Kate didn't have time to move; the man's strong hands were pinning her to the ground and closing around her throat before she could even try to call out. The Golem's face leered down at her and he tightened his grip. It was her own fault really, she supposed, for wandering off on her own. That's not exactly the point of allying, Kate.
His fingers were locked in a vice around her neck and she hadn't known a person could be that strong. Kate tried to kick him away, but black patches were descending on her vision, and she started to feel that the best solution was to give in and go to sleep.
All of a sudden, the fingers lurched away and something revoltingly warm sprayed her face. Kate gulped down air, eyes snapping open again. In front of her, the Golem was trying to use his huge hands to stem torrents of blood, rushing from a gaping scowl across his neck. It wasn't working.
At first, Kate thought she was hallucinating the pair of shapely female legs wrapped around the Golem's middle. Then she made out Irene's arm slung around his shoulders, knife clutched in her hand, and everything clicked into place.
Kate scampered away to try and shield herself from the worst of the blood, wiping a disgusted hand across her face. Irene dismounted as the Golem crashed to his knees. She landed lightly on the ground by Kate, composed as ever.
"We really cannot leave you alone, can we?" Irene said, looking down to where Kate lay on the grass.
"How did you even… jump that high?" she wheezed out between breaths. Irene chuckled and wiped the scarlet-stained blade on the grass. The cannon shot sounded, and she glanced back at the body as though she had forgotten it was there. She turned back to Kate. "Are you quite all right?"
"Yeah," she rasped out. "Give me… a minute." Irene obliged.
"I think there's a storm coming," she mused, looking up to the darkening sky.
"We should… find shelter."
"You're so dull when you're sensible."
"One of us… has to be."
"Is that a complaint?"
"More of an… observation."
"Get up, then. Let's go find somewhere to hide before you melt."
Sherlock thought that he had probably spent more time in the company of people in the last twelve days than ever before in his life. After all, he lived alone and the closest thing he had to a friend- or even an acquaintance, really- was Mycroft. Mycroft also happened to be the closest thing he had to an enemy, so they weren't exactly close.
Sherlock was nearing the end of his time at school, so nobody bothered to check where he was when he didn't show up- which was often. As for work, it was far too noisy in the factory for conversation. Sherlock didn't much mind.
So, all things considered, the fact that he was now on his twelfth day straight surrounded by people, morning and night, was remarkable. Admittedly he had spent the first few days in the arena alone, but he still felt the achievement was worth noting. And now that he knew what the Capitol were looking for, he could make good use of those around him. In particular, John.
After the argument and back on friendly terms, they had received a small pot of stew. Sherlock had tried to give John most of it, but the other boy had point blank refused. He ate exactly half and sat there, watching Sherlock sternly, until he did the same. It was frustrating. What's the point in making an effort to be selfless if the recipient is too stubborn to let you?
Sherlock was steadily realising that he could win this and that he was, in fact, actively trying to do so. It wasn't out of any grand desire to return home- the idea of returning to District Eight, even as a victor, wasn't an appealing one. Sherlock was a genius who spent his life boxed in a factory, watching machines sew fabric. It was boring. Life was boring.
He had always had to find things to keep him entertained- investigations, experiments, games- and wasn't this the greatest game of them all? It was more than The Hunger Games: it was a game with the Capitol, the audience, even with the president. Rather than them deciding his fate, he was twisting around to do the opposite. Can I work out what you want? What you're looking for? If I know which strings to pull, can I make you all dance?
The notion that he could outwit the Capitol itself was one far too compelling to ignore. So he continued trying to work out the numbers, and he didn't isolate himself, and he spent a lot of time looking at John when John wasn't looking.
At times it was hard. He could be sociable when he had to, but it was a constant effort to remain kind and sympathetic and pleasant.Sherlock snorted at the thought. 'Pleasant' is a word that you use to describe the weather. It certainly didn't fit when applied to himself.
"What's so funny?" John called from a few bushes away. They had been searching for several hours, talking to each other as they did so. Sherlock usually hated anybody talking while he worked, but John helped somehow.
(There seemed to be a lot of 'somehow' and 'strangely' and 'for no clear reason' when it came to John. Sherlock really did find that so very annoying.)
"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "Found anything yet?"
"Not yet," John replied. "You?"
Sherlock snapped the magnifying glass shut and stood up. "Nothing of interest, no." It was just another bare bush. The majority of them were.
"Never mind," John said. "There's a whole arena out there."
"Mmm."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm not. I don't see how a bottle of pills could magically appear under a bush, with no sign of how they got there, and nothing similar has happened anywhere else. It doesn't make any sense."
