The people of district 2 gathered together for the reaping. Anyone old enough to be picked was making sure they were ready to fight to get in The Games. After a quick speech from the mayor and Mrs. Hudson, the picker from the Capitol, the event everyone looked forward to began. Mrs. Hudson reached her hand into the girl's bucket of names and the second the name was called the fighting to get the girl's spot began. After the fighting died down and Irene was picked. "Now to pick one of our boys!", Mrs. Hudson yelled for the crowd. John was one of the few boys who didn't want to fight to get on the stage. In fact he was almost hoping not to be picked at all. But then he saw his younger brother Henry was fighting and was very nearly ready to be picked. John rushed forward hitting anyone who got in his way. He reached his brother, "Stop it now! You can't go in the arena. You're to young." The siblings fought each other for the privilege to be the competitor in the Hunger Games.
At the same time Sherlock walked and stood with his older brother Mycroft. This is one of the few times that District 5 is completely silent. The day of the reaping is the only day where the factories are closed to the public. It was a day that Sherlock both loathed and loved. It was one of the few days where he could look at the crowd and do his 'parlor tricks' and not get yelled at for it. But of course in the back of his mind he did have thoughts about what was to happen. He could see who would be better and who would be worse in the arena. As Anderson picked the girl tribute Sherlock picked out the people with a drinking problem. As the boy tribute was picked he picked out the thieves and then everyone turned to him. Anderson repeated the name of the tribute, "Sherlock Holmes!"
But the reaping had been days ago and training was over, today was to be Day one in the arena.
Sherlock's stylist started to prep him for what was to come, "Now kid, your trick of reading people may help you outside the arena but it won't do you much good with fighting. You just need to pick up something sharp and hit the other kid with the pointy end." Sherlock looked at him and quickly shot off his points, "Yes I am younger then you but I'm doing something you will never do. Something that you wouldn't wish upon anyone you know. But that statement is wrong. You would wish this upon someone. Someone quite close to you. Your mother, she hit you as a child. That's why you got into this line of work. To watch children suffer as you did and if possible you help them fail. You assume that what I do is a 'trick' but it never was. I look at what is around me and deduce the truth." Sherlock took a step closer to the man, "As for fighting it does help to know ones opponent. Wining the Games isn't about the blood, well it is, but it's more then that. If I look at my advisory and do what I do I'll know if I should trick them or stab them." He grabs the shirt in his stylist hands and walks to the other end of the room.
John steps onto the circle platform that will raise him into the arena. He closes his eyes, thinks of home, and then turns his attention to his game plan and how to kill every other child in the arena. His eyes jolt open when the platform starts to rise. He looks once more at his stylist who is blowing him a good luck kiss. And then she is gone and the arena and the 23 other tributes take her place. The speakers crackle and Lestrade's face appears above the tributes, "Welcome to the 74th annual Hunger Games!" He continues for a few more minutes but John doesn't listen he is looking around him as are most of the other tributes.
"3...2...1...RUN", Lestrade's voice echoes through the arena. Sherlock watches his face click off and the normal sky return. He turns his attention to the other tributes. Some are running away to the woods but most are joining the blood bath of the first day. Sherlock runs to the edge of the items and makes his way closer and closer to the center of the Cornucopia. He grabs onto a knife and a full to bursting backpack and he joins the children running to the forest. One of the careers spots him and aims an arrow at him. The first shot misses him, the second hits a blond haired girl who was just passing him, and the third hits him in the arm. Sherlock winces, cries out even but his steps do not falter.
The blood bath was over and John had made it into the pact of career tributes who had survived. They collected all they could and stored it in the trees closest to the Cornucopia. John, Moriarty, Irene each grabbed a weapon of choice and a few others to be safe. They begin their search to end the game.
