Sherlock woke up on a hillside in the forest, covered in leaves and dirt and god knows what else. He sat up, brushing himself off, his head pounding. Where in the arena had he ended up?

John. Where was John?

He sat paralyzed for a moment, plagued by the thought that he hadn't made it, that the hovercraft had long since come for his body while he was unconscious.

How long had it even been?

He ran his hands through the leaves around him and felt the cold metal of his knife blade. He must have dropped it when he blacked out. Small blessings. He held it up to the light, staring at it, and then he heard the bang of a cannon, once, and then again a minute later. He looked off in the direction of the faint sound. More competition had been eliminated. It was a miracle that no one had found Sherlock. He'd come very close to being another forgotten face.

When he stood, the world spun some, and he had to grab on to a nearby tree for support. But he slowly made his way down the hillside.

Should never have breathed so deeply. Hope there wasn't long term damage.

He stopped his train of thought. It was senseless to worry about the long term, wasn't it?

At the base of the hill, he heard the sound of rushing water. The trees gave way to massive boulders and a stone riverbed that allowed people to walk alongside the water, albeit out in the open. It was a fast mountain river, narrow and nonthreatening, speckled with occasional small cascades as it went downhill.

Sherlock sat down at the edge of the treeline, just enough to not be in plain sight, and rubbed at his eyes. He would get something to drink in a minute when he didn't feel so damn miserable. Was this what normal people felt like all the time? So scattered and useless?

Then something sharp collided with his head, cold metal followed by hot blood. His body tried to shut itself down, not wanting to deal with another trauma, but Sherlock fought it, keeping himself up with his hands pressed into the ground. When the spots cleared from his vision, he saw her, the unmistakable fiery hair. She was armed like a soldier with as many weapons as one person could manage, and she had a weighty spear pointed at Sherlock's chest, the tip of it bright red with his own blood.

"You remember me, Mr. Holmes? Because I certainly remember you. I'm a big fan."

"Kitty."

She smiled. "The great Sherlock Holmes. Where's your pet? You two are very close, aren't you? Platonic?" She laughed. "How did you two get separated? Lose your way?" She made a face, a false expression of pity. "You know Jim? The man from my district? He's a big fan of you, too. You and your pet. He wanted you all to himself, Jim. He was hoping he'd...stumble across you in the arena." She dragged the tip of the spear across his cheek. "Too bad. But at least if I see him again, I'll have one hell of a story for him. And if I get back to District 1, it will be the story of a lifetime." Her smiled broadened as she looked down at him, smug and malicious.

Sherlock raised one hand up, a simple gesture of surrender. Kitty drew her weapon back just a little. He gave her a look that he hoped came across as resigned and hopeless, like he knew he would soon be dead. It pleased her.

He paused, hand in midair and blood pouring down the side of his face, wishing he had more time for a better plan. But his fight or flight response screamed in his head, his body refusing to play second to his mind this time.

In one swift motion, he grabbed the shaft of the spear and jerked it backwards, shoving Kitty and throwing her off balance. He sprang to his feet and ran for the river, knowing he had precious few seconds of a head start. His eyes flew everywhere, searching for an out, his options scarce as his feet pounded on the rocks.

A whistling shot by his ear, followed by the clatter of the spear skidding across the stone. He could hear her footsteps, competing with his own, a guttural sound escaping her throat and echoing in the canyon around them.

The river grew closer and closer as he ran, and when the time came, he jumped.

He landed hard on the other side, falling, the rock colliding with his kneecap. He tried to stand, but the pain was still too fresh.

Behind him, he saw Kitty gaining speed, planning to jump the water too, and he pushed himself a few feet back away from the water's edge, trying to force himself again and again to stand, but tripping over cracks and stones in his rush.

She lunged at him, making her leap across the water. But Sherlock had half a foot on her in height, and he watched the change in her eyes as she realized her mistake. She hit the edge of the rocks on his side of the river, and though she scrambled, her hands clawing for a grip on the slick stone around her, she failed. The current was too strong, and soon she disappeared from view, falling into the river.

Sherlock waited, expecting her to emerge like a monster, ready to destroy again. He looked downriver, looking for signs of her surfacing. But none came. It made no sense. The river wasn't that dangerous. And while it could certainly knock her down, it didn't even look deep enough to drown in.