"You'll work it out eventually," John reassured him. "Though I don't think that we'll be able to look for much longer."
"What? Why not?"
"Look up, Sherlock." Sherlock did so. The sky was jet black, brimming with the promise of storm. Sherlock had noticed the change in weather, but he hadn't planned to let it affect his search. As he looked up, hard droplets of water began to fall on his face. He scowled. He didn't want to stop searching- not yet.
"We should get to shelter," John said, the rain growing heavier with each drop that fell.
"Ore we could-" Sherlock was cut off by a white burst of light not that far away, striking one of the tall trees surrounding them. A clap of thunder rolled through the air almost simultaneously. "Oh, all right."
They gathered their supplies and Sherlock grabbed hold of John's sleeve. He pulled him away from the trees as another lightning bolt struck half a mile or so away, the air fizzing with life and the threat of its termination. Together they ran down the line of bushes, skidding to a halt by a mass of long, tangled branches. Several grew over each other to form a kind of canopy, the gap underneath just big enough to fit two people. Sherlock crawled in, John following.
"That came on quickly," John said as they sat getting their breath back.
"It's Gamemaker induced," Sherlock replied quietly. He wondered if the cameras and microphones stationed throughout the arena would pick up his words over the torrential downpour.
"What, so they can kill a few more people through lightning?"
"Or hypothermia, or drinking the water itself." Not to mention that it would force people to take shelter, to huddle together. Taking matchmaking to the extreme.
"So I take it we can't drink the rain."
"You can if you have iodine."
"And do you have iodine?"
"Of course. I have everything."
"Show off," John grumbled, and Sherlock grinned. Another flash of light lit up the outside world, and thunder shook the ground. Sherlock glowered like the sky was doing it to spite him.
"We almost certainly shouldn't go out in that," he sighed.
"Not unless one of us has a serious death wish. Sorry, Sherlock, but it looks like you're stuck for a while."
"That sounds familiar," he muttered darkly.
"I hate thunder," Molly said out of nowhere. Their modified bush wasn't really big enough for both of them, but they hadn't had time to get anywhere else. Greg and Molly were sat as far apart as they could manage, trying to ignore the cold water worming its way in through gaps above.
"Really? Why?" Greg asked. Molly blushed.
"I don't know," she replied. "It's just so… loud. Loud doesn't usually mean good. Mine accidents are loud, cannon shots are loud…. you know?"
"I think so, yeah," he said. "Well, what do you do back home when there's a storm?"
"I usually hide under a blanket," she confessed.
"Seriously?"
"Like a little kid."
"I bet you're afraid of spiders too."
"Actually, no, I don't mind animals. I even had a pet spider once."
"What? How?"
"I kept finding this spider in my room. Every time I put him outside he'd turn up again, so I decided that he must want to live with me."
"How did you even know it was the same spider?"
"I was eight. It made sense."
"Please tell me he had a name."
"Of course."
"What was it?"
"… Leggy."
"Leggy?"
"It had a lot of legs!"
"But Leggy-"
"I thought it was a good name at the time."
"It is a good name."
"Look, I know it was stupid-"
"No, I like it. 'Leggy' the spider. Very nice. Very appropriate."
"Shut up!" she said, hitting him playfully. The thunder and lightning hit again, a dual detonation, and the humour vanished from her face. She let out an involuntary whimper.
"There aren't really many animals in Six," Greg said, trying to take her mind off of it. "How about in Twelve?"
"We have some. There are lots of stray cats."
"Oh. That's sad."
"Yeah, it is. I've always wanted to adopt one, but Mum and Dad say we can't afford it. Which is true."
"So no pets for you?"
"No, but I fed the cats sometimes when I was younger. I used to sneak little bits of my food into my sleeve and leave it out for them later on. My parents never knew."
"Until now," Greg pointed out. Molly clapped her hands to her mouth.
"Do you think they'll be cross?" she asked timidly.
"Are you kidding me?" he asked incredulously. "How could they be cross about that?"
"It was pretty wasteful. And kind of dumb." There was another explosion of light and thunder, the loudest yet. Molly jolted, knocking him.
"Sorry, sorry!" she apologised desperately.
"Don't worry about it."
"This is so stupid!" she said, frustrated.
"Quit saying things like that."
"But it is! It'sstupid to be afraid of noises." She paused. "And it's definitely stupid to try and feed stray cats old vegetables."
"I think it's lovely," he said firmly. "I think you're lovely."