Irene is the one who finds the child. He was cold and stared a fire that could be seen from almost anywhere. He then fell asleep by its warmth. Irene stepped down hard on his leg to wake him up, "Any other weaklings enjoying this fire, your highness?" He is bleary eyed and for a moment he imagines this woman is his mother. But she never called him "your highness" and they didn't have use of a fire to keep warm. In a flash it comes back to him and he tries to wiggle away from Irene. But she only laughs and stomps down harder, "Are there any others enjoying your fire!" Her voice is ringing in his ears and he tries to think but before he can even blink Moriarty steps up beside Irene. Moriarty leans down, the sharp blade of a dagger presses against the boy's throat.
The blood splatters onto Irene's boots and covers Moriarty's hands. Sherlock turns his face away when the fire disappears from view. He mutters, "His skin must have been unused to the cold. District 9. Used to the heat and being in the sun. Not cold like this." Soon after that comment Sherlock drifts off to sleep.
A few days later John passed back and forth around the Cornucopia protecting what belonged to the Career tributes. Irene and Moriarty had left hours previously to hunt down another victim. They returned to the Cornucopia bloodied and bruised. Moriarty reached John first and punched him in the face, "You haven't killed since we've gotten here. What use are you if you don't want to hunt? You're ordinary just like them." Irene carefully stepped between the two of them as John said, "I...I'm more then ready to kill when need be. I only thought it was best to protect what we need to live!" He began to back up and was thankful he had a few knives up his sleeves. Irene slowly and fluidly turned to face John as well. A smile curled upon her lips as she said, "It's time to end the fun and games, sweetie." She reached behind her and in the blink of and eye she had a dagger in John's knee.
John staggered to the ground as his scream filled the air. Moriarty stepped up to stand beside Irene. With a sad look in his eyes he bent down to face John eye to eye. "Staying alive. It's so boring, isn't it? It's just staying...", he said in an almost monotone voice. John's screams had quickly faded to a mere whimper as he cut Moriarty off, "It sounds like you look forward to dying."
"You're just getting that now?", Moriarty smirked. "Dufus!"
John reached out and pushed Moriarty away. He staggered back onto his feet, clutching at one of the knives in his possession. His teeth grated against each other in an attempt to deal with the pain in his leg. In a flash he half fell half jumped closer to the Cornucopia and grabbed a rather long stick. As he worked his way back up to a standing position he threw the knife at Moriarty and ran away as fast as he could. The blade missed its target but they didn't go after John. All Moriarty did was yell after him, "Have fun in the after life!"
Days later, the body count had increased rapidly and John was in hiding nursing his leg. Sherlock was always on the move, covering his tracks as best as he could behind him. On this bright afternoon he started to move away from the river he was flowing. He needed to find food and the river wasn't a home to any fish. As he moved farther from the water he thought he heard something, taking out his knife he moved closer to the sound. Sherlock ducked behind a bush slowly moving the leaves to clear a window to peak out of. And from his position he spotted a boy sitting in a clearing. The boy had pulled his pant leg up past his knee and appeared to be cleaning a wound. The blond haired child had his teeth gritted in pain and Sherlock inched closer to get a better view. 'Strong build, made to be a fighter, must be a career...', Sherlock thinks to him self, '...but he is injured'. Sherlock lets the window of leaves settle shut and he stands up. He walks around so he is facing the boy's back and quietly makes his way toward him.
John hears the snap of a twig behind him but it is to late to move. He feels the sharp press of steel against his throat and he tries to keep as still as possible. He hears a voice behind him, instantaneously knowing it can't one of his ex-teammates. It was a boy's voice, clear and different. It had a simple question, "Are there others close by?" John could only whisper, "There's only me", and wait the few seconds for the final slash that would end his life. But it didn't happen.
Sherlock had seen dead bodies of course. He had witnessed the horrible accidents that sometimes happened in the factories. But he had never had a hand in killing anyone before. He tried to calm himself and stop the hand he only now realized was shaking. With a small shake of the head Sherlock walked around to face the boy he had at his mercy. Keeping the knife on the boy's throat he bent down, "What is a career doing all by him self, injured."
