Author's Note: Sorry for not updating, I've been caught up in other stories. Enjoy the fourth installment of Crap it, I've Been Reaped.

…..

Sherlock

Bang. My feet were pounding against the ground the second that the land mines were deactivated. I sprinted towards the camouflaged backpack lying up against a set of swords. They were the only weapons that I could use, save for the bow that had been snagged by the Lestrade kid. A navy streak slammed into my side, effectively knocking the breath out of me. I jumped to me feet, searching avidly for my attacker. The sandy haired tribute from District Twelve, John Watson, lay sprawled on the ground by my feet. Without thinking, I offered my hand and pulled him to his feet.

"Wha?" he questioned, furrowing his brow in confusion. A strange impulse took hold of me, since John was only truly educated in surviving the wild, and there were no guns around, I picked up the swords and shoved them into his arms.

"Run," I whispered into his ear, shouldered the pack, and dashed into the woods without looking back. I knew he would try to follow me, but I paid careful attention to where I stepped, leaving little trace that I had been there. John was the only person I truly considered to be useful as an ally. But an ally has to be able to function on their own, on the morning of the third day of the Games, I would find him. Despite my extensive training as to how one defends oneself, I don't know a thing about survival in the wilderness. Perhaps the true challenge of surviving until the third day was for me, not John.

John

Sherlock's odd behavior was still puzzling me, even as I sat down in my makeshift shelter of fallen logs and stones from a dried up river bed. Jenny had made it out okay, and was already sleeping next to me. It had taken awhile for her to stop shivering since she saw Moriarty gutting Carl Powers outside the Cornucopia.

I had managed to gather a large assortment of roots and berries, both of us could probably sustain ourselves on them for a bit. The swords glinted menacingly from beneath the thin layer of leaves I had buried them under. Only five canons sounded so far today, which was strange , the usual bloodbath at the cornucopia was limited.

In about an hour, judging from the position of the sun, the anthem would play, and we would all see who had been killed today. I was just glad I hadn't been the one put anyone up there. Yet.

That was certainly not the most uplifting thought I had ever had. Sadly there was not a lot of things that were uplifting to think about. If I survive, I'll be known as King Kid Murderer! Hooray! Not to mention that even if I get out without killing anyone, that means Jenny would have to die. I hate my life.

"John," Jenny yawned and stretched beside me, "If you die, I'll probably die too right?"

There was no lying to her.

"Yeah, probably."

"But if I die, you'll still win?"

I didn't even think before nodding my head, my only wish to please her.

"Good, I wouldn't be able to stand it if Jim Moriarty won, or worse, Mary," Jenny scowled, "They don't deserve all of the riches and glory."

"I agree with you on that," I leaned back against a log. The anthem played, and the dead children displayed… Violet, Clara, Carl, and seven other tributes had been killed today. Ten kids, about average for the first day, but a bit on the low side. Why am I thinking like this!? I though frantically. Was I about to turn into one of those ruthless killing machines like Johannes Mason or that Cato guy from a century before? Would that make it easier? Killing innocents? Jenny sighed and leaned her small head against my shoulder, effectively shaking from my dismal musings. I snaked my arm around her shoulders and buried my nose in her hair.

I would keep her safe.

Sherlock

Upon waking, my stomach gave a very pronounced growl. I poked at it through my shirt, intrigued by the unfamiliar noise.

"What are you doing that for? It's only been two days…" I whispered, running a hand through my hair. Though, that proved to be difficult as it was matted beyond belief from tossing and turning in the weeds all night. The sun was just peeking out from behind the crest of a far off hill, so it was still early. I needed to get moving, staying in one place was a sure-fire way to get killed, and I have no intention of being killed. My backpack lies untouched on the ground next to me, practically screaming for its contents to be explored.

Frowning slightly, I gave into the urge, though still wary of the possibility that I was being watched. Inside of the bag was a small packet of crackers, a few strips of salted venison, an empty water bottle, and a thermal blanket. The meat would keep longer than the crackers, so I stuffed a few of them into my mouth, cringing at the strangely bitter flavor. The blanket was practically useless, as the arena was already a bit on the warm side, even at night, and even if it was the eye-catching exterior would attract potential threats/murderers.

