"We can't stay here forever, you know," John said.
"All they want is to be entertained. Surely we're entertaining enough."
"They'll drive us out. You know that."
"Yes. They will."
"Should we leave on our own terms?"
"I suppose that would be the better option."
"Together."
"What?"
"Leave together. If we wait for them to drive us out we'll be separated somehow. They'll make sure."
Sherlock stared at John. "Leaving, going off into the woods together, it gives us a better chance at beating anyone that comes along, two against one and all that. But what about after they're all gone?"
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Sherlock."
... ... ...
"How many are left?" John held the gun at his side as they walked through the woods.
"What makes you think I know?"
"You've been keeping track."
"I don't know how many died when I was unconscious, but there can't be more than four or five of us left here in total, statistically. It isn't likely."
"Hmm."
"Of course most of the Careers are dead, so the competition is blessedly –" John had stopped in his place and was staring at something on the ground. "John?"
"Look at this." He waved him over. Sherlock stood behind him, glancing over his shoulder.
The afternoon light was fading, slanting through the trees and casting shadows on the ground, but an indentation was still visible in the dirt. Sherlock frowned at it.
"A paw print," John said, bending down and running a finger around the edge of a claw mark.
"Yes, but of what?" John looked up at him. "It appears canine."
"What, a dog? Since when do woods like this have dogs in them?"
"The Capitol creates, John. When was the last time you saw a domestic dog with a print that large?"
John held his hand over the print, comparing. "Government mutt?"
"Perhaps. I would keep that gun at the ready, if I were you." Sherlock extended a hand, helping John to his feet. As he stood, a rumbling noise came from somewhere far off in the arena, echoing in the hills. They looked toward the sound.
"Thunder?"
"I don't think so."
The noise came again, clearer this time, but still very far off. A growl. It was followed by a single high-pitched scream. And then the cannon.
John finally let go of Sherlock's hand, staring off into the woods. No flocks of birds, no sound from the forest at all.
"Let's go."
... ... ...
By the time night truly arrived, they were both on edge. They stopped in what appeared to be a safe place in the woods – a relative term, of course – surrounded by small trees and brush.
John had been jumpy all evening and refused to even attempt sleep. Usually Sherlock would have argued, but he was having trouble finding sleep appealing himself. He had taken to pacing around the small clear space in their patch of woods.
Now and then there would be a noise, rustling in the leaves or a twig breaking, and it would set them off a bit, even though it always turned out to be something innocuous.
During a lull, John said, "Does the sky look darker to you?"
"It's the middle of the night, John."
"No, I mean the stars." He pointed up. "Don't they usually have more stars up than this? And the moon was full last night, so where is it now? Why are they making it darker?"
Sherlock followed his finger up, staring at the sky. "It all looks the same to me."
"For someone as observant as you..."
"I don't care about stars and planets. Unnecessary information. No need to waste my time on it." John let his hand fall and smiled at him, laughing a little under his breath. "What?" He shook his head. "It's just space."
"Just space."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Another noise came from the forest, but louder than all the times before. It didn't stop, but became a continuous crashing sound, growing closer and closer. John rose to his feet, leveling the gun in the direction of the noise.
A man burst out of the trees. Sherlock remembered him. Henry, a tribute from one of the richer districts. Even in the dim light, Sherlock could see the blood. The man was raving, on the verge of screaming but never making a sound. He was hyperventilating, bleeding profusely from multiple places, and when he raised his arms out in front of him toward them, there was a bloody stump where his hand should have been. He was crying, desperately trying to get the words out.
John had taken a couple of steps back and was staring at Henry with a look of horror on his face. He was about to step forward, to say something or try to help, when Henry finally let out a tortured scream.
"Go! Go now! The hound is coming! Get out!" He sank to his knees, repeating again and again, "the hound the hound." It came out as a terrible gurgling sound, blood distorting his speech. "Run!" John and Sherlock seemed rooted to their places, locked on Henry. He looked up at them once more, his skin growing darker by the second as he bled. "Run!" The word came out strangled, and a crashing came from the brush behind him. John and Sherlock's heads jerked up at the sound, and with one look to each other, they turned away from Henry Knight and ran.
... ... ...
They heard the cannon less than a minute later, nearly overshadowed by the growling and the sound of Henry shrieking once before he died.
The growls surrounded them as they crashed through the forest, a trick of the way the sound carried, making it sound like there were hundreds of hounds at their heels. They stumbled through the woods, trying to find their way, but really just running blind. More than once they had to grab on to each other to stabilize themselves.
Then the growl came from in front of them, and they skidded to a halt. In the shadows of the trees, John saw the faintest glow of red eyes, and a hulking black mass stalking through the woods around them. It would fade from view, disappearing into the dark, in and out like static. The growls came from a different direction every time.
John and Sherlock shifted, standing back to back, rotating as they heard the growls, the vicious snaps of unseen teeth. John held the gun out, aiming at nothing. It never stayed in view long enough to get a lock on it, always vanishing from sight.
The stars continued to blink out of existence above them.
