A/N: I'm just going to preface this with a warning.
At the end of this chapter is a potentially very upsetting mercy killing (aka there's a reason why the gun has been mentioned as a tool to end suffering multiple times thus far).
So be forewarned. It's extremely unpleasant.
I'm sorry in advance.
Irene explained the cornucopia to them, telling them that if they went anywhere near it that it would increase their likelihood of dying by quite a bit, but a single shared look between the two of them made it clear that they had no intentions of heeding her warnings. Neither of them would run away from the only resources they had. Still, Irene stressed the importance of getting the hell out as fast as possible, which was something all three of them could agree on.
John sat in his seat on the Capitol hovercraft, looking at the other tributes. In such a set up, they looked like soldiers, waiting to be deployed. Across from him sat Molly, her hands visibly shaking. She winced when her tracker was inserted into her arm. Someone as sweet and sensitive as she appeared to be would last mere minutes in the arena.
They were all taken to individual rooms, where their stylists would see them off. John didn't like not being able to see Sherlock. He'd grown used to him since the Reaping, and there was something terribly final about this separation, as if it was supposed to remind them that they were from the same district, but they were not members of the same team.
Mrs. Hudson hugged him tight. She offered no platitudes, no promises that it would all be okay. For all her kindness, she had a realistic streak in her, and both of them knew there was no sense in sugar coating the situation. But she did tell him to be careful, and to fight hard, and despite the tears in her eyes, she stood tall when she spoke to him. John couldn't understand how a woman like her had ever been part of the Capitol. Maybe she thought that being a stylist would do the least damage, may even help someone. That was the only explanation John could come up with that would account for her heart.
But there was no time for sentimental farewells. John had one passing thought that at least Sherlock would be able to cope easily with these final goodbyes, since he deplored sentiment so much.
John had expected panic, fear, some sort of adrenaline rush, but as the platform lifted him into the arena, he felt a sort of horrible calm wash over him. It made him wonder about himself, albeit briefly. What could you say about someone who was calmer when faced with death than when faced with an ordinary life?
The arena came into crystal perfect view in an instant. Sharp mountains, and cold air, wrapped in winter. The trees were all bare save for the patches of evergreens in the forest. The tributes stood around the cornucopia in a clearing, surrounded on all sides by dense woods.
John could see his breath, a cloud forming in front of his face as his breathing quickened, his muscles tensing in anticipation. He looked at the other tributes, all of them eying each other with distrust and in some cases, murderous rage. He tried to find Sherlock, and finally saw him, his face blank, staring at no one and nothing.
The voice boomed across the arena, the countdown beginning. Every second seemed longer than the one before it.
John's eyes flitted between tributes, before he stopped, his mouth forming a silent "no." And then the explosion came, one of the platforms disappearing in smoke and fire. A few other tributes' balance faltered, their eyes looking around frantically trying to process what had just happened. But John had seen it. He had seen the woman step off her platform. It was no accident. She had stared forward and taken one deliberate step. John's stomach sank. The woman had made her choice.
He almost missed the end of the countdown, as did many of them, distracted by the woman's death. But then it became a blur of running figures, of screams and battle cries. He saw Sherlock grab something and bolt for the woods, another tribute narrowly missing him with an arrow. John whirled around, his eyes finding the harsh metallic glint of a gun. He ran for it even as another tribute came from the other direction, trying to beat him to it. But the tribute stopped suddenly, only feet from John, eyes wide in shock, and then she fell to her knees, a spear sticking out of her back. The boy who had thrown it, maybe seventeen if that, came forward, wrenching it out of her. John reached forward, grabbing the gun and a knife beside it, and without a second thought for the dead woman, he ran.
The empty branches of trees cut at his face as he rushed through the woods, his heart pounding in his ears, only barely overshadowed by the distant booming of cannons, tally marks of the dead.
... ... ...
When he was far enough away from the cornucopia to feel relatively safe, John slowed to a walk, taking deep breaths of the cold air that burned his lungs. He was fairly sure he was alone in his section of woods. There were no signs of anyone else. He realized how loud he sounded in the forest, and forced himself to breathe quietly. Every sound seemed to echo, seemed ten times louder than it probably was. Every snapping twig was just a potential harbinger of another tribute.