"And I think you're deluded," she laughed. "It probably only encouraged the mice."
"Mice need feeding too."
"Do you have an answer for everything?"
"I don't know how to answer that."
"Arse," she said, giggling, but she soon fell back into stillness. Somewhere between the water and the thunder and the stories, the atmosphere had sunken into one of vulnerability; a mood of nostalgia and sadness.
"I bet it helped a lot," he told her. "The cat thing, I mean."
"Greg…"
"I mean it! I think it's a really nice thing to do, that's all."
"I just felt so bad for them. They were so thin… I used to find them dead on the side of the road all the time." Molly's voice grew sadder as she spoke, and Greg didn't interrupt her. "Sometimes, in winter, people would take the bodies home- for the meat, you see. I can't blame them, but I… I could never bring myself to eat it. Even when there was nothing else."
"Also not stupid," he murmured. She smiled weakly at him.
"What I'm saying is that it didn't help. It couldn't have. There were so many of them that there was no way I could make a difference."
"But you helped some," Greg pointed out.
"I should have helped more," she said, and a sudden tear rolled down her cheek. He pushed back a very strong urge to reach over and wipe it away. "That's why I wanted to be a healer… to help people. But it's the same thing- you can't help everybody. Can you?"
"No," he confirmed, "but you don't need to. Even if you only ever helped one cat, Moll, that's one cat with a better life because of you. Even if you only do a little, that can be a lot to one person."
"I don't think I've ever helped anybody," she said, voice hitching.
"You helped me," he told her softly. She looked at him, her eyes wide.
"How?"
"You gave me a place to stay. You showed me where to get berries. You didn't shoot me when you found me trespassing," he said. She laughed, but it turned into a sob halfway through.
"I can never do enough," she said shakily. "I just… I want to make it all okay. For everybody."
"I know, Moll."
Lightning struck outside, immediately followed bythunder so loud that Greg felt the ground shake underneath them. Molly cried out, and he wrapped an arm around her without having time to fully consider his actions. She didn't appear to mind.
"I want to go home," she whispered into his neck.
"Go to sleep," was all he could think to reply. "Things will seem better in the morning."
"Promise?" she asked. This time, he did wipe the tear away from her cheek. He moved slowly and carefully so that Molly was lying against his chest, and she curled up into a ball against him.
"Promise."
"I love thunderstorms," Irene said wistfully, staring out at the downpour.
"You're staying in here," Kate warned her. "I'm not taking care of you if you get hit by lightning."
"Spoilsport," Irene griped. "It's beautiful, though, isn't it?"
"It is," Kate agreed. They had managed to find a small cave that offered adequate protection from the storm. It had the added benefit of an open mouth, letting them watch the show in safety.
"How're we doing for supplies?" Irene asked.
"I'll check." Kate disappeared behind her to where they had stashed their various containers. "Okay, we've got a pack of throwing knives, some bullets, a pot of stew, a flask of soup, a bread roll, two apples, a bottle of water, some jerky and the cloth bag we're carrying it all in." Anything left unattended for even a second became theirs.
"My, oh my. No wonder anybody sends us anything," Irene said. "I think it would almost be offensive if they did."
"You say that, but I'd very much like some soap."
"Being dirty is fun."
"Irene, please. Think of the children."
"I am a child."
"You're eighteen!" Kate scoffed.
"Yes, but I'm still eligible for this, aren't I? So I must still be a child in some way or another."
"You certainly don't look underage," Kate smirked.
"Now who isn't being family friendly? Your parents would be appalled."
"I don't have any," Kate replied automatically. The comment, whilst not intended to be so, was jarring. "So I guess that's one less thing to worry about," she added, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't work.
"How old are you again?" Irene asked.
"I turned eighteen the day before the Reaping."
"What a lovely birthday present."
"Tell me about it."
"So who do you live with?
"My brother, Perry. He's three years older than me. My mother died when I was seven, and I've got no idea who my father is. Or was."
"I'm sorry," Irene said sympathetically. She reached out and ran her fingers through Kate's hair. Kate rested her head against Irene's hand appreciatively.
"Thanks, but it was a long time ago now. How about you?"
"There's only me."
"Really?" Kate asked. Irene withdrew her hand and arched an eyebrow.
"Why is that so hard to believe?"
"You're from One. I would have guessed that accident rates were much lower there."
"And you would be right. No, I was the only accident. My parents didn't plan me and they certainly didn't want me."
"You don't know that."
"Oh, I do, they told me it frequently enough. When I was fourteen it all got too much and I left. I moved in with my then boyfriend- don't look at me like that, dear, men have their uses- and I never looked back."
