A/N- Thank you so much for the reviews on last chapter. I'll try and get an update up next Monday, but it's exam period at college, so things might be a bit sporadic for a while.

Meanwhile, on 'ever increasingly huge chapters', here's this.


The second day in the arena had arrived, passed, and was now fading out. Sherlock still refused to believe that he was wrong about the location of the water source; he knew the right place, he just didn't know where to find it.

And damnit, it should be simpler than this! How useless was he when he couldn't even get to a damn river? He pushed a hand to his head, frowning. He was getting irritable from the lack of food and water. He had eaten handfuls of berries where he could, but there was only so much of a person that fruit could fill. Already Sherlock could feel a headache forming, droning menacingly in the back of his brain. He could feel his thoughts becoming slower, fuzzier, and that terrified him. It was true that he had always had a tendency to forget to eat when busy, but his 'busy' didn't usually didn't involve walking twelve hours a day with no water.

He was sure by now that the forest had been designed to confuse and to trap. The trees were more than similar; they were identical. When you looked closely there were only three different structures to the trunks, the same three trees over and over. The rough terrain underfoot was less predictable, but contained no clear markers to let him note where he had been and where he had to go.

Sherlock made an attempt to map out the arena in his head. There was the clearing in the centre which held the Cornucopia, surrounded by a dense ring of trees, and then whatever lay beyond. The mental diagram was of little use. Even if he made it out of the forest, he might be on the wrong side of the circle, miles from any drop of liquid.

Sherlock did not want to sleep for two nights in a row. He never had in District Eight, and it seemed silly to break a habit now. He continued through the forest under torchlight, the sense of preservation that had acted up earlier now quietly lying down and accepting that some risks were worth taking. But as hard as he tried to repress it, he was hungry. He was thirsty. His legs ached from the constant walking, and he could nearly scream with frustration. Every turn, the same. Every time he felt some hope, it was crushed.

Two more cannons had fired over the day. The anthem begin to play, and whilst he didn't stop moving, he looked up to the sky to see who it had been. The boy from Four was first- hardly surprising, he was only twelve. The next face, however, was Serra's. He missed a step and stumbled, cursing under his breath.

Serra was gone. He hadn't liked her, but she had still been a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. It had been going to happen at some point, though, and it wasn't really startling that it had been this early on. She hadn't been particularly skilled or experienced.

The initial shock began to fade, and he picked up his pace again. It was the only thing he could do- there was no point in dwelling on what had already happened. Combined with the four tributes from the first day, that made six dead so far. He wondered how many would soon die not in attack or defence, but from the absence of basic essentials. He wondered if he would be one of them.


"Let's go over this one last time. What am I going to do?"

"Distract him."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Steal the food."

"Good girl. Any questions?"

"Yes. Quite a few, actually."

"Oh, darling, I do wish you wouldn't doubt me so much. Go on then, if you must."

"Why are we doing this? Who is he? Is this dangerous? How are you going to distract him?"

"Molly, breathe. One- we need food and it's much easier to take than to hunt. Two- his name's Anderson. He's from my district. He's harmless. Three- oh, almost certainly."

"You said he was harmless!"

"I lied. And four- well, it'll go something like this."

"Irene!" Molly hissed frantically, but it was too late. Her ally was already sashaying out from the rocks they had flattened themselves behind. Irene moved silently towards the boy, who sat with his back to them. In front of him lay a pile of food packages- it looked like he had gotten away with nearly all of the resources from the Cornucopia. Irene paused and ghosted a hand across the back of his neck. He let out a high pitched shriek, flailing around.

"Anderson," she said smoothly. "It's so good to see you." Irene somehow moved to position herself so that when Anderson got to his feet, he stood with his back to Molly. Molly began to carefully slip through the maze of rocks, hiding behind the larger ones to ensure he didn't see. The sun was setting, so the lighting was on her side, but the spear clutched in Anderson's hand made her stomach flip.

"Irene." He narrowed his eyes at her. "What are you doing here?"

Irene shrugged. "What are any of us doing here?"

"Don't get funny with me, Adler."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she murmured, moving a little closer to him. Molly was almost level with them now; close enough to hear Irene's low tone, words piercingly clear in the quiet evening air.

"I mean it," he warned her. "I don't want you messing with me."

"I'd do a lot of things to you, Anderson, but that isn't one of them." Irene ran her gaze slowly over his body, and it was almost impressive how quickly the annoyance dissolved from his face.

"What? I-"

"Shh," Irene purred, curling her hand around his bicep and stroking his skin gently with her fingers. "Oh, you're strong." Irene broke off and chuckled. "Sorry. I get… distracted."

