"I was positive Jim's play would be to keep his distance and send someone to infiltrate your group,"Sherlock is saying. We can't get him to stop talking, despite his injuries. He's explaining his plan, THE plan, the one that he'd been cultivating since the start and had had something to do with the fires just a few days ago, the one Irene had acted outside of. "He had to have some kind of drama, something showy enough to be impressive. Just killing you outright would never do, that would be impossible to make interesting. I thought of the possibility of him staging his own sort of, game for you to try to survive, some thing he rigged together to make you squirm around, that's entertaining enough. But when I thought about it more, that doesn't fit in with all of our givens. He was advertising to criminals. They don't need people who can be cruel, they have plenty of people who can be cruel, they need someone who can pass himself off as trustworthy, to as many people as possible. And Jim's already played us something to that tune. All of the tributes at the beginning, dead, that stinks of organization. Half of those kids should have been running for the woods, their sponsors must have had the sense to tell them, they had no business in a bloodbath like that. All of them died but John and Molly, the ones Jim wanted alive, and then me, the accident. He must have arranged it, talked to everyone before the Games. He tried to talk to me about something or other before the Games, I know. I wasn't paying attention then, gave him what for and sent him on his way, but I realize now he must have been trying to include me in that first wipeout. I don't know for sure what was so special about John and Molly, but I fancy he must have picked them because they're the most normal of the tributes; you symbolize 'most people'very well, John. A perfect representative of the Ordinaries to defeat."
Irene brought Sherlock in this morning without a word, just put up her hands as a sign of peace and handed him over so we could fix him up. He has burns all over, nothing serious, but painful. There are some ugly bruises on his neck, and one on his forehead, which Irene claims responsibility for. Then there's also the cut on his arm, from the sword, and on his face, from the knife. Thankfully, we had a wealth of supplies for his treatment, and the skill to know how to use them, and now we've got him lying against a backpack mound and wrapped up in a blanket to try and induce a sense of rest and quiet. Judging by his words-per-minute rate, the blanket doesn't seem to have much effect.
And I'm really pretty sure he's gone and insulted me again.
"Excuse me?" I say.
"I knew Jim was going to send someone to our little family who wanted to be our friend, probably in some staged dire need," Sherlock says, predictably ignoring me, "and we were supposed to take them in and help them, because we don't know any better, we think we're Good People, we try to Do the Right Thing, we don't even let random emo kids give up the Games, we're Special! Irene was by far the best candidate for the mole. A damsel in distress, quite a charmer, her very area of expertise, [here he does a Voice] 'Oh please, John, help me, these nasty branches tore my shirt open, can you mend it for my by any chance? Oh please, John, I'm so scared of the dark, will you hold me close to you?'"
"Stop it," Irene says, spit, or possibly venom, flying from her mouth.
"That's why I was asking you about her," Sherlock says to me, predictably ignoring her. "I needed to know how much Jim thought he could trust her. Because if he didn't trust Irene, he'd go himself, none of the others were suitable enough. But in any case, we'd be getting a visit from someone, and that would be the moment the audience, who'd been following from Jim's side, we certainly weren't doing anything interesting, would have been waiting for. We'd be guaranteed a nation in the bleachers. And Jim would HAVE to be far away. He'd know his prey would suspect a trap. He would have to make that first move with his main force at a distance, start creeping in as you grew less and less suspicious. So, now I have an audience, and John and Molly have a head start. I knew if I said something really shocking and disturbing, that the viewers could not be permitted to see, the Gamemakers would have to do something about it. They wouldn't target me, not right away. That would look like I was being punished, and that would show that I was threatening them, and it was working. They don't want to look threatened. They'd pull a distraction – can you see now that I couldn't tell you and Molly, John? That my plan involved the Gamemakers, and they couldn't know? Anyway, our captors would arrange a distraction, and what do they have to distract people with that's better than Jim's team, waiting unsuspecting in a forest that's rigged to catch on fire at the touch of a button?"
"How did you know about the fire?" I want to know.
He seems genuinely confused.
"Wh… you didn't see the scrapes on the trees where workers had climbed up to install or maybe inspect the launchers and igniters before the games… the patterns in the forest floor here and there a shade too regular to be from nature, though made to look like nature, patterns to conceal something? The patches of loose earth everywhere where there'd been digging or covering up? The suspicious clumps of dry, dead leaves, and out of season? I did actually find one of the fireball launchers, but you could really tell something was there by the clumsy attempts to... And really, practically all they do in forest Hunger Games is set people on fire, what else is there TO do? That's why we haven't had a forest one in so many years, so people don't get tired of watching burning kids running around all over… Molly, did you know? About the fire?"
She shakes her head.
"Irene?"
Irene just folds her arms. She looks mildly angry.