"Did they try and contact you?"
"Never. I think they were glad."
"You should be glad. They sound awful."
"I wonder if they heard that," Irene said thoughtfully. "There's a good chance we're on television right now, after all."
"Mr and Mrs Adler?" Kate said loudly. "Are you listening? If you are: you're awful, awful people. If you aren't, then I really hope somebody passes on the message." Irene began to laugh, and so Kate carried on. "But thanks for your daughter anyway. She's fabulous."
"I did turn out nicely," Irene agreed.
"I'll say."
"Katelyn!" Irene scolded. "Think of your poor brother having to listen to all this."
"I wouldn't worry, he's just as bad," she said. "So who are you living with right now? Back in One, I mean."
"Myself. I've found that I'm the best candidate."
"And you're okay with being alone?"
"Kate, dear, engage your brain before your mouth. You don't have to live with somebody to share their bed."
"I still think it sounds lonely. Fun, but lonely."
"It'd be nice to have somebody around, I suppose," Irene remarked. "To do my makeup, if nothing else."
"Maybe you'll marry a nice man who can do it for you."
"Unlikely."
"A nice woman?"
"That's better."
"Do you have a girlfriend right now?"
"Interested?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Miss Adler. I'm just nosy. I think everybody needs somebody in their lives."
"Good lord, how clichéd you sound. But if you really want to know then no, I don't. I'm very good at getting into relationships; not so good at staying in them. Never mind," she shrugged. "I imagine somebody will find a way to put up with me eventually."
"'ll tell you what," Kate said. "If we escape the Games or the world breaks or something, I'll come back to One with you."
"Why shouldn't I go back to Seven with you?"
"Because we're Lumber, and you're Luxury Goods. No, I'll come to Seven- I'll even bring Perry if he promises to behave himself- and I can move in with you."
"You'd do my makeup for me?"
"Of course."
"And would you be this mystical 'person in my life'?" Irene asked, eyes twinkling. Kate smiled at her, and moved a little closer.
"Well, I think we'd have to wait and find that out for ourselves."
"I can't believe we've wasted an entire day," Sherlock said in disgust. The storm was worse than ever. It hadn't budged from its overhead position since it begun; lightning and thunder remaining a simultaneous flash-bang.
"I haven't heard any cannon shots save the one this morning," John commented. "So I guess their plan didn't work."
The fact that Sherlock had been sat in a small space with John for well over five hours rather indicated that it had.
"I suppose not," he said instead.
"It's probably taken out some food supplies too, I suppose."
"Ahh, yes. Luckily our vast and wide array is unharmed." Everything they currently owned was positioned at their feet. The gun, the iodine, the sleeping bag, the rope, a flask of water, the matches, the torch, the pill bottle… and some berries.
"Well, there's always the rope."
"For eating or for hanging ourselves?"
"That depends on how annoying you get."
"I'm never annoying."
"Just when I thought you'd started making sense again."
"I always make sense."
"Really? You clearly haven't heard yourself sleep-deprived."
"Yes, very funny. Speaking of sleep, isn't it your turn now?" Sherlock said. "I can do the guard shift."
Not to mention that if John slept, Sherlock could take the opportunity to catch up on valuable acting time and hopefully pull in some more sponsorship money. It really is much easier to be in a relationship when the other person isn't involved.
Despite having spent a very long time in a very small space with John, nothing much had happened. They had discussed the numbers for a while longer and then the pills. After the fourth time Sherlock trailed off halfway through a sentence, John sighed and asked when he had last slept. When he finally got the answer out of Sherlock, John insisted that he took a nap. Immediately.
Sherlock had protested, but there was something strangely soothing about the drumming rain, even when it was punctuated by roars of thunder. It didn't help that anything he said to John, at all, was met with 'go to sleep, Sherlock'. And so he had curled up in some awkward position, given in, and managed to rest for a few hours. He did feel much better for it (not that he'd admit it).
It meant that he had not only wasted a whole day that could have been used investigating the markings, but he had wasted an entire afternoon that could have been used gaining sponsors. Sherlock scowled internally. He really did hate getting behind on things.
"Probably," John said, pulling Sherlock out his thoughts. "I don't know. It's awful out there, but maybe we should get back to looking anyway. We've been in here for a long time."
"Yes, and a few hours ago you explicitly banned me from going outside."
"That's now being outweighed by the concern that you'll actually die of frustration if you have to stay cooped in here for much longer."
