Chapter One
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Sherlock.

Sherlock sat perfectly still in his blue shirt, coat, and jeans. Mycroft, in his cobalt tie and light blue suit, sat rather promptly in his seat to the right—arms in lap, legs crossed right over left, and black dress shoes shining brightly. Inside, however, Sharelock's mind was abuzz with questions and half-answers – things that never failed to bother him. The knowledge of what he was about to do was ever present in his mind, but—as always—he had complete reign over what others saw his emotions. And currently, he showed nothing but mild boredom.

Jeanine Matthews had just finished her speech of the factions and an Abnegation volunteer – as usual – stepped up to the stage. From the list in hand, he started going through the names; alphabetically backwards. As always.

A boy with disheveled brown hair came from a field of red and yellow and took the knife from the figure up front. He gripped the knife and rested it on his palm. By the slight tension in his shoulders and quivering of his free hand, Sherlock easily knew the boy up front was afraid. But it was more than that. The Erudite's gaze never missed a thing, including the nervous glance the Amity boy had given his former faction a few moments previous. He wasn't scared of the choice, no, but rather what his family would think of the choice. He was transferring.

Sherlock felt proud at himself for gleaning that information from the boy's appearance, but part of him was not satisfied. And where? rang Mycroft's voice in his head. Where might this boy be transferring to?

The younger Holmes peered closer. The dark rings under his eyes signalled he was tired, or constantly staring at something. No, watching – reading. He was reading. By his stiff posture and his shirt tucked into his blue jeans, it was a simple fact to determine this boy was neat and organised. Proper. It could have been Candor, but it was the faded graphite smears on his right hand that tipped Sherlock off. This boy washeading for Sherlock's own faction, Erudite.

At long last, the former Amity turned his hand over and watched the blood drip into the clear water, making swirling patterns of red. "Knew it," Sherlock muttered in a monotone voice as he turned his attention to the Amity sector to note the parents reactions. They were just as he had deduced: displeased, but accepting.

The names rolled on. The third one up was a Candor boy, John Watson. Sherlock noted the sandy blond hair, the blue eyes, the physique, studying the teenaged boy carefully as he did the first. John picked up the knife and, as Sherlock found out mere seconds before the choice, chose the coals.

After that, the name-calling seemed to pick up the pace. Moving on to the eighth after only fifteen minutes. All the names he commited to memory: Morstan, Lestrade, King, Ineta, Hooper. Despite the high chance of him deleting them in the near future.

The time came and "Holmes, Sherlock," echoed throughout the room. Without a word, the boy stood and stepped up to the five bowls. He ignored everyone else in the room and grasped the knife. He knew what to rule out, which left only two. A glint of the glass forced Sherlock to face the factions' respective bowls. One of water, one of fire.

He sliced his palm quickly without even the smallest wince. Red oozed out after a few seconds' delay. It seemed it would be easy as he planned for it in the confines of his room. He would simply list out the pros and cons of transferring and went with whichever faction gave more benefits. But it seemed much more complicated than that once he actually was in the thick of things. Some points weighed more than others, such as his independence. Or where was the best for survival.

Gravity took hold and Sherlcok's decision was made.

The coals gave a small, sudden hiss, flashing orange briefly before returning to crimson and black. Sherlock watched it sizzle to nothing before turning sharply and heading to the mass of black near the end of the hall. One of them came over and handed him a bandage (which Sherlock quickly discarded) and steered him over – like the former Erudite needed to be driven.

Sherlock risked a glance over at Mycroft. His brother could not have been more obvious: only mildly surprised, disapproving, and a look that he wore so often, arrogance – as if he kbew fir a fact that Sherlock could have done so much better and yet chose the worst path of all. Sherlock did nothing but look back, his face expertly cleared of anything. Then he turned away, facing the ceremony, and waited until the "ceremony" finished.

John.

They were the first to dart out of the building.

The Dauntless practically flew past the pedestrians: chatty Amity, solemn Abnegation, arrogant Erudite. John assumed the faction would at least pause for a moment before going across the street, but he should have known better. Dauntless dashed across with ease, without a care to the world. John only saw them start to stop when they had reached the rails.

Of course, John chided himself. The train.

The transfer had seen Dauntless tumbled out of the train cars several times before. Only, it was one thing to see it and another thing to actually participate. The Dauntless-born were intently listening, their ears trained to pick up at even the slightest hint at the coming engine. John copied them, his ears searching the city sounds for the telltale sound such as a whitle or whine or steady hum of mechanics...