"That's- erm, I mean- that's fine." He raised his shoulders and deepened his voice, presumably to impress her with his manliness. Molly did have to feel some degree of pity for him.

"Do you know where the river is? I've gotten ever so dirty. I could do with a bath," And then, leaning in as if to impart some great secret, she whispered "and I need somebody to keep my clothes safe."

He swallowed hard, and nodded too vigorously. "Yes. Okay. Yes, I can do that."

"Oh, good," she said happily, and turned away from him slightly. "Show me the way, then? The faster we get there, the longer we'll have."

And Molly had to stifle a laugh as he nearly dragged her away from the patch of rocks.

She took her chance and darted forwards, stuffing armfuls of packages into the cloth bag Irene had 'acquired'. There was a pot of stew, several bread rolls, a few apples, a bottle filled with water, a pack of jerky, crackers… Molly wondered how he had gotten away with so much. She had run too quickly to see what had happened at the Cornucopia, but now she wondered how many of those cannons had fired because of him. She felt a sudden chill pass through her, fearful for her ally's safety. He had taken the spear with him.

Molly wanted to run after them, to check that everything was okay. Instead, she forced herself to stick to their plan. The last thing they needed was her overreacting and screwing things up. She finished packing up the resources and, bag bulging, hurried back into the cover of the rocks. The sun was setting, and Molly didn't have a good sense of direction at the best of times. She was relieved when their hollowed-out bush sprung into vision.

They had spent most of their day roaming up and down the arena. Molly's prediction seemed right so far- the river was very, very long. They hadn't strayed too far- the shrub was their safe base, an invisible cord around their waists always pulling them back. They had gathered berries, caught fish, and Irene had taken a pack of ammunition from the girl from Two as she slept, for a gun neither of them had.

"There's no point in wasting a chance," she had told Molly. "If you can gain the upper hand in any way at all, you should."

Molly stashed the food in various shrubs surrounding their hideout, before clambering in. The pattern was Irene's design. She had taken a pack of throwing knives taken from a tribute the day beforehand and hidden each of the blades in a different place: it was easier for a person to rob one store than to rob fifteen. The only exception to their system was Molly's bow and arrows, which she kept strapped to her back at all times. Just in case.

"Miss me?" a voice sung, and Irene's hand pushed aside the branches covering the entrance to the nest. Molly scrambled out.

"Hello," she smiled, relieved to see no injuries. "What did you do?"

"Oh, the usual. I let him kiss me for a while."

"And then…?"

"I hit him in the crotch and I ran."

"Irene!" Molly burst out laughing.

"What?"

"You said he was dangerous! It's so risky to hurt him like that."

"I can assure you that he doesn't have much to-"

"Don't," Molly giggled. Irene joined in. For a bizarre moment, Molly felt almost like a normal girl, having conversation with her older sister. It felt good.

"Who next, then?" Irene smiled devilishly. Molly stopped laughing.

"But we have enough food now," she said, confused.

"Oh, but we could have more, Molly. Wouldn't it be good to have more? And we could deal with some very interesting people to get it. Like, I don't know… the man from Eight. Have you met him?"

"Sherlock?" Molly said immediately, then blushed. "Um, yes. I have."

"What did you think?"

"He seems very… clever."

"Brainy is the new sexy," Irene smirked. "But we could go after him. He's probably along the river somewhere. That's where we're all meant to end up, after all," she shrugged. Molly didn't follow.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"They wanted us to come here."

"What makes you say that?" Irene sighed, and sat down on the ground, gesturing for Molly to do the same. She obeyed, and waited expectantly.

"There's water, food- and shelter," Irene explained. "A lot of shelter. Look at it. There are trees, bushes, rocks, caves… each could hold a tribute or two, and there are enough to hold us all."

"But why would they make it that…" Molly was unable to find the right word.

"Simple?"

Molly nodded gratefully. "It's like all twenty-four of us could be on here and never have to meet. I don't understand. Why would they do that?"

"What was the most important piece of advice you were given in training, Molly?"

Molly blinked. "Um, to find water, I suppose."

"Exactly. People who find the river live, people who don't die. If they can sort all the people who live into the same area, then it's bound to make something exciting happen. You need the pods to live, but any one you go into could hold a tribute. Nowhere is safe."

"But what if everybody just stayed in their own 'pod'? If nobody did anything?"

"Then the world would be a much softer place. In my district, Molly, winning these Games gives you every luxury you could ever dream of. Jewels, admirers, but more than that. It gives you power. People want power. If you offer people the choice between power and cowering in a bush, not many people will take the second option."

"I would," Molly said. "Every time."

"Then you're weak."

