"MOLLY, UP THE CLIFF, RUN UP AND WAIT," Sherlock shouts, and to my horror I realize he's just as surprised at the development as we are. And, and he's running, away, he's not going to help me, I am alone in this, Irene's going to cut me in half…
I start running. Terrified. Betrayed. I can hear her start laughing, a little crazed– the straightforward execution has turned into pursuit. It's hard to process information, I can hear heavy breathing and running feet; my feet, her feet, Molly's scrambling up the cliff...is that just Irene that's behind me, or
"Sherlock, she thinks you're me!" comes Sherlock's voice from behind me, behind Irene, in an imitation of my voice. He's running too, running after us. He sounds surprised and really scared, but there's distance to it; if you know him, you can tell it's only acting.
At any rate, it confuses Irene; I hear her stop running, like she's stopped to turn around, and then I hear a clang.
I don't want Sherlock fighting her on his own, so I turn around to help, and I see them going at each other. Sherlock has the iron pot from the campsite. He wasn't abandoning me, he was running for the only thing we have that has a hope of stopping a sword.
Oh.
Then I've reached them, and I have Irene in a headlock, and it's as good as over. She swings the sword at me, but Sherlock drops the pot and goes in for her wrist, unarmed. I'm startled and instantly very worried, but he must have figured she'd be too preoccupied to hurt him before he could get the sword from her. He turns out to be right; I hear her gasp in pain, see him come away with the weapon, unharmed. When we all finally stop moving, I still have Irene, and Sherlock is lightly touching the blade to her face, right down the middle, along her forehead and then her nose.
He looks… different. Dangerous. Efficient. If someone walked in right now, they'd never believe he'd just been messing around with a lily pad on his head. I'd never seen him fight before, but… I hope he never wants to fight me, let's say. It's a little disturbing.
"Jim sent you to kill John, why," Sherlock says, with cold frustration. I've known him long enough to realize that he hadn't been expecting her actions, and his fury now is directed a lot at himself, for being wrong, and at the universe, for letting him.
"Oh, you think Jim is the only one who plans, do you," she says, laughing harshly. "Are you a planner too? Jim would be delighted. Do you know how hard it's been for him, trying to make fighting John interesting? We had to come up with some drama about a traitor in our midst, some made up plot to kill Jim, to drag things out. Jim thought seven days would give you enough of a head start for there to be a challenge, but I see all you've done is come wait here. Won't he be disappointed."
"This supposed plot took seven days, from the start of the Games? It's been eight days now, I don't believe you, there was no –," Sherlock says, and the distant boom of the cannon cuts him off.
"The difference between dying and dead is, in Jim's world, a very unimportant detail," Irene says, face smooth and emotionless. "Which is why I need your help."
"You just tried to kill John," Sherlock says, in a voice of pure ice. Is he pressing the sword down on her face? Hang on, am I missing something? Maybe he wasn't just upset about being wrong, maybe... could it be he's actually upset that she tried to kill me? As in, he was actually... worried about me? "Sherlock," I hiss, "It's okay." We already have her at our mercy. I really, really don't want him to be cruel to her, on my account. It strikes me that Molly and I, and Sherlock, really are still strangers, in many respects... who is this kid? Who is he, really?
"Well of course I tried to kill John," Irene says, not seeming too bothered. I'm impressed by how brave she is THAT'S ME she's talking about so callously, isn't it. She continues: "I thought everything was hopeless, wanted to take Jim's victory away from him, if I really had to die. But I don't think it's hopeless anymore, Sherlock. I really don't. At least, not right away, not for a few days. Not since I found out that you're so frightening and clever. I'll take a few more days if I can have them, even if that's all I can have. I know there's a good chance you'll end up killing me in the end, but I want those few days. Help me, and I will make your life easy. I'm smarter than you think. Smarter than Jim thought, don't you make his mistake too. Also, I know things about Jim that you might want to be aware of."
"There's a good chance you'll end up killing us in the end, why should–" he starts, then she starts to unbutton the front of her shirt.