The Dauntless-born heard them first. A few transfers picked up and pointed out a little white prick on the horizon, all of them excited.

It grew and grew. People started moving. Moving, jogging, running, sprinting. The chatter died and the wind picked up. John was a tad late in it all, falling behind as they simply soared across the grass.

There was a moment when the train front pulled up beside them and John thought they were going the same speed. One fleeting moment he felt he could easily execute this jump; there was nothing too it but that. John felt a burst of adrenaline course through him. He had never done anything as dangerous, the worst being lying to his Candor parents, and this particularly enthralled him.

The train pulled ahead and the dauntless started jumping. It was mesmorising to watch. As if they were a waterspout in reverse, smoothly flowing upwards and over, landing neatly into the cars.

John's sense of wonder vanish quickly however, only to be replaced by panic. His oppourtunities to jump were growing slimmer and slimmer. The train was winning this race. The former-Candor's muscles could barely keep up with the speed. His breath came out in uneven gasps and a stitch was already beginning to form in his side. With his rapidly receding energy, he pushed off hard from the ground. His hand found a metal bar, his foot the platform of the car, and his other hand flailed before grasping the edge of the door. It was not the best of places to be and John soon found that out as he attempted pulling himself in.

It proved harder than he thought. It seemed so simple, so plain, so flawless, when the dauntless-born did it. Yet his attempt could be laughed at. Still, it was better than a few unlucky one's who could even make it this far. However, as bad as he felt for the now factionless, he couldn't dwell on them. One thing was clear: now that he was a Dauntless, he had to expect a few casualities along the way, no matter how much he wanted to save them.

A firm grip was suddenly present on his right arm, then his left, and then dragged him in. He caught a flash of black, pale, hazel before he was completely in. John lifted his gaze from the floor to met a hazel gaze, pointed nose, and joking smirk as if he had just pulled a prank on someone and was watching it unfold. His unkempt, brown hair ended at the tips of his ears.

"Thanks," John huffed breathlessly, shuffling a little further from the edge where now he could see even more of the city from their elevated vantage point. The boy cocked his head to one side, that unnerving grin still on his face.

"Don't mention it," he replied with that funny grin. "Wouldn't want you to fail on the first task."

John let out a small chuckle. "You know what's coming then?"

The boy shrugged. "Nah. But I can assume that there'll be some obstacles to filter out some of the initiates. I hope everyone makes it though. It's a small batch this year."

"Wouldn't you know what's coming, being born in Dauntless?" asked John.

"My brother wouldn't tell me," he answered. "Apparently, it's top secret."

John nodded. He glanced around the train, not having a proper look yet. There were no chairs, just steel poles spaced evenly apart for the Dauntless to hang on to. There were also metal bars above the doors and handles on either side. Most were already forming groups with the other initiates as they chatted amongst themselves. A few, such as the girl wearing Amity red and the boy in Erudite blue, stood alone. John turned his gaze to the door where the wind entered and whipped John's loose white shirt and dress pants like a flag in a storm. It blew his hair back, out of his face, and chilled him to the core as he clung to a pole running parallel to the floor. The boy beside John closed his eyes, his hair flying everywhere yet he was doing nothing about it.

"'Scuse me," John interrupted politely. The boy opened his eyes. "Didn't get your name."

"Sam," he responded easily, not bothering to give his last name. Apparently they were unimportant in his home faction. The transfer looked out the opening once again, watching the city shrink in the distance. The further they got from the city, the older and dirtier the buildings became. They gave off an abandoned aura. Or a factionless feel. John hoped he would not be forced to live here if he failed any one of these "tests" in the immediate future. It seemed to him that the Dauntless didn't want anyone to find their lair.

Like a dragon hiding in its den. Dangerous, secretive, and easily angered...

"Jumping now!" someone shouted from the front of the car. John snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at Sam, who just opened his eyes again. He gave a knowing grin, like he and John shared a secret, and went to the door. John carefully stepped to the edge, one hand still grasping the pole, and surveyed the roofs below. A waterfall of black shirts and jeans launched out of the car ahead of him and landed on a gravel-covered roof where they began regrouping almost immediately. There was definitely an aura of excitement from those that already completed the task, but here on the train it was intermingled by fear. No way John was going to do that.

And yet it was the only way to get into the compound.

