A/N: last chapter before the arena.

At fifteen years old, during a bitter winter, Sherlock had gone wandering off, as he always did when he was bored at home. It was late in the day, and it had snowed the day before. As a result, most of the residents of the district were indoors that afternoon, leaving him free from their chatter and noise. His home, or rather, the home Mycroft had set up for him, was never quiet, always brightly lit and dominated by the feeling that he was constantly being watched.

Sherlock came to an old house, one long since abandoned. It had belonged to a tribute's family, and when their child had not returned, neither parent had been able to cope. The memories in the house had only made them hurt worse. Sherlock had only been a child when it happened, his mother skirting around the word "hanged" like it was poison on her lips. All the children regarded the house with a sort of morbid fascination, which grew into a reverent respect as they aged. The house had never been filled with another family. Instead, it was allowed to fall to ruin. Sherlock had come to it before, even though everyone else steered clear of it. Even the neighbors would have nothing to do with it, letting the wood rot and the grass grow too tall.

He pushed the door aside. It didn't stay on its hinges anymore. Instead it just had to be propped in the door frame. He left it open, letting in faint slants of late afternoon light.

The house's furniture had been left as well, and it sat in place, in ruin, all the fabrics torn and molded, all the wood threatening to snap at any second. Sherlock craned his neck, looking up through the hole in the roof. It left a spotlight in front of the fireplace. It wouldn't be long before there was nothing left of the house at all.

The half of the house not occupied by the living room had a small second floor above it. Sherlock climbed the creaking steps to the one upstairs room. The roof was still intact here, the only light coming from the broken window.

He slowly walked across the room, hands in his pockets. The wood groaned under his feet as it did every time he came up here. But this time, he was too caught up in his own thoughts to notice that spots in the wood had gone soft, and as he put his weight on one such place, the floor gave way. It caved in, sending him crashing to the first floor below, landing badly. And in a second, the roof followed, crushing him, and burying him. He could feel his legs pinned and knew he was bleeding from multiple places. He cursed himself for being so stupid, so easily distracted, and he felt a creeping fear rise up inside him before his head began to spin and everything went black.

... ... ...

When he opened his eyes, his head was pounding, and he didn't know where he was.

"You're very lucky," a voice said. "The neighbors saw you go in, so they went looking for you when they heard the house collapse."

Sherlock said nothing. His brain felt too foggy to form anything eloquent. He imagined it was how normal people felt every day.

There was a boy sitting across the room from him. He was maybe a few years older than Sherlock, but he had the tired expression of someone who has already seen a lifetime's worth of sad things.

Sherlock looked around the room. It was someone's home, but this room had been set up as a makeshift clinic. There were little hints of what passed for medicine all over: syringes, cloths, various plants, and occasional vials or bottles of highly coveted medication. Sherlock was laid out on a hard wooden table, no doubt one that was originally intended for dining.

"We're keeping you here for the night. My father's already examined you, and we've treated your wounds. I'm just going to be over here for the night to keep an eyes on things." Sherlock nodded. "Can you sit up?" The boy came to stand by Sherlock's table, his hands braced should Sherlock black out again. But he was able to sit without a problem. "Can you talk?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what happened?"

"Soft spot on the floor, where it had rotted out."

"Be more careful next time. No more abandoned houses." The boy set about checking his eyes, reflexes, looking him over and asking if he could move all his extremities. Sherlock winced more than once. "In pain, I imagine. I'm afraid there's not much we can do for that right now. You'll just have to get some rest."

Sherlock eyed the bottles and vials, his gaze lingering far too long on the syringe. He saw the boy out of the corner of his eye, following his line of sight before turning back to Sherlock, his expression tinged with disapproval.

"Those are far too heavy for you."

"What makes you so sure?"

"We give those to people who are dying. If I had something safe to give you for the pain, I would. But I don't."

Sherlock still stared at the syringe. It looked inviting. The boy snapped in front of his eyes.

"Hey. Leave it alone, yeah?" Sherlock hesitated, but finally nodded. "That's the last thing you need."

