever since he took charge, he's done nothing but try to keep me safe and healthy. At first, I thought it was out of a sense of duty to our parents, and then I thought it was a competitive drive to win against CF. But now I know that he genuinely cares for me, not just physically, but for my mental health. He legitimately doesn't want me to die, a notion that's hard for me to swallow.

I found it strange when John took an interest in my treatment regimen. I didn't understand how a stranger could care so much about my habits and whether they were conducive to me surviving to breathe another day. I didn't think that Mycroft cared about that sort of thing either, until today. That interaction proved to me how much my elder brother cares about my well being—physical, mental, and emotional.

After that realization, I'm hardly in the mood to celebrate. And that mood drops even lower when I receive a text from Philip and Sally telling me that they won't be coming today like they planned. I can't believe they have the nerve to bail on me when they know perfectly well how important this day is for me.

I'm angry enough to ignore several texts from John. Not because I'm upset with him, but because the sound of my phone simply doesn't register the first few times. My brain is like that, unfortunately. When it's focused on something, it elects to ignore anything unrelated to the point where my senses literally don't process. It's great for studying, but for someone on a strict medication schedule it's not ideal. Eventually, John calls me, and the sustained ring tone I do hear.

"Check your texts," he states quickly, then hangs up. What the hell? I open up my messages and see approximately ten texts from John asking me to respond and let him know I'm here. I quickly text him that I'm now paying attention, and he responds with an 'about time.'

"What's all this about?" I ask him.

"Molly's going to be by your room soon. She's bringing you a surprise," he writes.

"My death sentence?"

John responds with a laughing emoji. "No. You'll see."

I sense that's the end of the conversation, so I put the phone down and wait for Molly's arrival. Within minutes, there's a knock at my door and I invite her in. She hands me a plain envelope with my name written on it in John's handwriting. I eagerly open it, expecting a simple birthday card from John, but instead there's a handwritten letter.

"I could do something simple and boring for your special day, but you deserve more than that. I'm going to make you work for it. I've arranged a bit of a game, with stupid rhyming riddles and everything. Here's your first clue: You've not reached the answer yet, go to the place we officially met."

I smile at this silly yet endearing idea. John took the time to write up these little riddles for me. They're not particularly clever—Mycroft would turn his nose up at the mere idea—but the thought behind it matters more. I think for a moment on where John and I met. Technically, it was right here outside my room where he saw me with Philip and Sally, but a quick look proves that's not what he had in mind. Where we officially met must be somewhere else. The NICU! That's where we learned each other's names. I briskly walk over to the NICU and am rewarded with another envelope from one of the nurses.

I tear into the envelope, enjoying this game far more than an adult probably should, and read the text inside: "This next clue is silly; you'll probably scoff, head up to where you nearly fell off." That one requires a lot less thought, and I start up the staircase to the roof. I could take the elevator, but I'm in such a good mood already that I feel like I could run without losing my breath.

I don't even need to open the door to the roof, which is good because I don't have my anti-alarm supplies on me. Tucked up next to the door jamb is another envelope inscribed with my name. "Your search is almost complete, now come join us where everyone eats." Join us? What exactly is this scavenger hunt leading me to? I ponder this as I return down the stairs and make my way towards the hospital cafeteria.

When I arrive, I'm greeted by John, Greg, his friends James and Mike, and even Philip and Sally. They didn't blow me off after all, just tricked me into thinking I'd have to spend my birthday alone to contribute to John's surprise. "Happy birthday!" they shout eagerly.

"John, did you set this up?" I ask, even though I know it was him. No one else would think to do something so sweet. He nods shyly and brings me to a table they've laid out. I have no idea how he managed this, but he's obtained all of my favorite foods. We never talked about this, so I must assume he learned it from someone else.

"I talked to Mycroft on his way out of the hospital this morning," John announces.

"And hijacked my friends, apparently," I remark, eyeing Philip and Sally.

"We're sorry, but he told us we had to be here," Philip says.

"He was rather insistent," Sally adds. I have seen firsthand how insistent John Watson can be, so I forgive them. We sit down around the table, and fortunately the four additional friends provide enough of a buffer to keep two meters between the three of us with CF. There's no alcohol on the table, but I propose a toast anyway. Not to me or my ascent into adulthood, but to the departed Harry Watson.

Everyone chimes in as we raise our glasses, "To Harry!"