"You sure this is safe?" he asked his Dauntless-born aquaintance. Sam looked at him with a raised brow and incredulous expression.

"Good point," John muttered.

"You'll be fine," he reassured. "Just land on your feet and control your momentum."

And with that, he leapt off, rolling in the air and landing quite nicely on the gravel.

John took a deep breath. He had to jump now in order to still land on the building. He looked to his right, steeling his nerves in anticipation, and his eyes fell on the Erudite he noticed before. His ivory skin and dark curls were the first thing to notice as he mimicked Sam with his expression, a brow raising quizzacally.

"You know, you do have to jump," he stated coldly. "Or has that piece of information not passed through that thick skull of yours?"

"I'm going," John retorted, his jaw set. He faced the exterior once more.

The Erudite gave no addition words as he leapt off, leaving John by himself.

Mustering up his courage, he took a short run-up and charged straight off the train, shoving his foot against the edge of the frame to propel himself forward. A feeling like one he had before enveloped him for moment. A sensation of soaring took hold. All this time people have been dreaming of flying and they didn't realise the Dauntless had already figured it out! He could go anywhere, see anything, do whatever he pleased...

The euphoria lasted a mere few seconds, ending when he was forced upon something hard and sturdy. He tried a smooth landing like the others, but his momentum shoved him to his knees. His thin, dress pants did nothing to stop the gravel from slicing at his skin, drawing blood for the second time that day. Gravel dug into his palms. John spotted red stains creep around the edges of the embedded pebbles and quickly brushed them off on his thighs, standing.

Scanning the rooftop, the first thing he noticed was the lack of an exit, unless one counted falling off the edge and tumbling to death. There was no door or trapdoor leading down. But with this lot, John could conclude they'd find a more thrilling way to enter the compound.

Sam bounded up to John, barely a scratch save for the one from the knife earlier that day. Was it really just about an hour ago John was entering the Hub as a Candor? It felt like ages ago...

John smiled as his new friend came over to high five him.

"Nice for your first try!" Sam congratulated. "C'mon, let's go find out what we have to do to get in."

"Any ideas?" asked John. Sam nodded.

"One," he said. "I think we might have to jump."

Sherlock.

The only logical conclusion to get down was to jump. As plain as that.

Sherlock joined the already regrouping initiates after the jump, watching the Candor he met on the train talk to one of the Dauntless-born. They seemed to already be on good terms with each other. The dauntless boy must have done something large, something that would make the Candor immensely grateful. Aquaintances don't just appear out of nowhere for no reason. Sherlock's gaze flicked to the tracks before returning to the pair across the roof. His mind reached the conclusion and he straightened in pride, turning away from the two.

He scanned the others, passing the time while they waited for more instruction. A girl with tight brown curls frowned at the Erudite, clearly confused by Sherlock's staring.

"What?" said the Holmes stiffly.

"What're you looking at?" she snapped, a nasty look crossing her face.

"Fancy a boy around here?" came Sherlock's drawling, bored voice. "Perhaps the idiot in the back with the red hair, tiny IQ, and the incredibly low success rate in a faction such as this?"

The girl gaped like a fish without water as her tiny little mind processed the quickly-spoken words from his mouth. She glanced back at the redhead before turning to glare at the Erudite. "Freak!" she scolded.

"Hold it, back there!" a voice called from the front. "Don't want the transfers injured before they enter, do we now?"

Sherlock faced front to see who had spoken. It was a nineteen-year-old male with a buzzcut and a pair of sunglasses set on top of his head. Sherlock found himself wondering what the point was of the glasses if they didn't do what they were meant to, when the man spoke again.

"New initiates, listen up!" the teen shouted over the cold wind. As sunny as it was before the ceremony, clouds were starting to cover the skies like a wool blanket. "My name is Mike. As you might've noticed there is no simple door to get to the compound. The only way to enter is to jump."

"Jump off or to another building?" someone yelled back. Imbecile. To Sherlock's pleasant not-surprise, it was the redheaded Candor Sherlock had pinned as an idiot just moments earlier who had opened his mouth.

"Jump off," he clarified. "You're willing to be first then?"

The redhead backed away, much to Sherlock's amusement.

"Thought so," Mike mumbled, before calling; "Any volunteers?" Sherlock stared hard at him. "Step right up!"