Black on black on black. John kept swinging the gun in the direction of the growls, praying they would stay in one place long enough for him to shoot. But then what if the noise was tricking him and he wasn't even aiming in the right direction?
And then he saw the flash of red as the dim light hit its eyes, and without thinking, he shot.
He heard a yelp, felt Sherlock spin around beside him. The yelp turned into a snarl. John pushed at Sherlock, urging him to run, and then took off after him as he heard the snarl become a growl again.
The shadow chased them.
... ... ...
They broke through the treeline, running without thought for the stretch of wide, shallow river in the middle of the clearing, the water splashing around their feet. Sherlock almost kept going, but when John stopped, he did too, holding his knife out in front of him, knowing it would do little good against a beast like this.
John had turned back, facing the forest they'd just escaped from, and he had his gun out, glaring, his shoulders tight.
Within seconds, the sound of breaking wood announced the beast as it came at them. And then the sound of a gunshot as John fired at the hulking shadow. Sherlock saw the eyes, saw them as they sank close to the ground, the monster landing with a thud. For a moment, Sherlock thought it was crouching, and that it would leap back up at go at them again, but the eyes remained unmoving and unseeing.
Sherlock could hear John's labored breathing, and as the stars and moon were brought back to the sky, he saw John's wide eyes, and his now trembling hands. The face of someone who took a risk, who shot blind and could only pray he hit his target.
It was a while before John lowered the gun, and when he did, the full effect of what he'd done completely took over him. He walked out of the water, standing over the body of the animal, his finger still on the trigger should it come to life again. But when he saw that it really was dead, blood flowing from its shattered skull, he stepped away and sank to his knees, setting his gun down beside him on the ground. He clapped his hand over his mouth and stared at the hound.
Sherlock walked to the water's edge, examining the beast. It was bigger than either of them, certainly enormous compared to John, and was covered in thick black fur. Its eyes were red – that wasn't an adrenaline induced exaggeration – and Sherlock took a second to be irritated with the dramatic flair the Capitol felt the need to insert into everything. It had jaws that could easily crush bone, blood around its mouth and snout, from Henry Knight, presumably. And in the center of its skull, a bullet hole. An inch or two either way would have only made it angrier.
"Stand up slowly, Twelve. And kindly drop that knife of yours, Sherlock dear."
They froze, their gaze turning downriver where Jim Moriarty stood holding a bow, its arrow pointed at John. He was backed by the distant roar of the falls behind him, an elaborate backdrop in the masquerade.
John slowly rose to his feet, the hound forgotten. Sherlock saw him glance down at his gun, a fleeting glance.
"I wouldn't. I really wouldn't," Moriarty said with a grin. "End of the line, you two."
"Two against one," Sherlock said.
"I'm a Career tribute, Sherlock. I could kill you both before either of you reached me. And you know it. My aim is better than yours." He looked down the line of his arrow. "Come here, Johnny boy." John frowned, confused. Jim spoke in singsong. "Don't test my patience." John held his hands up and walked slowly into the water, standing where Moriarty directed him to, a few feet to the side in front of him. "There we go." He looked back at Sherlock, the twisted smile of his hallucinations staring back at him. But this time he couldn't tell himself it wasn't real.
John stared at Sherlock too, and Sherlock had never seen someone so resigned.
"I've just loved these little Games, haven't you, Sherlock? Alas all great things must come to an end, and I have a train home to catch." He laughed, giddy. "I'll be a hero back home. They'll talk about me for decades. What all have you done in the Games? Because I bet it can't hold a candle to the things I've done. So calculated, so well-executed, if you'll pardon my word choice. What would you say the highlight will be? I'm going to say it was that girl. That little thing I gutted. They'll be talking about that for a long time, I think."
Sherlock saw John stiffen, and when he looked at him, the resignation had hardened to rage. He watched John's jaw clench, saw the moment he lost all sense of self-preservation.
Moriarty didn't have a chance to stop him. John whirled around and disarmed him, sending the bow and its arrow into the water. Sherlock raced to grab the gun, running out into the water, ready to fire at Jim. But in that small interval, Moriarty had pulled a knife. His bow and arrow lost to the falls behind them, he had grabbed John, holding onto him, with the blade of the knife across his throat.
John's anger had waned, but only slightly. He looked at Sherlock with apology.
Moriarty looked at the side of John's face, just able to see his expression from his position behind John. He turned to Sherlock, seemingly unfazed by the assault.
"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets."
Sherlock tried to aim, to get a clear shot, but Moriarty kept moving just enough. The risk was too high. There was no way he could risk shooting John.
"Shame about that little girl, no? But I bet it made for a wonderful show."
"This isn't just a show. People have died," Sherlock said through his teeth.
"That's what people do!" His shout echoed. He shut his eyes for a second, gaining his composure again before opening them, his head lolling back and forth on his neck.
"You're insane."
Jim looked him in the eye, raising his eyebrows. "You're just getting that now?" He feigned a dramatic sigh. "All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy." He ran the edge of the blade along John's throat, threatening but never breaking the skin. Sherlock could see the faintest evidence of John shuddering as Moriarty held the tip of the knife over the pulse point on his neck. "Do you know what happens next?"
