For the first time, John could understand how Harry had become an alcoholic.

He walked numbly through the woods. Sleep had never come. Everything had been the girl all night. She was burned onto the inside of his eyelids.

His adrenaline was beginning to fade, though, and he was starting to feel weighted down, starting to truly feel the exhaustion and the screaming ache of his tense muscles. He had found water – there were streams enough for that – and knew he should find something to eat, but the very thought of food turned his stomach.

Then the woods exploded.

The first explosion nearly knocked John to his knees. He grabbed on to a tree, trying to steady himself, looking wildly around for any indication of what had happened. He saw the smoke less than twenty feet from him, some of the nearby trees fighting to not catch fire, the dead leaves below them burning.

John waited for the smoke to clear a little, trying to make sense of it. There were no other tributes around as far as he knew. He walked a few steps closer, the smoke stinging his eyes as he tried to see what had caused the explosion.

The woods exploded again, this time several feet closer, shattered pieces of wood and bark flying at John like shrapnel. No, not like shrapnel. It was shrapnel, pieces of metal, sharp as knives.

A gust of wind coursed through the trees, making the burning dead leaves swirl around him. And then he saw them. Mines, tucked under the dirt and leaves all around him, sun glinting off their dark surfaces. But why would they go off when he wasn't near them?

And then John realized, as a third mine burst, they were setting them off.

He ran.

... ... ...

Not all of the arena could be covered in landmines, it had to be just this section of woods. He had to get away from them. He ran as fast as he could, his eyes on the ground, praying he wouldn't step on one, finishing the Capitol's job for them.

There were explosions all around him. He'd long since lost track of how many. It all blended into one long cacophony, a rain of smoke and fire. The smell of the world burning around him choked him, the clouds of smoke making it steadily harder to see.

Smaller pieces of shrapnel would hit him, leaving small cuts on his hands and face. In shielding his eyes, he didn't see the mine closest to him, and when it burst, he felt the metal shards slice into his shoulder, a hot screaming pain ripping through him. He could feel the first warmth of blood on his skin. But he kept running.

John could tell when he'd broken away from the mines. The booming continued behind him, but he had stumbled onto solid rock, and there was no hiding place for mines. He kept climbing, higher and higher up the slope of stone, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. When it leveled out, he stopped, walking across the rock for a few feet before sitting down, his back leaning against the face of the cliff that towered above him. He had found his way onto a small ledge overlooking the hollow. Far off, he could see the wisps of smoke begin to clear, the wind blowing them away. He heard a cannon. Someone had not been as lucky as him.

He held pressure on his shoulder, waiting for the bleeding to stop. John had always wondered what it felt like to be shot, and now he was confident he had a good idea. The pain wouldn't subside, even after he had controlled the bleeding. It came at him with a vengeance, sharper and stronger every time he tried to move. Until now, his panic had been kept it at bay, long enough for him to get to safety. But now that he sat alone, half-concealed on his ledge, his body gave up, no longer able to pretend he hadn't had his shoulder torn apart. He teased away the ripped pieces of fabric to get a better look at the wound. Best-case scenario, he would have a bright star burst of a scar. But he was alive.

After a few hours, there was hardly any evidence of the destruction that he could see. No more smoke, no more active fires. But anyone down on the ground would likely be able to see the evidence, the broken pieces of trees, the burned leaves, the pockmarked earth. John would always see the evidence etched into his own skin.

The days were short, and it seemed John only blinked and it was late in the afternoon. Had he fallen asleep? He felt hungover and miserable, and his arm still protested at the slightest provocation.

He tucked himself back as close as he could against the rock wall, and wondered how safe it would be to stay the night.

John let his eyes fall shut. He had nearly fallen asleep when he heard the beeping. He opened his eyes, looking around for the source, thinking his brain was creating the noise, or misinterpreting a bird call. But then, a minute later, after the sound grew steadily closer, a silver parachute fluttered into view, a box attached to it. It skittered to a stop on the rock ledge a few feet away from him.

Doing his best to ignore the pain, John pushed himself close enough to reach it, dragging it back to him. Inside was a small cup of water and a cloth, and a separate container filled with a thick cream. Attached was a note in curly script that said, "I knew what they liked." It was signed with a dramatically written "IA." The note drew a small smile from John. If he made it out of here, he would have to thank her, somehow.