After a moment, he pushed himself to his feet, limping a little as he walked to the water's edge. He stared down into the water, trying to find the missing piece. What had he missed? What detail?

The cannon sounded.

Sherlock looked down the river, but no body had surfaced, and no hovercraft came. She had disappeared.

He laid down on his stomach by the water and pushed his arm into the river, trying to gauge the depth. But he never found the riverbed.

He sat back, suddenly wary of the river. The Gamemakers did love a good deception.

The warmth of blood continued to spread over his face. He wiped some away with his wet hand, his fingers coming back red.

He stood and left, continuing across the dry stretch of riverbed, and then upriver into the mountains.

He did not mourn her passing once.

John slowly opened his eyes, his vision filled by the canopy of leafless trees above him. It took him a moment to realize that those trees meant he was still alive. Part of him wanted them to be the trees of home, the woods he and Mary would hunt in, and that he was only here, passed out on the forest floor, from some accident.

But as he sat up, Mary was nowhere to be found, and the forest was unmistakable.

As the fog cleared from his head he heard the rushed and panting breathing from a few feet away. The girl from eight, Molly, backed up against a nearby boulder, a knife held out in front of her. She tried to steel herself, but her hands trembled. As John looked around the little clearing, surrounded by thick brush, supplies and weapons scattered around, he finally pieced it all together. He propped himself up with one hand and held the other out, palm to Molly, a silent stop. Her pose wasn't offensive, but defensive. She wasn't going to kill him.

"I won't hurt you." She watched him skeptically, the winter wind tearing at her long hair. After a while, she came closer, and John saw some of her things sitting beside him, where she'd likely been moments before. She still held the knife in her hand, but she no longer pointed it at him.

With her free hand, she reached out and pushed a small cup toward him without saying a word. When he picked it up, he saw it was water. She had dry ration food nearby as well, tucked into an open backpack. Cornucopia bounty, no doubt. He drank, not even knowing how parched he was until the water hit his throat. It almost hurt. Once Molly watched him drain the entire cup, she finally resumed her spot next to him, sitting comfortably rather than crouching in preparation of fight. He held the cup out to her, and she took it with her free hand, setting it down on the dirt and refilling it before handing it back.

"I can't take your supplies."

"I know where to find water. Drink. Keep that down, and I'll give you something to eat."

"Molly, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm John."

"I know. You and Sherlock Holmes, you're the men from District 12."

"How long have I been out?"

"At least a day. You were already unconscious when I found you. What happened?"

John started to speak, but stopped. "Give me a minute, maybe I'll be able to tell you."

"Was it the same as whatever happened to that group of three tributes? Or do you remember them at all? You weren't far from them. I found them just before I found you."

"Are they dead?"

She nodded. "They were taking the first one away when I got there."

"The last thing I remember...was shooting at a mine, and this thick fog..." He shook his head. The hallucinations sprang back to life. "It wasn't fog. It was a drug. You said they were dead? God I hope it isn't fatally toxic."

Her brow furrowed. "They didn't die from any fog. It looked like they were killed. I thought they turned on each other."

"Hallucinogens in groups of violent people, bad mix."

"Anyway, they were definitely dead. One of them had a spear sticking out of him. And they were on the sky last night, when they showed the people who had died."

"And who else was on that list? What I mean is, was –"

"Sherlock wasn't on it. He's alive as far as I can tell. I haven't seen him since the other day."

"No, I think he ran off too." John tried to sit up properly, to stretch out the tense muscles and joints. There were makeshift bandages on his arms and in some spots on his hands, made from pieces of cloth. He held out one arm, surveying the first aid work.

"I think you had tried to break your fall and got scraped up a little."

"It's good work."

She shrugged, reaching for the backpack and pulling out a couple of packages. "I originally wanted to be a healer, like you, back in the district. But there were always more dead people than living ones, so I ended up working on them instead, when I wasn't in the factories. But the basics are still there, even though I never got a chance to use them much." She smiled a little. "I've worked with dead people a lot. I'm glad you weren't one of them."

"Why did you help me? You could have left me and let someone come along and kill me. It would make you one step closer to going home."

She passed him some food. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Neither do I."

"I know I'm not an arena type. I'm not aggressive. I'm not strong. I'm not even all that brave. I'm not a killer. When they called my name, I thought, this is how I finally die. There's no sense in causing anyone else any pain before I do."