The boy tended to him all night. By morning, he was visibly weary, but he never once dozed off or had someone relieve him. Sherlock got the impression that this was common enough fare for the boy, and when his father came downstairs the next morning, looking nearly as exhausted as his son, he reexamined Sherlock and declared him safe to send home. The father seemed in a hurry to be getting rid of him, and whenever he spoke, there was a tension in his face that the boy seemed to understand. Sherlock wasn't sure what it meant, but he was still slower than usual, certainly not up to par, and so he tried to not wonder about it.

Sherlock's mother came for him, and after many thanks, she led him out of the house. As the door fell shut behind them, he heard the boy say, "Can I go to sleep for a while?"

"I wish you could, John. But we have to leave, and now. There's been an explosion in the mines. We'll need to bring the gun with us."

When he was resting at home later that day, Sherlock heard more about the accident at the mines from his mother's friends as they came to talk about it and inquire after Sherlock's well being. And as hard as he tried, he couldn't imagine the blond boy covered in blood from the coal dust tinged bodies of miners.

"So what skill did you decide to show them?" John asked. They sat out in the hall, waiting to be called in for their evaluations, the metal of the bench cold beneath them. Irene had given them plenty of advice, explaining how it would go, and despite John being confident in his abilities, he still felt like nothing would be enough to really help any.

Sherlock sat beside him, arms crossed over his chest and a sulky expression on his face, one that John had become more than accustomed too since they left District 12.

"Sherlock?"

"I heard you." He continued to stare straight ahead, but never did speak again. John didn't much appreciate being ignored so blatantly, but he wasn't going to keep making an effort if Sherlock was going to be like that. John looked away from him, feeling himself settling into a bad mood as they called Sherlock's name. He left without even glancing at John, completely caught up in his own head.

The black mood intensified, and as he waited, it shifted from irritation at Sherlock to a full blown dislike of everyone and everything. They shouldn't have to be doing this. No one should have to perform so that someone could assign them betting odds for the masses to use, statistics on how likely they were to die. No one should have to have interviews and pageants and pretend that everything was okay.

By the time the voice called his name, John had reached a point where all he wanted to do was walk in and tell them all to fuck off and leave it at that. But Mycroft, and probably even Irene, would never let him hear the end of it, and logically he knew he couldn't do something that asinine anyway.

He took a deep breath to calm himself down, and opened the door.

He scanned his eyes over the room, looking at his weapon options. He had debated what to show them, and thought it best to play it safe, maybe show them some hunting, hitting moving targets with a bow or thrown knives. He had access to any weapon he could want. Part of him looked at the different racks of items trying to deduce what Sherlock had shown them, but there was no way to tell.

The judges stood above him on a platform, talking amongst themselves. One of them saw him and paused for a few seconds to say he had ten minutes before turning back to his partner in conversation. He might as well have not been in the room. They wouldn't quit talking.

He felt anger begin to bubble back to the surface. "Excuse me?" They continued to carry on as if he wasn't there.

And how much attention had they paid Sherlock? He was insufferable, yes, but he could command a room by presence alone. Surely they hadn't blatantly ignored him. John didn't care that he was an underdog favorite. Being well liked was worthless if he couldn't get anyone's attention.

He spoke again, louder this time. "I said excuse me." Unbelievable. They were willing to send him to die the least they could do was pay attention. His patience wore thinner.

John glanced at the table nearest him and saw the selection of guns. They weren't as extensive as the other weapons, but they were enough. He picked up a small handgun and looked at the judges on the platform, eying the lights above their heads, the glass tubes casting their makeup-coated skin in a sickly glow. He raised the gun and shot.

Glass rained down on them as the lights shattered. Some of them yelped or screamed. They were thrown into half darkness, in partial silhouette from the one intact light in the very back. They stood in the shadows, finally quiet. Some of them stared at him, mouths hanging open. He was sure they thought he was terribly rude, no doubt an insult to their Capitol manners. But he gave no apologies, and he laid the gun back on the table, and left the room without another word.

... ... ...

John kept to himself until the reveal of their scores. He knew he'd be in trouble with Mycroft, and possibly Irene as well, and he was nearly sure that even Sherlock would at least give him strange looks. He didn't want to talk to anyone, and so he hid as best as he could. He put off returning to their floor for as long as possible.

And as soon as he walked inside, Mycroft opened his mouth, but he was cut off by Irene bursting into a laughing fit from her place on the couch.

"Well, you made an impression, I'll give you that!" Mycroft gave her a disapproving look, turning to John.