Raw, genuine affection filled Sherlock's chest. It was the rooftop feeling all over again; the knowledge that somebody else in the world understood the way in which he worked. Sherlock was inches away from agreeing to go back out in the rain when John yawned.
"Sorry, sorry, ignore me," he said, but Sherlock couldn't. He was getting good at working out what would go down well with sponsors and what wouldn't, and forcing an exhausted boy- especially one who had spent four hours watching a silent vigil over his sleeping friend- out into the rain definitely fell into the latter category.
"No, don't worry about it. We'll stay here."
"Honestly, Sherlock, I'm fine."
"No, you aren't."
"I am. And like you said, we need the food."
"The sponsors will send something when the storm dies down," Sherlock said. John looked at him oddly.
"Oh? What makes you so sure of that?"
"Nothing," Sherlock said, backtracking. "Just hoping, that's all." Damn. Instead of explaining further, he moved so that his entire right side was pressed up against John. That should be sufficient distraction for any suspicious viewers.
"Go on, get some sleep," he told him. John stiffened for a moment, but then rested his head against Sherlock's, turning his face into the dark curls. The same inexplicable jolt from the Cornucopia ran through Sherlock, but he filed it away for later examination. His focus was on the almost inaudible words being spoken into his ear.
"Do you think the cameras can pick this up?" John was asking.
"What makes you ask that?" he replied out loud. They'll fill in the gaps themselves- and luckily, it won't be with what's actually happening.
"Because you don't do 'hoping'," John muttered into Sherlock's ear. "You do calculating, and plotting, and deducing. So you're sure. What makes you so sure?"
Sherlock hesitated. Telling John what was going on would make things much easier, but it also had the potential to ruin everything; to unravel all of his careful plans. Sherlock did not want to lose this game.
"I'm not as stupid as you think I am," John added.
"Really?"
"Try me," he breathed. That feels like a challenge.
"I don't think it's strange, no," Sherlock replied to a question that hadn't been asked. "It's not just us- lots of people have allied together this year." Go on, then, if you insist you can keep up. Work it out.
"So it's allying?" John whispered. Sherlock was almost proud. "That's what gets you sponsors?"
"Yes, but…" Sherlock offered the floor his full attention. "I think that, maybe, for some people, it's- it's more than just an alliance." He swallowed, as though he was struggling to phrase it properly. "Maybe out there, somewhere, there's a boy and a girl- or two boys or two girls, I don't know- that feel something… deeper. For each other."
"Oh," John said hollowly after a few seconds. "You think… that would get us more sponsors?"
"I know it."
There was a pause in which the rain outside and John's steady breathing formed a kind of white noise. A soft yet defeated sigh broke the calm. "This had better work," John warned, before drawing away.
John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's face, then away again. He went to speak, stopped himself, then tried again.
"Hold on- how do you know that there are people in the arena who feel… what you said?" he asked, back to normal volume. "And who do you mean?"
"Just a few other tributes I met in training," Sherlock said casually. "I knew that some of them had met others that they… liked. So I suppose I wondered if…"
"What?"
"If- well, if there was anybody that you-"
"No!" John said, too quickly. "I meant no, sorry. There's not."
"It's just that- well, when you asked if sticking with people in the arena was unusual, I thought that maybe it was because there was somebody-"
"No, no, there's nobody. How about you?"
"I- no. No, there's not."
"Sure?"
"Definitely. Like you said, there's nobody."
"Okay, fine. So that's all you wanted to know?"
"Yes, that's it. I was curious, that was all."
"Okay, I see."
"Glad we cleared that up".
"Me too."
"Yes." Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. "I think you should get some sleep now."
"Yes, sleep, okay. Wake me up when the storm ends- but if you want to go out before it does, then do."
"No, I'm staying under here for a while longer. I don't want to get my hair wet."
"You utter girl," John teased, and some normalcy was restored. John adjusted himself so that he was leaning against the side of the den that was most determinedly not Sherlock. "Well, if you get bored, you can always sleep some more. There's hardly much else to do."
"I'll consider it," Sherlock said. "Goodnight." He moved to awkwardly hug John with one arm, like he was afraid to get too close. Their eyes met as Sherlock leaned over, and John's mouth twisted into a small, conspiratorial grin. Sherlock gave him a barely perceptible nod of the head. Well played.
When Sherlock drew away only half a second later, John's face had fallen back into an embarrassed smile. He turned his head away, closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep. Watching John sleeping quietly, Sherlock was made hyperaware of his own breathing; his own heartbeat. He noted with interest that the lying had raised his pulse.