There was no water in the immediate area, so I packed the rest of my things away and set off into the forest. Leaves and roots snagged at my exposed ankles, leaving shallow scrapes along the surface of my skin. I winced at the slight sting, cursing my own sensitivity. It's not like I had a chance to build up a pain tolerance. I was just too good to ever be hit by the other kids. And that is not and exaggeration. If only the stupid bag had come with bandages.

"Oi! Yeah you! Don't move," a gruff voice commanded from behind me- Sebastian Moran, the Tribute from District 3. Why hadn't I heard him approach? Must've been better than I thought, how good was still under consideration.

"Hands on the back of your head, turn around, slowly," Moran ordered.

"Do you insist upon this juvenile display or can you bring yourself to go ahead and kill me already?" I queried, smoothing the sarcasm from my tone.

"Jim wants you alive, says, says you're interesting."

"Jim?"

Moran gave an indignant huff, "Yes Jim, Jim short for James, James Moriarty. Ring any bells?"

"Ah yes, the unnerving psychopath from District 2?"

He jabbed my shoulder with the point of his spear in warning, trying to mask a rather murderous expression blooming across his severe features.

"Don't you say nothing against Jim or we might have to forget his little request for you to be brought alive."

"Oh please. We both know that you wouldn't do a thing to cross your little boyfriend, Sebastian," I teased, grabbing the spear below the tip and twisting it from Moran's grasp. Yanking the spear out of his hands was the easy part, I was good with a spear, but a fight of this proximity would render it obsolete.

"AGH! You're gonna pay for that," he swore and reached to grab my neck. Dropping the spear and kicking it away, I easily evaded his attack and delivered a swift kick to where I knew it would count, then grabbing his wrist and wrenching around so that his thumb was jammed in between his shoulder blades.

"Where is your base? Don't bother lying, it won't work," I whispered harshly into his ear. Moran gave a half-hearted whimper.

"Like, like I'm gonna," he gasped as I pressed his arm a little bit harder, "Lake, lake, it's by the bloody lake."

"Good boy," I cooed, "Now, did you bring any other supplies with you?" He nodded stiffly.

"They're in the log, that log right by the fern plant," he looked over at said log.

"Thank you kindly," I replied, and smacked his temple with the base of my palm, effectively knocking him out. Moran's limp form slumped to ground, his chin sliding down the rough bark of the tree he had been pressed into.

I dashed towards the log and snatched the bag from inside. Shouldering both of my packs, as an afterthought I picked up the spear, and went off in search for the lake.

John

Whilst it is difficult to have a good day during the Hunger Games, today started out as an exceptionally bad one. I woke up to the sound of a canon firing, Jenny was gone, my swords were gone, my roots and berries were gone, and our small shelter had clearly been ransacked. Fraught with worry and simmering rage, I went in search of the dainty twelve year old. Whoever had sacked our dwelling while I was asleep was not too keen on stealth apparently. You didn't have to be Locke in order to track the perpetrator down. But I was too focused on Jenny to even care. She was small and light, so she didn't leave an obvious trail. Luckily though, I knew exactly where to look after years of foraging and providing for my family. I followed a series of subtle clues for about half an hour until I found her.

Jenny's face was sickly pale, her eyes half-lidded, thin lips parted. In her hand was a small amount of little purple berries.

Nightlock.

I crouched by her body, checking for any signs of life, but knowing that there was no chance. I pumped her chest, but caught myself before pressing my lips to hers. There could still be residue left by the poison. Upon ceasing my ministrations, I felt the sadness start to creep in.

It started in the pit of my stomach, with a strange deadened feeling, before it leapt into my veins spreading like wildfire. Above all, setting aside the sickening grief of loss, I was tired, so tired. It was about eight in the morning and only the second day of the Games, and I was absolutely sick of it.

I didn't cry. I didn't want to. This wasn't a place for crying. This was a place for death and a place for killing. There was absolutely no room for the weak or the cripple or the good of heart or the kind or generous or the sweet. I took the handful of berries from Jenny's cold hand and pocketed the fruit. Someone was going to die for this, even though this was an accident, someone was going to be an object for me to take out my regret and guilt and terrible frustration. I wasn't proud of my thoughts, but they were all I had for company in the unforgiving arena. Mockingjays twittered ominously overhead, and I made my way through the brush and weeds.

I made a 'Lost' refence!