John stared at this boy who clearly spent quite a lot of time indoors. He felt the weakness in Sherlock, could tell this would be the child's first kill. He stated the facts, "Does it really matter why I'm here? No one is going to attack you, so why don't you get this over with?" a few seconds pause, "How would you know I'm a career?"
Sherlock smiled for the first time in what felt like ages. No one ever liked to hear how he'd made a deduction. He carefully looked at the boy before him, "In training you hadn't spent much time with the career tributes but you spent no time with tributes from other districts. You have muscles that could only be there if you have be in training for your whole life. Also your eyes give you away." Sherlock's hand was completely steady now.
"My eyes?"
"Most people are scarred of death, frightened of it. That fear shows in a persons eyes. The eyes will beg even if the body won't. But careers aren't scarred of dying. You some may even die to have the chance to get to this very arena. Your eyes don't beg for life, they simply look for a way out of the situation.", the pressure of the knife weakens fractionally. "We both want to live for another day, how about we work together?"
John took in the deepest breath he could before answering, "How can. I possibly trust you? You were ready to kill me..." If he was the one holding the knife he would never play with someone like this. It's kill or be killed. But the boy's answer is shocking for John.
"It seems to me you can't trust the careers. And you can't survive with that injury alone. You'll bleed out soon enough. It seems I'm the safest bet you have.", Sherlock stood up putting his knife away and held out his hand for the boy to shake. His voice quickly going from cynical to almost friendly in a matter of moments, "The name is Sherlock from district 5."
John stared at this boy for a few seconds, in awe of what he had figured out from one look. Reaching up he shook Sherlock's hand in agreement and quickly let go. Grabbing a gnarled branch from beside him John tried to stand back up. But his knee cried out in agony and he crumpled back to the ground.
Grabbing his pack Sherlock removed the sting that closed the top. Bending back down he tossed everything out of the pack, folded the material of the bag, placed it on john's leg, and secured it with the length of string. Handing the poor excuse of a cane back to John he said, "That should contain the bleeding and allow you to move...with a limp of course."
A day passed and more children fell. Sherlock helped fix John's knee and John taught Sherlock the art of killing. Another day went by and no children passed on. John and Sherlock took turns undressing and then redressing his knee. And eventually the bleeding slowed. But time was not on there side. It had been several days since a child had been killed. The people of the Capital would most definitely be getting bored by now. And so as the sun set on the two new companions on their third day of safety a spark was lit.
Sherlock was the first to smell the smoke but John was the first to spot the flames. He gripped his makeshift cane tighter and turned to his partner in the games. He started to run as he said, "Sherlock I think they want us to move!" Turning to look in the direction John was running from Sherlock saw the flames too. They were taller then normal flames. One could tell they must be shooting out of hidden pipes. The flames were even an odd shade of red. They were red with white mixed in and the heat could be felt from quite a ways away. Sherlock ran after John and quickly caught up with him. But the fire was fast as well. It was eating up the forest behind them, pushing the two tributes ever closer to a fight.
District 7's remaining tribute Sally Donovan could see smoke in the distance. It was thick and dark and menacing. Quickly she grabbed her coat from the branch it hung on, throwing it on as she took up her axe. She could tell something was wrong with this fire. It had to be Gamemaker made, and that could only mean a tribute was being forced onto her path.
Sherlock had passed John; of course he had considering the state of the boy's leg. As he ran he weaved between the trees looking behind to see if John was still running. John must have been trained to fight since he could craw because his stride wasn't wavering a bit. Sherlock gave a quick smile, glad that John was still with him.
Sally watched, as the clouds of smoke got closer. She felt the heat of the woods go up. But she stood her ground waiting for the poor soul the Gamemakers were bringing her way. With a flick of the head her black hair flew out of her face. As it moved it seemed to have a personality of its own. Her hair looked like death itself.
With some struggle John caught up with Sherlock. They both ran, ducking and zigzagging away from the flames. Sherlock was the one who spotted the girl. She was far away and at first all he could tell was the fact that she wasn't a tree. As they neared her, the flames seemed to back off. John was the first of the two to slow and eventually they were both walking up to the girl. They both drew their knives as they neared her.