He took the cloth and clean water, grateful she had thought of such a small detail, and washed away the blood and dirt. He could see the wound more clearly after that. It wasn't quite a puncture or a tear, but it was a nasty wound either way, and all he could hope for was that it didn't get infected. He took a liberal amount of the cream and smeared it over the wound, trying to work it into the cuts as best as he could. He could almost feel it take effect. Whatever Irene had managed to get for him wasn't just to heal the wound, but to numb the pain a little as well. It seemed to have some type of anesthetic properties. John gave a relieved laugh, resting his head against the rock behind him, the desperation he had felt all day fading some.

There was no way he could leave today. He would have to stay on his ledge for the night, healing and resting. But he found it unlikely that anyone would spot him, and he had reached a point where he'd come to terms with the fact that the arena didn't always offer you a choice.

Night moved in, and John continued to add new layers of the cream to his skin as each one dried. It still hurt, but it was nothing like the searing pain from earlier, and part of him suspected he would have pain in that shoulder in some capacity for the rest of his life. But it was no longer oozing blood, the edges of his skin held together well, and the smaller cuts around the main wound already turning to scars. The air was colder than the night before, but John thought that at least it might help with the swelling.

When the moon was already high in the sky, he heard the noises below him. He craned his neck to see over the edge, and immediately jerked his head back out of sight. He clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his own breathing. Below him, a pack of tributes had come in from the direction opposite the mines. He couldn't hear them all that well from so high up, but they talked amongst themselves for quite a while, and then he realized they had set up camp for the night. After nearly an hour, John had enough courage to try and look over the ledge again, and sure enough, one tribute stood watch over his sleeping comrades down in the hollow. John sat back, cursing to himself under his breath as he added another layer of medication onto his shoulder. Of all the places in these goddamn woods, they had had to choose this one. He only prayed they didn't find him. It felt like a cruel cosmic joke, to escape death once that day and to have it resting below him that night.

John tried to think. How do I get away without them knowing? And as soon as he thought it, he answered himself:

I don't.

... ... ...

Sherlock had followed the pack of tributes all day at a safe distance. It wasn't that he found them particularly interesting. In fact, all he had concluded in his day of tracking them was that they were uncouth and imbecilic. If they were to survive the arena, it wouldn't be through wits. He had followed them for his own sake. Once he determined that they weren't the tactical sort of tributes, he decided they wouldn't think to look where they'd already been. Thus far, he had been correct. They hunted through the woods, killing one tribute who was in their path, but they never once looked behind them. So Sherlock had followed, usually so far behind that he could barely see them, but always close enough that they wouldn't turn to cover the same ground again. It would keep him safe enough for now.

After night had fallen, he slowed his pace, not wanting to stumble upon them. He hadn't planned this far, had never considered that he would actually live through another day, and so he had made no provisions for what he would do for the night.

Taking careful, quiet steps, he finally reached the edge of the clearing. The tributes had set themselves up for the night, a large man standing guard for the first watch. He took cover immediately, crouching down behind some evergreen branches, watching the man, making sure he hadn't been heard. The man stood unmoving, oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock considered killing him, of sneaking up and slitting his throat, maybe even killing the others in their sleep. But it was too big a risk, a battle that he couldn't guarantee he'd win, and Sherlock still didn't want to kill anyone. So he allowed them their rest at the base of the rocks.

A flicker of movement farther up the cliff drew his gaze away from the man. He squinted in the faint moonlight, thinking the Capitol had inserted some wild animals into their arena. But there was a small glimmer as light hit something metallic. Sherlock's thoughts instantly went back to the guillotines, the blades hung in the trees. Was this more of that tribute's work? The one who had "sponsored" the old man?

No. The movement was from something very much alive. Not an animal, either. A person.

Sherlock shifted in the trees, trying to get a better vantage point. From his angle, he could just make out the dark form of a shadow sitting against the cliff on a ledge above the other tributes. After a moment, the shadow shifted, moving closer to the edge, scoping out the tributes just as Sherlock had. And in a second of illumination where the figure was not thrown entirely into blackness, Sherlock got a quick look at his face. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have gleaned anything from that brief moment of sight. The man sat back against the cliff wall, thrown back into hiding.