Night came quickly in the winter light, slanting sharply through the trees and casting shadows that tricked John's eyes more than once. He had walked all afternoon, feeling like if he stopped he would be found, but he knew walking through the night was not an option. When he found the fallen trees, he took it as a sign. It was a better shelter than he could probably make, and though it offered little space, it offered plenty of camouflage. John could see out well enough, but only very specific angles would allow anyone passing to see in. And while that wasn't ideal, it was better than nothing in an arena that offered very little cover.
He sat cross-legged, rubbing his eyes, wondering if his pulse would ever slow down, and thinking that the next time it did would be when it stopped entirely. He looked at his weapons sitting on the dirt in front of him, and he picked up one in each hand. John knew he was already luckier than half the people in the arena, having a weapon he could work with. But it was a hollow comfort.
The last daylight finally vanished entirely. John could see a few points of light far above him, a moon and stars placed there by the Capitol. It grew colder, but not unbearably so. They had had bad winters in the district before, and he had survived those. It was better to be cold than to give yourself away with fire. And for once, John was grateful that he was used to the sensation of hunger. It would make suffering the barren arena a little easier.
With a fanfare, the sky came alive. John craned his neck for a better view as the dead tributes' faces were given their few seconds of recognition. One of the child tributes was among the fallen. John was amazed any of the children were left. Maybe they had hid like he had. He saw the face of the woman who had committed suicide, one of the tributes from District 5. But both Molly and the man from her district, Mike, were both still alive. And John breathed a true sigh of relief when Sherlock's face was not shown. He had survived the first day.
John knew sleep was unlikely. How could he rest wondering if someone would find him? He tried to form some sort of plan of survival, but his brain felt foggy from the rush of adrenaline that had finally overtaken him in the cornucopia. If the reality of his situation was affecting him this much, then what effect was it having on someone who relied so heavily on logic as Sherlock?
As the night dragged on, his thoughts landed on Sherlock more than once, no matter how many times he told himself to quit worrying about someone who was no longer his friend, but his competition.
... ... ...
Sherlock did not stop when night fell.
He had no intentions of sleeping, not while there were still so many people in the arena. It would be suicide to let his guard down. The cannons had gone off even after the cornucopia battle was over, evidence of what happened to those who lulled themselves into a false sense of security.
So he walked slowly through the woods, as quietly as he could manage. He stuck to sections of woods heavy with evergreens, fewer leaves to crunch beneath his feet and more cover should another tribute appear.
He crossed into a clearing, and nearly stumbled over the corpse of a dead tribute, wondering why the body hadn't been removed. And then he raised his eyes and saw two more, Careers. And sitting on a log on the opposite side of the clearing was an old man. Around him was a vast array of weapons, presumably taken from the dead tributes. He sat with his hands on either side of him, just watching Sherlock, making no move to attack or hurt him.
"Hello, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock took a few steps closer, still keeping a safe distance, his eyes falling to the two dead Careers at the man's feet.
"How did you do it?" He looked up, meeting the man's eyes, but he remained silent. "You're an old man. How did you kill them?"
"I didn't. They killed themselves. Those kids from the good districts, they think they're so much better than everyone else. Think they're smarter, stronger, better trained. They may be a couple of those things, but they aren't smarter. You think you're smarter than everyone else, too, Mr. Holmes. The others couldn't turn down my offer, once I made it. Can you?"
"I'm sure I could manage to walk away from here. I have no interest in suicide. And your games won't keep you alive out here. You're as good as dead anyway." Sherlock turned to walk away, but the man stopped him.
"I wouldn't step that way, Mr. Holmes. I know I'm good as dead. That's why I thought I ought to have my fun while I still can. Turn around." Sherlock did as he said. The man's hand had moved. It held a knife. In the ground, Sherlock saw a faint glimmer, wire tied around part of the fallen tree. He followed it, a silver gleam that split into different directions like lines on a map. And in the trees, he saw the shine of moonlight reflecting off the partially concealed blades, hung like guillotines. "You didn't think I'd only have the weapons around me, did you? Now come sit, and hear my offer. You have a far better chance with that than you do with my blades, or my gun, or my spear."
Sherlock stood a few feet away, but refused to sit.
The man reached inside his pockets, pulling from each a handful of berries. "Take your pick, Mr. Holmes."
"What is this?"
"One hand is safe, one hand is not."
"And you know which one."