No one did. No one moved a muscle. The silence fell heavily on them, and gradually it started to bother Sherlock. After minute in which Mike made a series of inquiring faces, Sherlock shoved his way to the front. Mike had an expression of obvious glee when he surveyed the Holmes. "An Erudite. Had enough studying?"

But just then the blond Candor from the train interrupted. "I'll do it."

Mike looked pleasantly surprised as a smile crept onto his face. It was more of a mischievous grin than anything else really. He guided the boy to the edge and took a few steps back as if ready to for a spectacular show to start. The blond put one foot on the ledge and peered over the side. Slowly, he raised himself rather shakily on the wall and stood there for a moment until he took a deep breath and dropped like a stone and out of sight. Not a scream was heard.

"Simple right?" Mike said and surveyed the crowd. "Who's next?"

Sherlock stepped up further. Mike turned to him. "And we have a second," he anounced.

Sherlock ignored Mike's comment and peered over the edge. His stomach seemed strangely unaffected by the nerves. He felt strangely calm. Serene. It was almost familiar... That was mental thinking. It wasn't thinking. It was feeling. His brother frowned upon such things, pinning emmotions as weak and obstructing. Feelings clouded judgement, and therefore should come after logic. Thinking.

Sherlock climbed the ledge, steadying himself against the wind. His dark blue coat billowed behind him as he spread his arms and tilted forward. Panic closed up his throat the second his feet slipped. Arms flailing and wind whistling, Sherlock rapidly fell, his mind only one one thing. The destination.

Falling's just like flying, excet there's a more permanent destination.

It all stopped so suddenly. He lay still after the impact, not daring to move. Far above, he could see the ledge where he came from through the wide opening. His hands moved along the ropes, coming to the conclusion that a net had caught him.

Oh, clever trick, he thought sarcastically as he turned over and pulled his way to the edge. From the ledge, the net would be hidden, increasing the fear the initiates would have to overcome and therefore be more effective when eliminating some of them on the first few tasks.

"You alright?" another Dauntless asked once Sherlock got to his feet on steady ground.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, his eyes turning to the dark room. It was so dark one would think the Dauntless were allergic to light.

"What's your name?" the male in black asked. Sherlock looked back at him, trying to contemplate why such a simple question had left him dumbfounded. The male laughed, which annoyed Sherlock slightly.

"Sherlock," said the annoyed transfer. The male nodded and shouted to the back, "Sherlock, second jumper!" And then to Sherlock instructed, "go straight. You'll see the Candor transfer and a tall girl. Stay there."

Sherlock obeyed, crossing the room. The other transfer was uncomfortable in the white shirt and black pants, ripped at the knees, no doubt from the gravel on the roof. Nodding at Sherlock, he watched as the Amity female plummeted into the net. She laughed like a madman as she was pulled off, stated her name in a low tone, and jogged over to the trio.

"I simply love this faction," she said with a bright smile and turned to watch the rest come through. Sherlock examined the Candor again.

"You're worried of what your parents are thinking about you right now," Sherlock stated, his voice bland and baritone. The boy looked quizzically at the former Erudite. "Despite the fact you lie too easily, are much too impatient, and have a love for adventure, you wonder if you made the right choice to transfer."

The blond looked more confused than offended—maybe even a little admiration. "How did you know that?"

"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth."

"That's possible?" Fascination was heavily prescence.

Sherlock continued quickly not that he had the attention on him. It was so easy t impress those with vacant brains. "You have a factionless brother with a drinking problem. His girlfriend's death was the reason he began drinking. You've always been interested in Dauntless and do much better under stress. You are close with your parents, but now you aren't quite sure whether they still love you. And you enjoy adrenaline rushes and thrills."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"The-shoes-you-are-wearing-have-scratches-and-marks-you-would-never-see-on-a-sober-man's-shoes. That-tells-me-he-could-hardly-control-himself-so-either-he-is-naturally-clumsy-or-intoxicated.-Going-with-the-latter-because-the-name-Harry-is-printed-on-the-outside-heel.-Who-in-their-right-mind-prints-their-name-on-their-shoe?-Also-it-is-rather-shaky-nearly-illegible. Now did I get anything wrong?"

The blond transfer laughed a little, coming out rather breathy. "That was… unbelievable!"

"I assume nothing is wrong?" he persisted.

"Just one thing," said the blond transfer. "The rest was on target, but there's only one thing wrong with it all."

"What?" Sherlock hated being kept in the dark.

"I have a sister, not a brother."

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FIN