"You were brave enough to take a chance saving me."

"I didn't think you were an arena type either. You didn't seem that way back in the Capitol."

"How many people are left?"

"I don't know. I haven't been counting. Not too many, I imagine."

John nodded, running his hands over himself, not feeling the gun anywhere. He felt his heart start pounding when Molly handed it to him. The cold metal felt heavy in his hands, but at least it looked like it belonged there. It had only looked horrible in her hands.

"I didn't want it lost, but I didn't know if you'd be in your right mind when you woke up. If you woke up."

"Thank you. I can't repay you for all this."

"It's fine. Sometimes we have to look out for each other. Even in the arena. We're still human, after all."

Are we, really? John couldn't stop the thought. He'd had it so many times since the Games started. The Capitol certainly didn't treat them like humans. No, they were just pieces on the board. Was Molly naïve, or just hopeful?

"The man from my district is still alive too. Mike. I don't think there's many more where both of the people are still alive. I'm glad Sherlock's okay, as far as we know."

John nodded absently, taking a tentative bite of his food.

"Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"That you saved his life?"

"He gives me more credit than I probably deserve. But yeah, my father and I did put him back together again."

"What happened?"

"A house collapsed on him."

"That's awful."

"He bounced back easily enough. He's tougher than people think."

"You two seemed like really good friends, during the training days. You seemed pretty close." Molly was watching him with a careful sort of apprehension, asking a question that she didn't want to say out loud. But John said nothing. He couldn't very well tell her that so much of what she and all the others saw was an act. But that wasn't all of it. Part of him wasn't even sure he knew the answer to her silent question. It wasn't as if life in the arena had given him much time to think it over. When he stayed silent, she said, "Is he nice? He seemed nice."

John laughed a little under his breath. "He's impossible."

"I rather like him, I think. He's already spared my life once."

"Really?"

She nodded. "We stumbled across each other in the woods. He could have easily killed me. But he didn't."

"He doesn't want to kill anyone."

"The way he acts, I figured he might be one of those people who could sort of detach enough to kill someone, if he had to. A bit like a machine."

"No, he doesn't want to kill anyone any more than we do. Honestly. I don't know what he would do if he had to kill someone."

"I haven't killed anyone. Not yet."

"I wish I could say the same."

"They killed each other, John. You set the fog off, but they killed each other. You didn't even know."

He shook his head, shutting his eyes for a second as he blocked the images that rose to the surface of his brain. "No, not them. I – I found someone. They'd been attacked, but not enough to kill them. They got left with a slow bleed. I didn't want to watch them suffer any more than they already had."

She set the knife down beside her and reached out, laying her hand on his shoulder. It was such a simple gesture, and it seemed so out of place in the arena. It was human. She looked at him with sympathy, her usual faint smile faded. She didn't look like the hopeful young woman for a moment. Right then, John could see everything she had seen, both at home and in the Games, etched into her face.

They had never really stood a chance. Even if you spent your whole life in your district, never reaped, and even rarer, never starving, you still never really stood a chance.

How many days did everyone spend just surviving, instead of living?

"You aren't a killer."

"How do you figure that?"

"You said so yourself. In your interview. You're a healer. It's not in your nature."

No, in nature, animals killed without a second thought. Whatever it took to stay alive. This was nature. Your own nature wasn't something you were allowed out here. He'd already done things he would never have considered doing before. Nature, be it a forest or a person's, was all just transient. You could never count on its constancy.

"I don't want to kill. I know I couldn't kill Mike."

"I couldn't kill Sherlock."

She let her hand fall. "I saw the last of the children on the list of dead last night. I don't know whether to be grateful or sad."

"Neither do I."

"I have no illusions that I'm victor material. But I'm not going to do anymore damage than I have to. I've just been hiding. It's my only chance, hiding and hoping everyone else gets killed first. No offense."

"None taken. That's what I wanted to do too."

She paused, tripping over her words a little. "You...you said you couldn't kill Sherlock. Do you think he could kill you?"

"No. Maybe he could. But I don't think he would."

"Why?"

"Sherlock's an odd character. You just have to read him as best as you can. And I don't believe he would kill me."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Your faith in him. It's nice." Her little smile returned as she filled the cup again, taking a drink from it herself this time. "It may sound silly, but it's nice to see something like that out here. Faith."