"Of course. Whichever ones you pick, I eat the others."
"Why risk me choosing the right ones, and you having to kill yourself? Why leave your life up to chance?"
"Look around. It's not chance. It's the game, Mr. Holmes. All part of the game." He glanced at the dead woman near his feet. "They lost. So tell me, are you more clever than they are?"
"It wouldn't be difficult."
"This isn't the first time I've done this. When I wasn't in the arena, I would just let them walk away if they wanted no part in it. But I can't do that here. There's no walking away from the Games, Mr. Holmes. Now, you can pick at random, you can make it chance. Or you can think, and win the game." He held out one hand. "Here. Am I giving you the good hand, or the bad one? You tell me. Everyone says you're a proper genius. Prove it."
"You risked your own life to kill three people. Why? Seems contradictory to surviving the Games."
"No one survives the Games. You know that as well as I do. Like you said, I'm good as dead. I know it."
Sherlock stared at his outstretched hand, grabbing it with his own, holding it up in the weak light. As he reached for his other hand, doing the same, he said, "The weapons you have, there's too many to just be from the tributes you've killed, and I highly doubt you risked running into the cornucopia, so where did they come from?"
"I have a sponsor."
"Multiple sponsors, apparently."
"No, just one. And he's out here in this arena with both of us. See, me and him, we have an understanding. He stashes his weapons with me, I kill whoever comes along. Sure, we'll have our differences later, but for now it's a great arrangement. And he'd be thrilled to know that you'd come along."
Sherlock stopped, watching the smile spread across the man's face. "Who is he? Which tribute?"
"Make your choice, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock looked at the two hands. The berries were identical, as far as he could tell. He hated his mind, half focusing on the old man's "sponsor," instead of focusing on the task at hand. He had always had a brilliant mind, but he was also always under ideal conditions.
He stared at the berries, or pretended to, trying to see the man's expression in his peripheral vision. The man was about to speak again, when Sherlock reached for one hand, and saw a tiny flicker in his eyes, a miniscule tensing of his muscles in his neck. Sherlock tipped the hand, rolling the berries into his own.
The man looked at him and nodded, smiling. The moment's hesitation before the two of them ate the berries told Sherlock all he needed to know. Once they had both swallowed, Sherlock held his hands clasped behind his back, waiting to hear confirmation of what he already knew.
"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. I guess you are a proper genius." The man didn't look despairing, but strangely at peace. He reached into his pockets and pulled out more of the berries, handing them to Sherlock. "Or maybe you're just lucky." Sherlock took them, examining them closer now that the threat of death was removed. At least, he hoped it was. He hoped it wasn't a bluff on the man's part. But then he saw it, the slightest difference in color. It may have been more easily detectable in daylight, but at night? It was barely noticeable even to Sherlock, let alone the other tributes. The man had been right. They had plenty of strength and training, but they weren't smarter. Even Sherlock had gambled a bit, reading the man rather than his weapon of choice.
He looked up, hearing a groan. Sherlock almost left, worrying his noise would draw attention. But it was only a few more minutes before it was over.
The cannon sounded.
Sherlock dropped the berries to the ground, watching them roll to a stop below him. The old man had fallen from his seat, his body slumped on the ground with the tributes he'd killed. A fitting end.
He looked up in the trees at the blades. The man hadn't hung them there of course. He was too weak for that. But his sponsor, that was another matter entirely. The trap set him ill at ease. What if someone else were to find a way to utilize it? To attack an unsuspecting tribute, walking through the woods like he had been? What if that tribute was John? He took his knife and bent down, grabbing the pieces of wire in his hand and cutting through them. All around him there were dull thuds and swishing noises as the blades fell from the trees, lodging into the ground or clanging off the rocks. With a sickening sound, one of the makeshift guillotines landed in one of the corpses, slicing into his abdomen, the moonlight reflecting off it, hitting Sherlock in the eyes. He squinted in the single slant of light.
Whenever the hovercraft would come to retrieve bodies, they would take whatever weapons were lodged in them as well. And Sherlock decided that the old man's sponsor should have to suffer the loss of his stash. After all, his player had lost the game.
Sherlock took every weapon he could, spearing the bodies with blades and arrows. It felt macabre to do, but at least it would prevent anyone else from using them. All he kept was another knife with a better blade. The rest, the Capitol could keep.