"I mean, the scrapes on the trees could have been to put up Tracker Jacker nests or cameras, but trees had them that didn't have any of those, so I assumed…wait, none of you knew?"
We're all staring at him now.
"Well… I knew that if I said something really offensive, really dangerous, they'd have to put up a distraction," he continues, sounding tired, rushing, "and the quickest and most effective thing to do would be to set Jim's part of the woods on fire, whereupon Molly, from atop the high place in our camp, not a tree because trees can catch fire, that's why I needed a cliff, would be able to see it, and I'd know where to run and where to make you both run away from, as they set my part of the woods on fire, having already established fire as a random event and not a punishment in weakness, and then I'd run over to Jim's campsite and take out anyone the fire left me."
"He really is very good," Irene says dryly. She hasn't denied anything from the start. But I have more on my mind than Sherlock's intelligence right now.
"Another reason you wanted to wait for the spy to come was so you would be guaranteed one of your enemies, absolutely helpless, right in front of you, so you could kill them in cold blood?" I say, remembering how easily and naturally he'd swung at Irene, grabbed her braid. Remembering how he'd pressed the sword against her face. The line down her forehead is dark red now, all closed up. "That's why you wanted to wait for the spy to show up before you set off the fire?" I'm quite happy to have him back, but this needs to be addressed.
The hush is almost tangible, but he answers, quite conversationally, "It really did work out quite nicely that way, and there's even more, actually - a spy would also signify that the pack had settled down and wouldn't be in a position to pick up supplies and leave in a hurry." He doesn't even seem to realize the impact my words had had. "I was very concerned when Irene upset my predictions," Sherlock continues. "I had to reevaluate, do a little thinking on my feet. But it worked out."
"If I'd told you Jim was nearby, there would have been no need for setting any fires at all, and you would have killed me right then and there," Irene says uncomfortably. "John wouldn't have panicked, I wouldn't have been able to get away, and I'd be dead now." We all look from her to Sherlock. They're doing that thing where they read each others' minds again.
"Cleanly," Sherlock says without emotion.
Molly looks at me, I pretend I hadn't just looked at her.
No one has anything to say. Nothing at all.
"Really," Sherlock says, finally. "Look, I'm not stupid, I know what's wrong with me, ooh, I'm a little sociopath, it's not very nice of me to be like this, is it, makes things awkward for the whole room. That's what you're thinking, isn't it. That's what District Five thought too, or Six, or Seven, one of those, the one that gets me back if the Games spit me up alive. Are you lot going to try and unwrite me too? Make me"better"? Maybe if you sit with me and ask me lots of questions I'll start caring whether Irene lives or dies, is that it?"
"Stop," I say.
"I should stop talking about it so it stops being your problem," he says, nodding ruefully. "I see how it is. But understandable. It's quite a problem, really, it is. Ever see a highly-functioning sociopath?"
"Not until I met you," Molly says, and they make eye contact and hold it for a bit.
Why can everyone read each others' minds around here?
Sherlock looks away.
"Mommy, look at the boy on the TV," he says mockingly, half to himself. "Look at how many kids he's killed, and he doesn't even care. That's messed up, he's trying so hard at this, it's sick, someone should take him out quick before he kills anyone else, I don't like him." A mocking mother's voice – "Shh, he doesn't know any better." Sherlock's own voice, breaking – "At least, that's what Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson would tell people…I didn't kill anyone, but that's what they'd say about … things…And now everyone can say that! And about killing people, this time! Precisely what I was trying to avoid, John! And all for you and Molly - I must say, I'm really touched by your appreciation!"
And this from the one who never seems to care what people think about him.
It suddenly occurs to me, to wonder what Sherlock should be fighting for exactly, what he would be motivated to survive for. What kind of life his district has to offer, as reward for winning the Games. It's an insight into numbing isolation I wasn't ready for.
At the same time, I can't help but recognize that all of his sympathy is for himself.
A stunned, anxious pause.
"You should rest," I tell Sherlock.
"You should," Irene agrees, her expression hard to read.
His breath sucks in, and out, and in and out, and he puts a hand to his face, I realize he's been holding back tears – "Oh look, a blanket, I feel so tired - NO JOHN, I'll never do that! They're going to throw something at us, we're cooperating too much, paints a big red target on us, they'll try to kill us any minute. I want to be awake when I die. So I can think about it as it's happening. Thinking helps me… helps me cope with things. I'm not going to die in my sleep, I refuse. Mycroft, you snoop, stop watching this instant, and I really do expect you to burn my things, everyone's watching, the whole District will know if you don't, and they'll be ashamed of you, in fact I hope they tickle you if you don't because I guess it's not much of a secret anymore that you're ticklish, is it."