Sherlock steadied the gun in his hands. "Oh, let me guess. I get killed."
"No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway. No. I'm gonna burn you." He lowered the knife, keeping a firm grip on John as he held the point of the blade over John's chest. "I'll burn the heart out of you." He flicked the knife up, putting a tear in the fabric.
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
John swallowed hard as Moriarty made small cut in the skin on his chest.
"But we both know that's not quite true."
Silence hung between them.
Moriarty began to slowly back up, dragging John with him, the knife once again held poised against his throat. "Let me just get this out of the way. And then me and you, we'll have some real fun," he said, sneering.
Sherlock saw the shot and took it.
He thought he could almost hear the sound of the bullet hitting his skull.
Moriarty's body jerked back with the impact, the knife nicking John's neck before it fell out of his hand. Blood from the bullet hole in his head had sprayed onto John, spattering across the side of his face. His eyes were wide open, and he remained frozen in place.
Sherlock watched Moriarty's body fall backwards, splashing as it hit the water, and then disappearing from view as it was pushed over the falls by the current.
Even though his body was gone, Sherlock could almost see an imprint of him like a ghost, still standing by John holding a knife to his neck.
Holding out one hand, he beckoned to John, urging him to come forward. He would have just said so, but the words kept dying in his throat. John nodded stiffly, taking a few shaky steps toward him. Sherlock closed the distance and met him halfway, grabbing him by the arm.
They looked toward the falls, stepping a little closer as Sherlock looked over. John stared at the very few feet of space there had been between himself and a similar fate. Sherlock gave his arm a squeeze in an attempt at being reassuring.
Sherlock squinted down at the rocks below as he heard the cannon. He could just make out the outline of a body.
Sherlock led John back away from the falls' edge, his hand on his back. He still had the gun in his other hand, and he almost dropped it in the water when he realized.
"All right?"
John was watching him with concern.
"Yes, yes, all right. Fine."
He was positive John didn't believe him.
There was a terrible stillness to the arena despite the water rushing around their ankles.
"We're the only ones left, John."
John shook his head. "No." It wasn't an exclamation of distress so much as a statement of fact.
Sherlock stared at the gun in his hand, thinking. Finally he handed it to John, who took it and ran his hands over it for a second before he realized what Sherlock was suggesting. His head shot up.
"No, no, Sherlock. Absolutely not."
"There are no ways out, John. One person leaves. People need you back home far worse than they need me. It's the only rational choice."
"There is nothing rational about this!" Whatever had made him resigned, even scared earlier, had vanished. "I'm not going to kill you, Sherlock! I'm not!"
Sherlock stood like a child being scolded, staring down at the water. "John –"
"No!" Sherlock looked up and saw that John was no longer yelling at him. He glared up at the night sky, pointing at it accusingly. "You want your victor? Strike one of us down! I know you can! If you want it that badly, then do it! Do it!" Sherlock tried to grab hold of John, to calm him down, but John jerked out of his grasp. "Come on!" John took the gun and threw it into the water beside him. "Choose your goddamned victor!"
"John!"
He looked at Sherlock, his eyes wild. "They have to have their victor, yeah? They can pick. I'm not killing you. And you're not killing me. If they want a victor so badly, let them be the ones to do the killing." He turned back to the sky, waiting.
Sherlock stared at John a moment longer before walking a few steps closer to the falls, slowly. He looked over them, at the faint outline of Jim's body below. If he hit the rocks just right...
A hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "No." John squeezed his arm. "No, don't you even fucking think about it. If one of us dies, the blood can be on their hands." Sherlock felt him loosen his grip slightly, realizing how tight a hold he had had on him. He asked in a softer voice, "We have never been enemies, Sherlock. And we're not going to have them turn us into that. Do you understand me?" Sherlock nodded.
John grabbed his hand, raising it above them like they had done in the parade. It felt so long ago.
Sherlock waited, waited to be struck down. The Capitol would never kill a fan favorite like John. Just as well. That's who Sherlock would have chosen to go home too. Would their death blow come from another hound? No, too tricky, too unpredictable. Might kill John too. Same went for a flash flood in the river. Lightning? Even that was imprecise at best.
John looked at the sky, still holding their hands up, and yelled, "Choose your victor!"
The sky gave no answer. Sherlock wondered how long it would be before John gave up. Before he realized there was no way out. Eventually, Sherlock would have to find a way to leave him, to let himself be struck down by whatever the Capitol had waiting in the woods. John had to go home. Couldn't he see that?
Sherlock was beginning to think he should just break away, just run as fast as he could and hope it ended quickly. But when he looked over to John, the defiance and anger on his face was incongruous with the gentle grip on Sherlock's hand, and he knew the last thing John wanted was for him to leave. Still, what someone wanted wasn't always what was best for them.
They both started at the sound that suddenly came crashing from the sky. A voice that, when it spoke, threw both of them into shocked silence. They let their hands fall, still clasped together, John's face going blank with fear rather than relief.
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, the Victors of the 75th Hunger Games, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."