"I heard about your little performance in there. What were you thinking?"

"Shut up, Iceman, they're reading the scores!" Irene said through her laughter. She fell silent, sitting on the edge of the couch in a bathrobe, her face bright with excitement. Mycroft conceded, standing behind her, with a broody expression that John was convinced ran in the family.

He finally saw Sherlock sitting in a chair across the room, watching John with quiet but marked fascination. He only looked away when the announcer began reading the scores.

John stood in his place, watching as Jim Moriarty and Kitty Riley from District 1 were both awarded tens. Sherlock frowned at the screen as Moriarty's score was read, and then he slipped into thought while they went through the other districts.

Most of the scores were average enough, a few abysmally low, a few high enough that they made John concerned. The woman from District 8 scored an eight. He hoped that would be enough to keep her alive for a while at least.

Sherlock scored a nine, and seemed satisfied enough. He ignored a smile and words of congratulations from both Irene and Mycroft. He seemed more interested in John's score than his own.

Eleven.

Irene clapped and gave a cheer of delight, but Mycroft remained stoney.

"Don't applaud, Miss Adler."

"Why not?"

"Because it was stupid. You must make calculated moves, careful moves. You cannot display such impulsive behavior in the arena. It will get you killed. And on top of that, it was terribly rude."

Sherlock finally spoke. "What did you do?" He stared John down, curious.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Mycroft cut him off, turning to Sherlock. "John decided to open fire on the judges."

"Only on their light fixtures," Irene said, chuckling.

"He picked up a gun and shot the lights out."

Sherlock looked from Mycroft back to John, and after a pause asked, "Why did you do that?"

"They weren't paying attention."

Mycroft stared at the ceiling as if he'd been cursed with the world's greatest burden.

Sherlock locked eyes with John, and finally, he smiled, not a performed smile like he had given to the Capitol. A real one. It was the first hint of amusement he'd ever shown. He said nothing, but was still smiling when he looked away.

... ... ...

Sherlock actually spoke at dinner that night, but only to John. He ignored Mycroft entirely, and only communicated with Irene through a series of nods and occasional glares. Even to John, he only said a few words, but it was certainly a dramatic improvement.

That night, John made an offhanded remark to Sherlock about how he had been nearly sociable all evening.

He gave John another of those small, entertained smiles, and said, "What you did, that was good."

"Mycroft doesn't seem to think so."

"Precisely."

John laughed. "Well, hopefully it won't come back to haunt me."

"Either way. It was..." He stopped, trying to find a word that suited him in his no doubt massive vocabulary. He smirked, and before he turned to walk off, he said, "Impressive."

Greg Lestrade's face dominated the screen as John watched backstage. He smiled broadly, waving at the audience, the lights reflecting off the metallic silver in his hair. He spoke excitedly to the people, his enthusiasm making them cheer louder and louder. He had always been a favorite host, though Sherlock had muttered something about him being "rather like a dull slapstick policeman." His opinion was the minority one, of course. Lestrade was a bright spot in this mess. The way he played it, you could almost believe that the tributes really were just having a cozy little chat with him, instead of being displayed like cattle.

Both John and Sherlock closely watched the tributes from District 1, Jim and Kitty. They'd both been dressed like royalty again. A crown seemed to be Jim's token accessory. Whenever he spoke, the crowds fell in love with him a little bit more. And while he was superficially charming much in the way that Sherlock could be, he made John uneasy. There was something in the way he moved that wasn't quite right, and sometimes his sarcasm didn't sound quite so sarcastic. Kitty wasn't all that better, but her true self was more poorly concealed, and it was clear that that was what she intended. There was a sort of ruthlessness in her eyes that made John think she'd willingly chase down any one of them, and lose no sleep over doing so.

The girl from District 8, Molly, was dressed like a girl next door, with her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She was able to smile sweetly at the camera, and any time she stumbled awkwardly over her words, Lestrade made sure no one noticed. He looked at her with a sort of affection, and John wondered if, under different circumstances, they would have been good friends.

Some of the tributes were children, and the very sight of them up there on stage made John feel sick. They couldn't have been older than ten, and they were going to be competing against adults who didn't care that they had only just entered the world. There was no way they would make it; those children were going to die.

He still felt dizzy when they called his name.

... ... ...