"There's cameras," I remind her, awkwardly. This is very awkward. Veeeery awkward. Please stop that, Irene.
She laughs, softly and melodiously, and keeps going.
"Oh. I see," Sherlock muses. I catch his face as I'm trying to settle on a spot to look at that's not Irene, and he's not looking away at all, like he can't. I haven't seen him look like this before – strangely fascinated, but like he doesn't know why. Sherlock continues- "You brought a button-down shirt to a survival scenario? And such a bold move, and, as John pointed out, in front of cameras. Couple that with the fact that you're a survivor to the core, Miss Adler, and we have our only conclusion. You didn't put your name in the pile for the Games in exchange for tesserae once, or at least, not often. You thought you could outsmart the Hunger Games, you found… you found other ways to earn your bread, when things got hard. And yet here you are now. I bet that hurts."
She's frozen, now. I can only imagine the look on her face. I've never seen Sherlock use his strange powers to try and crush someone before, but that's what's happening now, and it scares me a little. He's doing this for me and Molly, too. I wish he'd stop. I kind of wish he'd go back to the generally harmless moody smart guy I thought he was.
But Irene isn't out, not yet.
"I can play the guessing game too," she says, and I fancy she must be smiling. "And my guess is, someone is going to die not knowing what these other ways are like, am I right Mr. Holmes? Seems a great shame. Seems a really great shame. But it doesn't have to be that way."
"The cameras are receiving audio as well as visual," I remind them. "You're probably having this conversation in front of the whole country."
Another cannon goes off. Someone else has died. I jump, look at Sherlock, but he's completely focused on Irene. Was it Molly? No, it couldn't have been, we would have heard something…either way I'm scared, so scared…that's two cannons in the space of a few minutes, people have started dying again…
"Oh, I know we're having it in front of the whole country, John," Sherlock says in a monotone, still not taking his eyes off Irene. "If there's one thing the whole country loves more than violence, it's sex. The Gamemakers wouldn't fail to broadcast this for the world. But Irene, I'm sorry, I shall have to decline your offer; I just prefer the violence, really."
"Ooh, liar, you are going to LOVE both at once," Irene says. If the camera's on my face right now, the audience is probably in stitches. Oh dear goodness. What am I even doing here. What went wrong in my life.
There is a long pause.
"Your interest in me is part of Jim's plan," Sherlock says. "I'm right, aren't I?" My heart sinks, suddenly. He didn't exactly drop the sword and kiss her, but there's something in his voice I don't like. Is he… is he actually considering…No, I need him! Molly and I need him, he was going to save us, he as good as promised me that Molly would win. Sherlock wouldn't do this…would he?
"Little Jim thinks I'm dead," Irene says pleasantly. "One of those cannons we just heard, he thinks it was me. I left him a little puzzle. He'll be here sometime after nightfall, at the soonest. Even he'll need to see the picture in the sky that's not mine, I think. That's plenty of time, love."
There is another long pause.
"You've given me a lot of information," Sherlock says quietly, "but I have yet to receive indication that I can trust a word of it." My heart sinks further and further. Things in the universe I had thought constant are breaking apart. I look at him, betrayed, and he's still ignoring me, transfixed by Irene. No, no, no, stop it…please…she's not even that pretty… okay yes she is, but PLEASE.
"You're not thinking, clever boy," Irene purrs, running her finger along the sword blade towards Sherlock's hands on the hilt. "You saw full well that I was legitimately trying to kill John. Surely you've figured out by now that Jim's plans can't include that. So I must be acting outside of them. And if I'm acting outside of them, why, Jim will be simply livid when he finds out I've escaped him. He doesn't know you at all; if he found us, he'd want to kill me infinitely more than he'd want to kill you. You must know that, if it's not for Jim, I must be showing interest to protect myself. Surely you're smart enough for that; I mean, you're cute, but not THAT cute. Anyways, if Jim had a chance of reaching us, I wouldn't be protecting myself, would I. If Jim had a chance of reaching us, I'd still be running. You have my word that there is absolutely no danger until nightfall. You have anything of me that you want, Sherlock. Anything." Her hand has reached his hand, and her fingers are playing with one of his, mischievously pulling it away from the sword hilt with cutesy little jerks.