She lifted her axe letting it the top of the handle rest upon her shoulder. "Don't…don't come any closer boys", her voice quivers, she wasn't prepared to fight two people. She notices that the shorter boy is leaning on a stick and she smiles. Her confidence reformed. Sally walks up to the to boys, "It seems the Capitol needs a little blood shed. I think you two should be the ones to donate."
Sherlock takes one look at this girl and has enough to use his gift, "You're from district 7. Obvious, considering your district is the most comfortable with using an axe. There's blood under your nails, not yours. An earlier kill, not of the animal variety I believe." As he does his deductions John inches his way closer to her.
Sally should have noticed the oncoming threat. But she couldn't believe her ears. How could anyone know these facts about her life? She took a step closer to the smug bastard and brought the axe up to rest on his shoulder just touching his neck. "Freak. You've been watching me. How do you know these things?"
Sherlock smiling despite how close to death he was answered her, "I don't watch I observe. Weren't you listening? One look at a person and I can tell where they've been, what they've eaten, their life story. Everyone is an open book if you know how to see!" John took one more step and lunged at Sally. She fell to the ground and he pressed his blade to her throat.
Sally didn't see John coming. She hadn't paid him any mind. And now it was the mistake of her short life. She tried to grab her axe. Her hands floundered around her weakly searching for it. Sally tried to find anything to hurt the child on top of her. She tried kicking him off, but it was of little use. She choked out one word, "Please." But she knew that one word would do nothing to stop her death. She blinked and a single tear fell from her eye. She realized she would never see her well-meaning father again, or her over enthusiastic brother, or her mother who was sometimes too harsh. And she wanted it to be over but she wanted to hold on. Sally Donovan meant to say something else, something meaning full, or something that would show her parents that she did care. She never got the chance.
John quickly found the girl's carotid artery. He tilted her head down, ignored her pleading, and he shifted his blade to be vertical. He made a quick cut and just like that Sally was gone from this world. John looked down at his hands covered in this girl's blood, "I didn't even know her name…" He can't move. This is his first kill since the blood bath of day one. Those deaths hadn't seemed real it had almost been second nature. Kill or be killed on that day. But this was different. Yes if he wanted to live she would have died eventually. But he had killed her to Save Sherlock. John realized that he didn't want Sherlock to die but he also realized that that could be a problem in a short amount of time.
Sherlock walked over and placed a hand on John's shoulder. He could plainly see that the boy was distraught but he couldn't quite figure out a way to help him. After a few painful moments Sherlock helped John to stand. "Thank you. If you hadn't done what you did I would be dead.", he muttered his thanks but John heard it clearly. They walked away from the body as the gong sounded over head. Quickly Sally's body was taken away and other then some blood the forest looked as safe as any other. As they moved on Sherlock realized that this stranger who had reason to kill him, saved his life. He realized that in a form John must care. As he thought about his companion he understood his feelings. He understood that he ether would lose the first friend he ever had or he would have to watch him die. And both ideas were equally horrid.
More and more children died each day. One found some berries and didn't know they were unfit for humans. Another was held under water to drown. Two were stabbed in the back. Soon Moriarty turned on Irene and he shot her, from a distance of course. He never did like to get his hands dirty. Finally it was down to the three remaining tributes: Moriarty, John, and Sherlock. The Gamemakers were already leading them to the end goal. By the end of the day they hoped a victor would be named.
Sherlock knew the end was coming. He had been planning for days. He knew that they must have been heading to Moriarty; the Gamemakers would have changed the course by now if they weren't. John and Sherlock eventually slowed and he told John to be on the look out. He turned John away from the set path and he continued to the inevitable.
Moriarty sat waiting for the end. He leaned against a tree that was ready to fall down the cliff to the river below. His eyes were half closed and he hummed the lullabies of old. His eyes shot open when he heard the sound of footsteps, Sherlock's footsteps. He stood straight up, "Oh Don't worry, my dear. Falling is just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."