John wasn't sure how much faith was involved, especially when it felt so much like fact to him. But he let her have it. Everyone needed something to give them hope.

There was a rustling in some of the bushes nearby. John tensed up and raised his gun, but Molly only glanced over her shoulder, looking totally unfazed. Seconds later, a bird shot out from the branches, flying past them. When Molly looked at John, she laughed.

"Sorry. I guess I've gotten used to them. I've been using this spot for a while."

"What was that thing?"

"It was one of the thieving magpies. There's quite a few of them nearby."

"Is that what I've been hearing make all that racket in the trees out here?"

She laughed again. "Probably. They seem almost upset without anything good to parrot back. I don't think they like making up their own songs."

John looked in the direction the bird had flown and saw it perched on a branch high up in a tree, staring down at them with its head cocked to the side.

"At least they can't mimic our voices."

"No, just melodies."

"Small blessings."

"Their songs are quite pretty, actually."

"Are they true to their name? Do they try and steal things, I mean? I haven't had much experience with them."

"No, at least, none of these have tried to steal from me. Not yet, anyway."

John watched as the bird took off again, flying off into the woods till John could no longer see it.

"You said you'd been staying here a while. You haven't been found by someone?"

"I almost was, once. I think they herded someone toward me. But I got out in time. I had another knife, but I dropped it when I was running. They took it, but I got everything else out. I waited for a few hours, to make sure it was safe to come back. It's a nice spot. You wouldn't be able to find it easily unless you were led here. Otherwise, chances of just stumbling across it are slim."

"But you found it."

"I followed the birds. I thought that if a roost was safe enough for them, then it might be safe enough for me. Birds don't like being bothered."

"Do you think they'll run you out eventually? Not the birds, I mean."

"Probably. But I'll take what I can get. One day at a time."

He repeated the phrase, trying to make it mean something, "One day at a time."

How could you take things one day at a time when your days feel so terribly numbered?

... ... ...

John thought little of the world as a whole sometimes, and given his situation, no one would have faulted him for this being one of those times. But Molly had a sort of infectious innocent optimism about her that made it more difficult for him to be bitter and scared.

He spent the day in her hiding place, feeling more and more like himself the more rest he got. It struck him how incredibly lucky he was that he was given a chance to recover at all. And Molly did whatever she could to help, even if most of the time that was just hanging around to talk, usually in quiet voices just in case there were other tributes nearby.

Now and then, one of the thieving magpies would swoop past them, always drawing a smile from Molly, and later in the day, one from John as well.

She talked more than he did. He never knew what to say. But she didn't seem to mind and told him all sorts of things about her district, about their industry and what sort of place it was. When she told him how urban, how industrial it was, it seemed dissonant. Molly didn't look like someone who lived surrounded by gray buildings. She looked at home out here in the woods, like she was meant for it. But everything she told him about District 8 gave him a bleak mental image incongruous with the kind of world he associated people like Molly with.

When night fell, they lit no fire, and their conversation grew quieter. The darkness made them speak less, bringing out an instinctive vigilance in them. Dangers seemed much more severe when you could hardly see them. But no one came, and their night stretched on in peace.

Molly stood watch while John caught a few hours of sleep, and when he woke up, she was sitting a few feet away from him, barely visible in the shadows of the brush around her, humming to herself.

"What's that?"

He couldn't really see her face, but he saw her head move as she looked up. "What's what?"

"That song you're humming?"

"Oh," she said sheepishly. She moved a few feet closer so he could see her, looking around at the forest rather than him. "It's just a song from home. One of those traditional things that you grow up hearing so much that you know it without ever having to learn it."

"Sing it?"

"I don't really sing. I'm no good."

"Come on. Humor me with some District 8 music."

She looked at him for a moment before staring at the ground, and after a while she did start singing, quietly, almost under her breath.

Oh, Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?
Where you gonna run to?
All along that day.

Well I run to the rock, "Please hide me."
I run to the rock, "Please hide me."
I run to the rock, "Please hide me,"
All along that day.

But the rock cried out, "I can't hide you."
The rock cried out, "I can't hide you.
"I can't hide you,"
All along that day.

So I run to the river, it was bleeding.
I run to the sea it was bleeding.
I run to the sea, it was bleeding,
All along that day.

So I run to the Lord, "Please hide me, Lord.
Don't you see me praying?"
But the Lord said, "Go to the devil."
The Lord said, "Go to the devil,"
All along that day.