A little drain opens up in the universe, and my hopes and dreams start to
"So Jim's away! That clarifies things!" Sherlock says suddenly, his voice completely restored to its usual confidence and authority. Then he turns to the camera. And begins to speak.
"You've heard me say that Jim is after recognition," he says, to all of Panem. "You would do well to admire him because that's recognition that YOU will never get. History will swallow you. It swallowed people before there was the Capitol, but it's going to swallow YOU most of all because of the Capitol. They don't let you accomplish things. You will have done nothing of importance by the time you die, and nothing is what the human race will remember, down the road. The Capitol grudgingly lets US matter, though they take our lives, as dues. You are so eager to watch these Games because you want so badly to see what it's like, to achieve in any sense. You nibble around the edges of our importance. But it won't save you. Nothing can save you. It won't even fill you up. You, dear viewers, are the hungry ones. Happy Hunger Games. Goodbye."
SHERLOCK! That's just horrible, why would you…
I can hear things, faint things, in the distance. People yelling? Another noise, one I can't place…
"They'll start hitting us too, in a bit," Sherlock says, leaving Irene and walking briskly towards the cliff. They? Start hitting…is he getting worried? He continues: "Me, mostly. Molly! Come down, as quickly as you can, tell me where the smoke was."
Smoke?
Molly does come down, comes over to him, hugs him, comes away with a large-ish red stain on her jacket.
"Sherlock, your arm!"
"Yes, yes, pots are smooth, swords bounce off them, she clipped my arm, nothing serious," Sherlock says briskly, pulling his injury away from her probing hands. It's in the same place he cut himself earlier; it's not life-threatening, but it's more serious than "nothing serious," I can tell from here. "Molly, we'll worry about that later, right now we're in danger, there's not much time, where did you see the smoke?"
Irene is starting to thrash and squirm; I can still hold her, but it was much easier when Sherlock had his sword at her face. "Sherlock!" I say. "Little help?"
"It was a little under a mile over in that direction," Molly says, pointing. "But what is it, what's going on, how did you know there'd be smoke, I don't –"
"Then RUN, John, Molly," Sherlock says urgently, pointing, "in THIS direction!"
"What about Irene?" I ask, but Sherlock's already coming towards Irene and me, raising his sword, face simultaneously unreadable and perfectly readable, he's going to kill her, oh God…
Suddenly, I hear a crackle, smell smoke. The woods is catching fire, all around us. I'm so surprised and terrified my hold on Irene loosens, and she wastes no time in elbowing me, hard, stomping on my feet, and breaking free. I catch sight of her face for an instant and see a thin, bleeding cut down the middle.
"EVERYBODY GET OUT OF HERE, RUN," Sherlock screams, charging at Irene with frightening resolve. He swings the sword, misses, grabs her by her long braid - "BEFORE THEY SEND THE FIREBALLS, RUN, YOU IDIOTS, RUN! THIS IS THE PLAN I'VE BEEN WORKING ON ALL THIS TIME, AND NOW YOU HAVE TO RUN, THAT'S PART OF IT, RUN, RUN NOW!" He starts to swing the sword at Irene's face, and I have to look away…
Wait, fireballs?
There's a hissing noise, like a launching cannon, and a fireball in full glory comes hurtling towards us. We all dive away. Irene's utterly and completely gone when I next look over by Sherlock; I see him holding a sheared piece of braid and sporting an impressive knife wound across his face. He looks a little stunned and confused. I can hear Molly start to run. I follow Molly, stop, turn around.
"What about you?" I ask Sherlock.
He picks up a flaming branch and throws it at my head, and the braid with it, with a look of more rage than I would have thought even him to be capable of. "You take Irene when she catches up with you, I'll get the rest," he snarls after me. "Keep Molly safe, John!"