I suppose he would have found things to keep on talking about, from there, but Molly comes over and throws her arms around him, injuries and all. She pulls the blanket over him more snugly, starts running her fingers through his hair, shushing softly. I'm not surprised by now that he lets her, just lays there like a kitten.
Irene is looking away. I follow suit.
"Jim could find us too,"Sherlock whispers. "Look at all of these supplies, it's no great feat to figure out where we've gone. It might have even been part of his plan from the start. He didn't destroy the things he didn't need, and he didn't gather them, either; maybe we were supposed to find them. Maybe he even went so far as to poison the food; maybe we'll all drop dead any minute."
"But Sherlock," Molly says, "Jim's dead, remember? There was the cannon, and then the picture."
"No he's not," Sherlock says." I never saw him. Not Irene either. We didn't kill him."
"Okay, then he's died somehow on his own," Irene says angrily. "Ate nightlock by mistake, fell off of something, who knows. We HEARD the CANNON."
"Possible, but it's disturbingly more likely that he's dug that sensor they monitor us with out of his arm," Sherlock says quietly. We all freeze. Look at each other.
"WHAT! None of you thought of that either?"
Suddenly, we hear wolves howl. Close. Molly looks nervous, but Irene's face grows white.
"We didn't lose them," she says, horrified, to Sherlock.
Before anyone can respond or Sherlock can get upset about being wrong, she's gone. Picks up the sword Sherlock stole from her, a knife from Molly and my weapons pile, her new backpack full of supplies, and she's out the door, running as fast as she can.
Sherlock sits bolt upright and stares after her. He gets up, takes a few steps forward, then stops, indecisive. Then he turns around, stomps out the fire, and runs to the back of the cave, motioning for us to follow. We do.
For a while, we don't hear anything.
Then we hear the pounding of running paws on grass. Lots of them. More than ten, maybe twenty. They're running past the cornucopia on the opposite side to the opening, right close to us as we hide, incidentally. They must have seen Irene run by and not realized there could be more people around, or been too caught up in the thrill of the chase to care.
Sherlock has his hand over his face, and he has to work to control his breathing. Maybe he cares a little for Irene after all...or at least, he does at this point. I worry that the wolves might hear him, but I tell myself that they're making a lot of noise themselves.
"We should climb onto the roof," Molly whispers. "When they go."
"Yes," I agree. I tap Sherlock, and he nods quickly, twice, without looking at me.
When the cannon goes off, Molly and I can't help it, we both look at Sherlock. His expression hasn't changed, though he must know that Irene's dead.
Well, she's dead, and the wolves are, to be realistic, probably eating her, and very preoccupied with it…now's our chance. We'll just have to be quiet. I head on out, and the others follow.
The structure isn't too hard to climb, not with three of us helping each other. What's hard is believing what we find on top of it.
Jim.
James Moriarty.
He seems to notice us for the first time and perks up, grinning like an idiot and waving at us with a neatly bandaged arm.
"I was listening!" he says, delighted. "You figured it out! Sherlock, is it? You figured out that I faked my death! And that I left you all of these presents! Oh I like you, Sherlock, you're good, you're good!"
We cringe instinctively; the wolves…
"Ohh… did you want me to be quiet?" he whispers, nodding over towards the wolves.
We can only stare.
"YOLO~!" he singsongs triumphantly, as loudly as triumphant singsonging can get.
And the wolves come.
Sherlock covers the distance between himself and Jim in a few seconds, and he doesn't ever stop running, and when he crashes into Jim, they both go over the edge.
We see a look of surprise on Jim's face.
And then they're gone.
Even knowing from the start that Sherlock could never be our lasting friend, that he was never ours to keep, I'm not prepared.
I could never be prepared for this, I realize.
The circulation starts to leave my hand, and I realize Molly's grabbing it. I work my fingers around her hand, grab back.
We hear some scuffling in the dirt, then against the side of the cornucopia, like someone's trying to climb back up, but the wolves get there before they have a chance.
We hear snarls.
Cries of pain.
Snapping teeth, ripping and tearing.
Someone half runs, half crawls around the structure and inside the cave beneath it, sobbing and whimpering, but the wolves follow.
Molly and I are holding each other very tightly.
And finally, after an agonizing eternity that can't have been more than a few minutes, the cannon goes off.
Sherlock's cannon.
It's likely that Molly is sobbing, but I honestly don't think I'm aware enough of my surroundings to tell.
Sherlock's gone.
He's gone.
There were times when I didn't think I liked him at all, times I didn't think he was human, even, but all I want now is for him to not be dead.
The wolves are still snarling and fighting and making noises all around us, but at the same time, everything seems perfectly still and quiet, somehow.
Sherlock's gone.
Suddenly, I realize there's only Molly and me left, and there's still something I have to do.
