Hi there! Okay, so this is a crossover of Sherlock/Doctor Who/Hunger Games, therefore I couldn't put it in the crossover section. So don't ask me about it. I'll probably update weekly, if not sooner. I'll try to get my other story updated for those of who are reading it, too. There will be some eventual slash, and the rating might go up because of violence and maybe future smut. Don't like, don't read.

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own it. You must be as stupid as Anderson if you think I make money off of this.

"I'm sorry." John looked at Sherlock, the other's pain only reflected in John's eyes for a mere second before they became hardened and emotionless. Desperately, Sherlock searched John's eyes for a trace of guilt, sadness, of his old friend, the ex-army doctor that he had grown so fond of. He was never really able to read John like he could read other people. A few simple deductions at best. But now, as their eyes met for what might be the final time, he found that he could read John, like an open book.

And it scared him.

For he saw nothing.

"John…" It was barely loud at all, hardly even a whisper. But it was so quiet, it didn't matter; Sherlock could have yelled it. A million whispers rebounded off the cavernous walls, reminding both of them what life used to be like.

John looked away, closing his eyes. Maybe that would make it all end. From his mind, he saw flashes of Afghanistan, of 221B, of everyone they left behind. God, it had seemed all so long ago…Composing himself, he turned back to Sherlock, his eyes cold and icy. He had fought in the war before, hadn't he? He knew there were risks and stakes and casualties. This shouldn't be any different.

One last time, he met the ever-changing eyes of his former flatmate, his former alliance, his former friend. He shook his head bitterly. That was all in the past. This was now.

There would be time to grieve later.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." He turned away, not wanting to see the look on the other's face, which was probably filled with the pain of betrayal, the silence of finality.

The gunshot was loud, filling the cavern with distant echoes, like an army finally retreating. As he walked out, John heard the distant sound of his grin victory through the pounding in his ears.

"Congratulations to the winner of the 38th Hunger Games, John Watson!"

AN: Like it? Hate it? The review box is hungry!