Originally, Sherlock had considered moving on that night. But the single flash of John's face made him pause, and finally he settled back in his own hiding place, deciding to wait out the night, even if only on the off chance that John would need his help.

The idea of having to kill one of the tributes didn't bother Sherlock nearly as much as it had that morning.

He knew that the longer he stayed there, the more likely he was to be caught and killed.

John had hoped that when morning came, the pack of tributes would leave, but sunrise came and went and they still stayed, talking amongst themselves about the Games, eating leisurely. They knew they were a force to be reckoned with, and it made them indifferent. Why should they leave when they could just kill whoever came along instead?

The night of medicine had helped his shoulder a great deal, although it was still stiff. John couldn't complain about aches and pains when it could have been so much worse. The container was empty now, all of it having been used on the mine wound.

He sat cross-legged on his ledge, looking out over the hollow, hearing the voices of the tributes below him. There had to be a way out that wouldn't give his position away.

He took a risk, moving closer to the edge to get a better look at his options. The tributes had moved farther away from the base of the cliff. They were standing around, laughing and talking. The laughter seemed so sick.

And there it was, half-uncovered by the windy night. He hadn't thought the mines stretched this far, but apparently there were a few outliers. The tributes either hadn't noticed it or didn't think it worth paying attention to. If it went off, it would at the very least injure them. It might even kill one of them, even though John didn't really want that to be the case. It only needed to throw them off enough for him to get down the rock slope and get the hell away.

John rolled his shoulder, trying to break the morning stiffness, and reached for his gun. He would have one shot. It was a risk. But then, everything in the arena was.

He got down on one knee, bracing himself as he aimed, the dusty, metallic target of the mine taunting him. One chance. One shot, and then run.

He fired, startling the tributes and hitting the mine. But the shot hadn't set the mine off. The tributes looked around, confused, even scared for a moment, not knowing where the shot had come from. But then one of them turned and looked up, meeting his eyes. John froze, the man opening his mouth to speak, but jerking his head around when he heard the hissing noise.

There was something coming from the mine, smoke, but white like morning fog. The fog began to come from more places, seeping up out of the ground from other unseen mines in a chain reaction. Were they defective?

The female tribute was standing closest to the fog, and her eyes changed. Something in them looked wrong. John wasn't sure what it was, and neither were her allies. But an unease settled over the hollow, and as the clouds of fog climbed higher and reached his hiding place, he backed away from it, grabbed his gun, and started skidding down the rock slope.

... ... ...

Sherlock had gone out walking alone early that morning, needing a reprieve before spending the day on guard as he followed the other tributes. Or maybe he wouldn't follow them. Maybe he would let them leave, and would wait for John to come down, and just align himself with him instead. Even if it was only for a few days, even if they were eventually forced to part ways and become enemies, he would take the numbered days. They were better than nothing.

He hated his sentimentality, hated how much he missed those other numbered days, back in the Capitol. Even then it was hard to forget that they were pretending, that it was all a pageant before a slaughter, but those few moments when they could forget, those were what he missed. The thought that even that would be taken away from them in the end made him bitter.

As he walked through the trees, a woman broke out from the woods. She had been running, and fast, and tripped, falling to the ground in front of Sherlock. He pulled his knife out on instinct, holding it out in front of him. The woman looked up, panting and horrified, her eyes flitting to the knife and then to his face. She was the girl from District 8, the one John had always looked at so sympathetically. Molly.

She stared him down, her fear fading and turning to resolve. Did she think he was about to kill her? Sherlock kept his hand wrapped around his knife, but he pulled it back to his side.

There was a sharp crack, an echo of a gunshot reverberating throughout the woods. Sherlock jerked his head toward the noise. He heard Molly get to her feet, and then heard the sound of her crashing back through the trees, running away. Sherlock heard one far-off scream, and ran back the way he came, only one thought in his mind.

John.

... ... ...

When Sherlock broke back into the hollow, it was chaos. The tributes stood raving, the two men at each other, the woman at nothing. She was on her knees, her hands clapped over her ears. They were surrounded by morning fog.

Sherlock's eyes followed the flash of movement, of John coming down into the hollow, hazy behind the wall of fog. When he reached the forest floor, he stopped, whirling around, gun in hand, trying to find a predator that was always hiding just out of sight. His eyes were growing wilder by the moment. The other tributes didn't even seem to know John or Sherlock were there.