Sherlock watches this man, this child, and can see his death wish written in his eyes. Sherlock steps closer, he walks right up to Moriarty and they are nearly touching. "And why would I be falling. It's you who wants to die.", Sherlock's words are harsh but true. But all Moriarty does is laugh, "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that? They can only have one victor, Sherlock. If you don't jump your only friend in this world will die." Sherlock only blinks, "I'm supposed to believe that you won't kill him once I'm gone?"
Moriarty takes on small step back sweeping his arms up as he does. "The Final Problem. Staying alive. So boring, isn't it? It's just... staying." His arms fall back down to his sides and for a second he looks regretful. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. And this was the best distraction and now it's almost over." His eyes harden as he points at Sherlock. "You were a twist in my distraction. A new challenge but I beat you all the same." Sherlock only shakes his head. He doesn't get to say anything because Moriarty continues, "And you know what? In the end it easy. It was easy to form my endgame. I watched as you learned to care. If I survived this I would go back to playing with the ordinary people, making simple distractions. You think you're special but it turns out you're ordinary. Just like all of them. I killed all of them and I can certainly take care of you."
Sherlock closes the gap between them again. "You're wrong. I'm not like them. I don't plan on dyeing." Moriarty chuckles, "They didn't plan on it either." He takes a final step and pulls out a recently cleaned dagger. It glistens as it leans against the child's flesh, "Off you pop. I told you how this ends. Go on. Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers." With those final words a smile flashes across his face. Moriarty sinks the dagger into his throat. His blood decorates the grass and dirt. His body, to close to the edge, falls to the water below.
John hears the bell go off. He knows that it's either his partner or the last of his original group. The makeshift cane clatters to the ground but John is already running. He doesn't notice the pain of his knee only the pain in his chest. Soon he makes it to the open glen before the cliff. He sees Sherlock, so close, to close to the edge. He is so relieved to see his friend that he calls out, "Sherlock, are you okay?" Sherlock doesn't turn to look at the boy. He only looks at the moving water at the bottom. He is scared, truly scared, for the first time in his life. He doesn't answer John's question but he does have a message, "You win, John."
John shakes his head, "What?" He crushes a twig as he steps closer. This time Sherlock turns to look at his comrade. Putting up a hand to stop John he says, "Stop there. Please." John stops immediately, "Sherlock, just tell me what's happening." Sherlock just shakes his head, "What do you think is happening?" And then John realizes what this boy is planning to do, "Oh god."
Sherlock lowers his hand and gives John a weak smile. "Only one can survive, John. That's the point. Twenty-four go in and only one comes back out. It's down to us; you or me have to die. I've thought about this!" John watches in horror. He wants to go to his friend but he knows he is right. They both knew this was where the games would lead. Sherlock gives a pitiful excuse for a laugh, "I've never had any friends. Did I ever tell you that?" John can't believe that this incredible person has no friends he spits out, "Of course you have friends, everyone has someone who cares." This time Sherlock does laugh, "My brother and I never have seen eye to eye. My Father always supported him till his last breath. Out Mother tried but it was always clear who she loved more." His almost cheerful voice become serious in seconds, "My deductions, what you think is amazing, most hate. I came into these games expecting to die the first day. Everyone in my district agreed."
Tears make both of their cheeks shine as he continues, "John, you are the only friend I've ever had. Have a good life." John takes a few steps forward. He nearly falls and only stops himself because he doesn't want to loose sight of Sherlock. "Goodbye, John." The words eco in John's head and automatically he cries out, "No…don't." But it's to late. Sherlock took the final step backward, and fell away from the ledge. John runs to the edge and makes it in time to see Sherlock hit the water with a splash. He watches as the clear water turns pink and then turn's red. "No."
Lestrade's voice rings clear as the lift picks John up, "We have our victor! John Watson of District 2!" But of course John doesn't hear this, or the bells going off, or the people suddenly swarming around him.