He craned his neck back, looking up at the sky for a moment before stalking off into the woods. Minutes later, he heard the noise, the machine generated rush of wind through the trees. He turned around, looking back toward the clearing, just able to see the first body being taken up, an arrow falling from her corpse and landing on the log, its tip embedded in the dead wood.
... ... ...
John had heard the cannon in the night. It had jostled him out of a doze, making his heart hammer in his chest for a few seconds. He only prayed it wasn't Sherlock.
When morning came, he ventured out of his hiding place for fresh water, making sure he paid close attention so he could retrace his steps to it later.
The night had been long, cold, and laced with intermittent panic. But no other tributes had crossed his path. He had survived the first day, and as far as he knew, so had Sherlock.
Despite everything, there was at least something calming about the arena itself. While the mountains weren't the old weathered hills of his district, they had a beauty to them, and sometimes, for a few seconds, John could almost forget that it was all created, designed by someone. It wasn't a perfect forest. It wasn't real. He just wished the rest of it all wasn't real either.
He was only about ten minutes from his shelter when he heard the gasping. He followed the sound, gun at the ready, just in case.
When he rounded a section of rocks, he saw the body on the ground. He let his hand fall to his side, his stomach suddenly lead.
It was one of the child tributes, a little girl of maybe nine or ten years old. She had been stabbed in the stomach, a wound that would cause a slow bleed, a long death. Whoever had done it could have put her out of her misery, but had decided instead to let her linger, to let pain etch years into her young face before she died. John looked around, almost hoping that the other tribute was still nearby, that John had only interrupted their killing. But there was no sign of anyone. Just the little girl, in too much pain even for tears, her tiny body soaked in blood.
He walked over to her, kneeling beside her. She didn't cringe away from him; he wasn't even sure she could. Her blue eyes stared up blindly for a few seconds, the filtered slants of light coming through the trees making her squint, before they shifted just a little bit, to watch John. He had never seen such hopelessness. Her hand pressed against her stomach, trying either to futilely stop the bleeding or trying to somehow dull the pain.
John rested a hand on her head, gently ruffling her hair as he considered the options. Stay with her while she died. Leave and pretend he'd never seen her. End the suffering.
He glanced at the gun in his other hand. While he always maintained that he could never kill a child, there had been times back home where, at the parents' request, he had been called to end their child's suffering. But those scenarios had always felt so clinical. He had always reserved the gun for adult lost causes. The children were always given something from the precious stores of medication to end their pain, a quiet and mostly comfortable death.
He had never dreamed of a situation like this.
The girl reached out a bloody hand and grabbed his wrist, her fingerprints smearing on John's skin. She pulled his hand closer, her fingers trying to grab hold of the metal of the gun, but the blood made it too slick. Finally her hand dropped, and tears welled up in her eyes. She choked out a few words, her voice breaking, "Make it stop. It hurts. Make it stop." She clamped her eyes shut, her hand falling back to her stomach as she winced.
John looked around the woods, looking even to the sky, hoping the cannon would sound, hoping they would come and take her body away like vultures. But the bleed was too slow to draw them in. It could be hours before they finally came.
John held the gun against the girl's head, and watched as she breathed out a sigh of relief.
He shut his eyes and pulled the trigger.
... ... ...
He couldn't go looking for water. He couldn't do anything. All he could do was stand and walk away. But the walk turned to a run as he heard the cannon sound. The vultures would be there soon.
John collapsed on the floor of his shelter, dropping the gun to the ground beside him. He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face against his arms as he hyperventilated. He fought back tears, barely successful. He heard Sherlock's voice in his head, bits and pieces of conversation echoing.
"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. Everyone is capable of murder under the right circumstances."
"It goes against everything I've ever believed."
"Your beliefs don't matter anymore. You are no longer John Watson. You are a tribute."
... ... ...
That night, the sky came to life showing the fallen tributes. And while John was grateful to not see Sherlock's face, he felt like he was being strangled when they showed the little girl. Her name, he'd never even known her name till he saw it beneath her picture – Claudette Bruhl.
He saw her face plastered there for all to see, all its innocence preserved in the special photo. But every picture of her now would be tainted in John's mind by her corpse, by the smeared bloody fingerprints that still encircled his wrist.
He saw her face a thousand times that night.
A/N: A Certain Slant of Light - /dickinson/830/