When the man with the microphone asked me to tell the audience the most remarkable thing about Sherlock's victory, I gave them a pained smile and told them, "He didn't know any better," and the crowd just fell apart.

I will always remember that moment, but overall, almost everything that happened immediately after Games was a blur. The Capitol made a big fuss over us, there were interviews and parades and fancy clothes, but the most lasting impression it left on me was a headache. For all the hype surrounding the events, there really isn't much about them to tell. After we got home, Molly and I, our sponsor told us, very urgently, not to be seen hanging out too much because that would look like conspiring. She told us that the Capitol would be on the lookout for ways to kill us or accuse us of something. Said they don't like being outsmarted, and that when they pardoned us, they very likely intended from the start to kill us later, when no one's around to judge them. It's all very scary, but for these past few weeks I've just been…tired. I can't care too much about them anymore. I'm incapable.

But, tired as I am, I've been thinking. Maybe I learned something from Sherlock after all...or maybe I'm not uselessly dumb after all, I mean, Sherlock didn't exactly patent thinking. Thing is, I started looking for connections where I hadn't looked before... and then I found some... and kept finding them...

It's been a week. I find Molly. At a time and place I'm sure we won't be watched. I can't hold this back much longer. If they're going to kill me for this, they can have fun.

"The cut," I say breathlessly, "on his arm, that was about where the sensor was."

"What?" Molly says. "Is this about Sherlock?"

"Yes," I say, "when he was trying to write with his other hand, he cut his arm open. But it was right close to where the sensor was. What if he was using the writing as a disguise? What if he really wanted was an opening he could get the sensor out of whenever he was ready? And when he got hurt by Irene, that sword – it hit right on top of that first wound, remember? It was deeper. He'd have a much easier time getting the sensor out of that than what he did for the writing. Molly, he knew you could fake your death by taking out your sensor before Jim showed us. How LONG do you think he knew that, I wonder!"

"John, the wolves," she says warningly.

"He went inside the cornucopia," I say. "That would bottleneck the wolves - you saw how narrow it gets, in the back! All they wanted to do was eat things, eat him, eat us… if he had nightlock berries with him…and he must have, Sherlock wouldn't have passed up an opportunity to stuff a bunch in his pockets after we pointed them out…and he had all of those weapons…If he smeared the nightlock on the weapons, or on other things, he could shield himself with..."

"JOHN," Molly says angrily. "He wouldn't be able to survive on his own, he's useless at it."

I look at the ground. But I can't stop. I have to keep telling her. "Irene brought him to us," I say. "Got us to take care of his burns. She's a survivor, she could have killed him when she found him, and then us when she found us, easily. But she was helping him. What logical reason could she possibly have had for doing that, if she wanted to survive by winning the Games! She had no kind of life to go back to, Molly, Sherlock told her he'd figured out she got money by, well, selling herself. I don't think Sherlock would go to her and ask to run away together, but I very much think Irene would ask Sherlock. When she ran off, she knew about the trick with the sensors too. We heard a cannon, but what if that was part of her plan? Convince everyone she'd died? She ran off with a backpack full of supplies, so she has that if she lived! For all we know, they both knew about the wolves, made plans, made preparations…"

"JOHN STOP IT!" Molly yells.

I jump. Then feel terrible.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"I caught a glimpse of Sherlock's face," Molly says in a low, cold voice. "Just as he left to run at Jim. He looked happy, really happy, for the first time I'd ever seen him. Not like he was happy to finally die and get it all over with. Like he finally wanted to live. John, I don't know what happened, back there. But if Sherlock's alive, the most helpful thing we can do for him is NOT SAY ANYTHING ABOUT IT. Okay?"

I don't know what to say, but I nod. I have the strangest slight feeling, and I realize it's hope.

"Think he'll stop by?" I ask.

"Not having anyone to tell about his clever plan is bound to drive him mad sooner or later," Molly says slowly. "Well, there's Irene, but she wouldn't be impressed. Or she already knows. Or both."

I scratch my chin thoughtfully. "Oh, Irene. If he really did run off with her, they're going to find us later, and they'll be a family of six."

"Sherlock doesn't get those feelings," Molly says. "He told me when I was washing his clothes, that one time. He was very sweet, said that I shouldn't be hanging around him hoping for affections he's incapable of having."

"I'll have to try that sometime," I say, laughing. "No more awkward dates!"

"He was telling the truth,"Molly snaps. "And if he's not dead, I shouldn't even be telling you this."

"I'm sorry," I say.

It's a few hours later, and I'm in my room, and I'm writing about Sherlock. About the Games. I can't talk to Molly very much, but all of this happened, and it was all important… I have to tell someone, even no one at all. I can't forget. Even if all I do is write something and hide it where I can't get to it easily. It has to be preserved. I didn't stand up for us all at the end of the Games, I chose Molly's life instead, hers and mine. It's a choice I don't regret, but I can't make that right...all I can do is keep taking steps to try. I have to write. When I finish the account, I'll seal it up and hide it in the woods. All I did during the whole bloody thing was observe... the least I can do is preserve those observations. And if the Capitol wants me dead, I'm running out of time to make my record.

I start my draft with the phrase, "Sherlock Holmes is not dead."

I cross it out.

Then I write it again.

And go from there.