He hated being on stage as soon as he set foot on it. He couldn't see for all the lights, and the noise was deafening. But he put on a smile and shook Lestrade's hand, relaxing a little at his whispered words of, "It'll only be a minute, John. I'll make it easy as I can." And then he clapped him on the shoulder as he turned back out to the crowd. He sat down in the chair next to John's and waited for the applause to die down.

The whole interview felt hazy. Half of his brain was still thinking about the dead children. He could hardly focus on the simple questions Lestrade asked him. There was, of course, mention of how he volunteered for Harry, and John gave some reply about how he loved her, how they were family, how he could never let his family go when he could go in their place. He didn't think it would go over well if he said, "She's an alcoholic and would have lasted two seconds at best, assuming she didn't kill herself before training was even over."

So he did what Irene had told him to do. He played the game.

... ... ...

John finally started coming down once he was backstage where it was safe and he didn't have to smile for cameras or cheerily answer questions. The audience had loved him, or so said Mycroft and Irene, but he barely heard them. It was all becoming too real.

He leaned against a wall, focusing on his breathing, watching Sherlock walk out on stage. Although "walk" wasn't quite the right word. Sherlock didn't really walk anywhere. It was more of a stride. John watched his performance. He could easily tell how fake it was, but if the shouts were any indication, the audience couldn't. But Sherlock was clearly wearing his public face, and it was so different from the one John had grown used to.

Anthea had dressed him sleekly in all black, and if you couldn't see his eyes – the only splash of color he had – he looked sort of strange surrounded by all the Capitol flash and glitz. He was a single frame of black and white film spliced into a color reel.

Lestrade asked him some basic questions, bantered with him a little. Sherlock had a good voice for these sorts of things. When the camera would cut to audience members reacting, he could see how effective this persona was. The audience had never put up with a single hour of his moodiness or intellectual superiority. To them he was just an elegant man with a nice voice.

"Anyone you want to say hello to while you're up here, Sherlock? Girlfriend or boyfriend?" Lestrade gave him a teasing grin.

Sherlock gave a fake good-natured laugh. "No."

"Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Not really my area."

"Any friends then?"

"The closest I've ever had to a friend, is, regrettably, here with me."

John's mouth fell open in disbelief. Seriously? The majority of their time here, Sherlock had been standoffish and acerbic. And while he had warmed up a little, he certainly wasn't expecting the word "friend" to ever come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

"You mean John?"

"Yes."

"You two knew each other before coming here, then?"

"In a way."

"Tell us."

"Well, John has always been an excellent healer in our district, and he learned from his father, of course. And although he probably does not remember it, he and his father saved my life once, when we were younger."

"Really?"

"Yes. That's always been John's business, really. Saving lives. And it's quite a shame that he won't be able to save lives now." The voices rose in sympathetic murmurs, the camera cutting to show everyone looking woefully at Sherlock, some of them with their hands over their hearts.

John couldn't believe the line. It was risky, reminding everyone there about what they would all be doing in a few days. But it also made John look good to the people, more so than it did Sherlock. Which begged the question of why someone so self-serving would say anything that might benefit someone who was technically his opponent.

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully at Sherlock's remark. "Did you two talk a lot after that?"

"Amazingly, no. Although I wish we had. He's a far better man than I am." Sherlock gave the closest thing he could to a humble smile.

As soon as Sherlock stepped out of sight of the cameras, the smile evaporated and it was replaced with a look of pure distaste. He came and stood by John, glancing up at the screen before rolling his eyes.

"What was all that, then?"

Sherlock looked down at him. "What do you mean?"

"All that mess about us being friends and me being some sort of noble healer." Sherlock only shrugged. "Playing the game, are we?"

He paused before he spoke, saying quietly, "Of course."

Irene came up to them in her clicking heels and said, "Wonderful line, Mr. Holmes. Did John feed you that one?" Sherlock shook his head, and Irene turned to John for confirmation. "Are you serious? Did Sherlock Holmes successfully navigate a public social interaction without you giving him his lines? Well, maybe you aren't a lost cause yet," she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a small nod, pretending to be fascinated by Lestrade talking on stage.

John was still having trouble wrapping his head around the why, when a horrible thought hit him as he watched Sherlock slip into that mode of deep thought he often assumed.