I dodge the branch just in time.
I run.
I only look back once, but I see him tearing off into the woods pressing his jacket to his face, surrounded by leaping flames, sword in hand, the most concentrated unit of furious resolve I've ever seen and can ever hope to see. The Sherlock I thought I knew was an awkward, quirky kid with, let's be realistic here, special needs. This Sherlock is great and terrible, like a black-winged guardian angel, or maybe a dragon. Because Molly and I needed him to be. "Do you think he's hoping to be friends?" Molly had said once. I can see now that he IS our friend. It took a wire-thin red line down Irene Adler's face to finally convince me, but really, we mean the very world to him. I'm not sure what to think, everything's happening so quickly. It's a frightening responsibility, to be sure! When Molly and I decided not to try and kill the other kids, the idea hadn't been to find someone else to do it for us! I didn't point that little death phoenix after Jim and say, "Come on Sherlock, let's have his guts out!" He just... ran off on his own... I should have known, should have tried to stop him… maybe…? But then again, what did I think he was going to do? This is what I wanted after all, wasn't it...? I don't know…
It finally sinks in that our death phoenix is a phoenix that can't come back to life, and he's running into a flaming woods to take on two kids on his own. The odds of his survival are dismal, but he's doing it anyway. Damn you Sherlock, don't do this to us, don't spend a week driving us up the walls then show us at the last minute you really cared and then…then… Or, alright, so maybe you were trying to show us you really cared this whole time but just weren't very good at it... or maybe we just weren't very good at believing you... or… ok, so maybe I was the only one who wasn't… Damn you Sherlock, damn you, just come back...
But something tells me he's not coming back, something tells me this is the last I'll ever see of him.
Sherlock and I only talked about who would die, between Molly and me, I realize. He must have seen his own death as one of his givens. I feel so selfish for never even asking about him. It was right there, so obvious, he as good as told me he was going to sacrifice himself too, and I never said anything. I asked him if he was coming with us, just now, like an idiot, but Molly never did. She must have figured it out a long time ago, grudgingly accepted it, like I'm accepting it now. I'm stupid, as well as selfish. I'd thought he was making progress, maybe wanting to live again, after we saved him, but I see now that he never changed. He's still given up. This is just what it looks like, now. There's just the little roadblock of us, to take care of, and he'll be on his way.
It isn't right.
I just want to stop running, seize one of those hidden cameras Sherlock can find so easily, scream into it, scream at everyone, the Capitol, the public, they let this keep happening, before I came here I used to let it keep happening, it's sick, it's disgusting, they're disgusting, I'm disgusting – LOOK WHAT YOU'RE DOING, look what these Games are doing. Look at Sherlock. He's brilliant, he can do things no one else can do, he cares so much about the people who are close to him, maybe he doesn't exactly act normally all the time, maybe he gets petty at the oddest provocations, but that's just it, he's…he's… he's Sherlock. You took all of that, all of those broken pieces trying to be whole, and you not only threw them away, you made him throw them away. He's running away to die now. And for what, why do you have to do it? Teaching a lesson the districts already know. Entertainment. Because you can.
I can't help but think that if Sherlock had lived in another place, in another time...
I don't know.
Things would be better for him.
I have always lived firmly convinced that I shouldn't hate, but right now I can hardly feel anything else, and it doesn't even seem wrong. I can't rightly appreciate the absolute purity and tragedy of the little soul we rescued, without also wanting to do serious harm to the people responsible for what he is running through and running into right now.
And it didn't even have to go this way. There's nothing intrinsically more valuable about Molly or me than him. He could have put all of his remarkable skills into saving himself. Could have convinced us to help him. Could have joined the other side and convinced them. But he didn't. And we let him. Can we…can we be forgiven for that?
These. Games. Aren't. Right.
When we finally stop for the night, I can see that Molly's crying, she doesn't even bother to hide her face.
When we hear a cannon later, I join her.
Maybe Sherlock's my friend, too.