Sherlock ran to him, deeper into the fog, and grabbed him by the shoulder. John swung at him, and Sherlock had to hold his arms to keep him from attacking again. His eyes were not the eyes Sherlock knew. They were panicked. They were mad. Sherlock tried to talk to him, to get his attention, but no words seemed to get through. He let go of John's arms, told him they had to run before the other tributes killed them, but John stood paralyzed, staring at the ranting men across the hollow as the woman screamed again. Sherlock yelled at him to run, and something finally snapped inside John. He stared at Sherlock for one long second, and then bolted. Sherlock watched him go, and was about to start after him when he began to feel odd, lightheaded. And as he looked toward the three tributes, he understood.

It wasn't morning fog.

... ... ...

John saw Sherlock in front of him, but that couldn't be real, could it? He was leading him away from the fog, talking to him. But John couldn't hear a word he said. He couldn't hear over the sound of the blood pouring down the trees and cliffs and the growls that seemed to come from every direction. The female tribute screamed, but no sound came out, and blood poured from her eyes and open mouth. So much blood! Sherlock's hands were on him. He was still speaking, but every word seemed to die in his throat.

When Sherlock suddenly disappeared, John ran.

The fallen logs became monsters, teeth snapping at his feet. His feet pounded on what should have been solid rock, what should have been the ground, but instead the world gave way beneath him, tilting on an axis before falling away from under him entirely. Impossible. He knew that was impossible. But it kept happening, and all he could do was run from the growling, run from the teeth, run from the splashing sound of blood in pools under his feet.

He rounded some rocks, his hand grabbing them for balance, and then jerking away when he saw his hand covered in blood. He spun around, trying to figure out where to go, when he saw the body.

There was a corpse in front of him. Sherlock's corpse, laid out on the ground in that big gray coat. No, that couldn't be real. They wouldn't have let him wear that into the arena. The body was rotted, the face pale. Weren't they supposed to remove the dead from the arena? They weren't supposed to be left to rot. So why was Sherlock's body at his feet, and how could he make it go away?

John stared at the empty eyes of his friend, his heart hammering. He felt sick, nausea and dizziness rising up inside him, and as he felt himself fall, knees crashing into the ground, he heard a cannon. And as his world went black, he wondered if it was for him.

... ... ...

Stupid, stupid! Of course the fog wasn't fog.

Sherlock backed away from the hollow. The tributes were going in and out like static, reappearing and disappearing, their shouts and screams flashing in and out with them.

He had to get out. Had to run. Had to find John.

When he ran from the hollow, he hoped the drug wasn't too far in his system yet, that he would be spared the worst of it if he got out. But there were guillotine blades falling from the trees all around him like deadly fruit. He would not be spared.

He came to a stop at a dead halt in the middle of the forest. There was someone standing in front of him, someone eerily calm. A familiar face wearing a smile that wasn't his. John stood there, not in the sleek black of their arena clothes, but in dark jeans and a white shirt, holding a gun on him. Someone had stolen him, hijacked his face. John would never look at him like that, never with that malicious grin. Sherlock knew that. But he still worried that it was real. He could feel the metal of the gun against his chest as John walked closer to him, even though he was still feet away.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock wanted to turn and run the other way, but the fog was the other way. He was frozen in his place, watching John go in and out like the other tributes had, reappearing a little bit closer every time.

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Closer, closer. "John..." His face was less than a foot from his. The eyes were still all wrong. Not John. The face flickered in and out, distorting as it did.

"What...would you like me...to make him say...next?" As he spoke, the twisted smile, the twisted face, it became someone else. The man from District 1, Jim Moriarty. He wore a crown like he had in the parade, and that false grin, that horrible grin, it became his entire field of vision. And the words came out like a hiss, "I'll stop his heart."

Sherlock clamped his eyes shut for a moment, and then glared at the face in front of him, telling himself over and over not real not real, and ran through it. He could hear laughter, could feel the man's eyes on him still.

Then he heard his own voice, strangled and unsure. Cannons deafened him, and he sank to the ground, hands over his ears. And then he heard his own words parroted back to him, grating, echoing like the screeches of birds through the forest:

"There is nothing wrong with me!"