What if Sherlock was beginning to make John look good because he was already convinced he was a lost cause himself, and that someone in their district should have a chance? Was Sherlock already that convinced that he was going to die?

The night before the Games, John couldn't sleep. He hated his body refusing to let him rest when that was what he needed most. It was safe to fall asleep in this bedroom. It wouldn't be safe to sleep in the arena. But logic can't always overcome instinct, and the fear that coursed through him drowned out any rationality that he had left.

He left his room, pacing around their floor, rubbing his hands over his eyes. When he walked into the living room, he stopped, staring at the figure in the window. Sherlock was sitting in the window seat, his back leaning against the wall and his arms resting on his knees. He was silhouetted by the lights of the Capitol, which he stared at with a blank indifference.

"Can't sleep either?"

Sherlock didn't startle at his voice. In all likelihood, he'd known John was there since the second he walked in the room. He answered without looking at him. "I have never been one for long nights of sleep. They are a waste of valuable time."

John went and sat in front of him on the other end of the window seat. There was no way it was the city lights that were really holding his attention. He might as well have been blind to them.

"Are you worried about tomorrow?"

"Really, John, there's no sense in worrying. There's no way to change it."

John stared hard at him, prickled by his nonchalance until his eyes fell to Sherlock's hands. There was a barely noticeable shaking to them.

"Don't lie to me."

Sherlock jerked his head around, glaring. But he saw John looking at his shaking hands, and scoffed. "Body's betraying me."

"I would say that it's perfectly logical to be afraid in a situation like ours."

"Afraid?" He said the word with distaste, shaking his head. "I'm fine. There is nothing wrong with me."

"I didn't say there was. But look, you wouldn't be sitting up here alone in the middle of the night if you weren't afraid."

"Then what does that say about you?"

"I have no problem admitting it, Sherlock. I'm terrified. And with reason. So don't tell me you're fine. None of us are fine." Sherlock said nothing in reply. "Can I ask you something? What was that, during the interviews?"

"What do you mean?"

"All that stuff you said to Lestrade."

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. "You all told me to act, so I did."

John sat in silence for a while, staring at his hands. "You're wrong, you know."

"About what?"

"I do remember. Sitting up with you that night after you nearly got yourself killed."

When John looked back up, Sherlock was watching him carefully. "You helped save my life. Then you understand that at the interviews, I was attempting to, in some small part, repay the favor. Every audience is full of potential sponsors looking for their favorite tribute. Of course, the unfortunate reality of it is that we still aren't likely to survive this."

"Maybe not even the first day."

"Maybe not."

John sighed. "Well, if you die, it won't be at my hands, Sherlock." Sherlock only nodded, a silent "likewise," or so John hoped. "I don't want to kill anyone. And those tributes that are children? I could never even pretend that I would be able to kill them."

"Even if they were trying to kill you?"

"They're maybe ten years old, Sherlock. They're just kids."

"Remember that all of the tributes are usually just kids. We are anomalies because of the Quarter Quell. In a regular year, the arena would be nothing but children. I've watched children kill other children before. I have no reason to believe that they wouldn't at least try to kill us as well."

"I hope it doesn't come to that. I would never be able to live with myself."

"Then pray that they die quick deaths."

"I don't want them to die at all."

"But they will, John. You know that as well as I do."

John had never felt so defeated.

"I'm supposed to put people back together. I'm not supposed to hurt them. I'm a healer, not a murderer."

"Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances."

"Yeah, but I can't just actively hunt people down. It goes against everything I've ever believed."

"Your beliefs don't matter anymore. You are no longer John Watson. You are a tribute."

"I never asked for this. None of us did. I just want to go home and pretend this never happened. I want to go home, take care of my sister, and quietly live my life. The district is miserable some days, but it's better than this. And you're right, we'll both probably end up dead. And I'm glad Mary will look after Harry when the time comes, but she shouldn't have to. It shouldn't be like this."

John thought Sherlock would let the silence stretch on again, an impartial observer to John's worries. But he said in a very matter of fact voice, "I did not leave behind anyone who relied on me. I won't be missed." He didn't speak as if this bothered him at all, as if he were simply stating a fact.

John almost let the words slip out: "I would miss you." But he stopped himself, knowing that Sherlock would accuse him of pointless sentimentality.

And besides, to miss someone, you had to be alive to miss them.