She almost continued, her lips parted, poised for another verse, but she stopped and gave him a self-deprecating sort of smile. "Those traditional songs are sort of dark when you really think about it, aren't they?"

"Pretty though. And appropriate, I think." She nodded slowly. "Does anyone ever help them? The person in the song?"

"Not really."

"What happens?"

"He goes to the devil, and the devil was waiting for him."

... ... ...

John let Molly sleep the rest of the night, positive that she'd gotten little to none while watching over him. The least he could do in return was watch over her for a while.

She shouldn't have been in this arena. She was too good for it.

When morning came, Molly woke with the sun and was only foggy from sleep for a couple of minutes before she set about what John assumed was her daily routine. She shared her food with him again, even though he'd protested, and walked with him to show him the nearby stream where she'd been getting her water. She continued talking about whatever struck her, asking how John was feeling and what he was going to do.

John felt fine, but he had absolutely no clue what to do. He'd asked himself the same question multiple times during the night. He couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, there wouldn't be enough tributes in the arena to keep people entertained. Something would ruin the quiet safe haven. He had considered leaving as soon as she woke up, but couldn't.

In the middle of the day, when their water ran out, John offered to make the next run. He found the stream easily enough, filling Molly's bottle, and walking slowly back to their spot. What was he going to do? He would have to ask Molly where exactly in the woods they were, so he would have some sort of idea of where he should go. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally wander back into the minefields.

He heard movement behind the brush, and thinking it was either Molly moving around or the thieving magpies, he continued in.

He let the bottle drop to the ground as he reached for his gun.

There was an Asian woman on top of Molly, one hand clamped over her mouth so she couldn't scream, the other stabbing her over and over on her already blood soaked chest and stomach. When the woman realized John was there, she looked up at him, her large eyes going blank as John put the bullet through her head. She fell to the side, off of Molly, onto the cold ground.

A cannon sounded.

No, no, no one was supposed to find this place!

John raced to her side, falling to the ground beside her, his gun dropping to the dirt. This wasn't a slow bleed. At least one artery had been hit. There were so many open tears, so many wounds. Molly's breathing was rapid as she stared up at him, unable to speak. The blood was even in her hair, and, dammit, he was so sick of blood.

The shot would attract attention soon. But he couldn't run. Not yet.

It wasn't a slow bleed.

He held her hand, and within a minute, she was dead, the light vanishing from her eyes.

The cannon sounded.

Her grip on his hand went lax, her arm falling to the ground, her fingers slipping out of his.

And then he heard the whistling.

All around the birds flew, zigzagging in and out of the trees, all of them singing for her, singing her song. It wasn't that loud in reality, but it deafened John. It might as well have been louder than the cannons. A harmonious nightmare of birdsong.

He heard the faint noises of the hovercraft that would soon descend for their bodies. He sat back numbly, picking up his gun. They could wait.

But he couldn't. The longer he stayed the more he felt danger closing in on him. There was no way another tribute wouldn't follow the sound of the gunshot, wouldn't find the flock of birds singing their coordinated tune. He forced himself to his feet, looking down at Molly.

John almost bent down to close her eyes, but he didn't. He wanted them to have to face her. He wanted her eyes to be burned on their brains forever.

He looked up at the metallic glimmer as the craft moved a little lower. He stared it down. Even though no one inside could see him that closely, he knew every camera in this section of woods could. He felt the rage boil inside him as he stared up at the sky, at the trees around him. He should have left in silence and let the thieving magpies speak for him and Molly both. But he couldn't.

"Look at what you did to her! Look at what you've done to all of them!" How far would his voice carry? Would other tributes hear it? John didn't care. His audience would hear him, picked up on microphones, even over the growing roar of birdsong. He could have called them monsters, could have screamed curses at them. But the only other word he was able to choke out in the end was, "Why!"

The sound of a yell carried through the woods. John whirled around, hearing a tribute crashing through the forest.

When he finally ran from the horrible scene, some of the birds followed him, singing and singing. He wanted to shoot them, to silence them, to stop drawing attention toward him. But he couldn't. He could only run as they sang, hating the song. The birds finally abandoned him, one by one, the deeper he got into the woods.

And as he ran, he wondered if he was going to find the devil waiting on him, too.