"Then I'm good," Molly said forcefully. Irene looked at her, eyes sparking dangerously in the moonlight. There was no trace of humour left hanging between them now.

"You stole food, Molly Hooper, just because I told you to. You watched me take weapons from a sleeping child and didn't say a word. What does that tell you about your goodness?"

"That was because we needed them," Molly objected. "We needed them to survive."

"And they didn't?"

"I… they'll find more," Molly said uneasily. "You said yourself that there's lots of food around here."

"So if there's lots of food here anyway, why did you take somebody else's?"

"Because you said I should," Molly said desperately.

"And why did you follow what I said?"

"Because- because I trusted you."

"No, you didn't. You don't think it was right."

"Well, then I didn't want to argue with you!"

"So you'd rather go along with something you don't agree with than make a fuss? Oh, darling, would you please take a moment to consider what that says about you?"

Molly did. She did not like the answer that she found.

"I… I didn't want to disappoint you," Molly said timidly. Irene softened, but only slightly.

"There's a difference, Molly, between being good and being a doormat. Maybe it's time for you decide which one you are."

Apologies tried to rush off of Molly's tongue, but she bit them back and nodded.

"I'll take the first guard shift," she said, staring straight ahead. She heard the rustle of branches as Irene climbed back into their den, but she did not turn around to look.


On the dawn of the third day in the arena, John woke up with his mouth dry and his stomach begging for food. He hadn't moved from the spot since he had squirrelled himself away in the fallen tree twenty-four hours beforehand. Whenever he considered leaving the sanctuary the hollowed out bark offered him, he would taste blood in his mouth and his stomach would twist with fear. No. Not yet.

He wasn't sure that he deserved to eat or to drink anyway. He vacillated between fury at himself for being so weak- wasn't he supposed to be a contender in these Games?- and pure, nauseating guilt at what he had done, at how easily he had done it. It was true that he did not know who he was, but he had not thought it would be this. A man who shot first and broke down later.

He had spent the day before in a kind of madness, floating in and out of sleep, dreams not ceasing just because he was awake. Whenever he tried to plan what to do next or to try and think through things logically, his thoughts dissolved. The harder he tried to hang onto them, the quicker they skittered away.

Every now and again he had heard noises in the forest surrounding him; leaves crunching underfoot, twigs snapping. He wasn't sure if they were tributes or animals, and he had no desire to check. He stared blankly ahead as the world outside slowly faded from blackness to light.

He didn't hear the knocking above his head at first. It was only when it stopped for a minute or so and then came back, stronger, that he jerked into awareness.

"Hello?" a voice asked timidly. "Hello?"

John held himself in place, silent and totally still.

"John?" the voice asked, and he clamped his hands over his ears. Go away.

"John, are you okay?" The words were muffled but still audible. He whined slightly in the back of this throat. Either this was somebody here to hurt him, in which case he was in no state to fight them off, or this was somebody trying to ally with him. That felt even harder to deal with, somehow.

"I'm going to come in there," the voice said determinedly, and suddenly the end of the log was blocked by a pair of legs. The tribute crouched down, and John caught a glimpse of a face out of the corner of his eye. It took him a few minutes to place the face.

"John," Sarah said, sounding relieved. "I thought it was you. Why didn't you reply?"

John still didn't reply. He didn't want to explain.

"Why don't you come out into the light? It looks really cramped in there." She left a gap for John to fill in, but he did not. He looked at her, and she flinched.

"Oh my God, John, are you okay? Come out, please," she asked, and extended her arm. Slim fingers closed around his arm, and he looked at them like the touch was alien. "Come on, just for a few minutes."

He crawled out, guided by her gently insistent grip. The daylight hurt his eyes, and he screwed his face up. Sarah smiled encouragingly at him. He was reminded of somebody trying to coax a scared puppy out of a corner.

"The river isn't very far away. We can get you cleaned up, and get you something to drink."

"No," John said, and his voice was loud and ugly. Sarah neatly set down the small metal flask she was holding, and pulled a handful of leaves from a nearby bush. She began to wipe at her fingers with them, waiting to see if he elaborated. He didn't.

"Okay, so you don't want to go to the river. Right." She paused "Why not?"

"I'm not going there," he said unsteadily. "I can't, Sarah. Okay?"

"Well, I have this bottle, but it's empty- so you're going to die of dehydration if you don't," she said, letting the leaves drop and crossing her arms. "I'm not having that on my conscience. Come on."

"I'm not doing it," he said, but he could already feel his resolve beginning to weaken. He did not want to stay in the forest. The idea of going to the river hurt, but he couldn't shake off his childish claustrophobia. Getting out of the intimidating maze of trees was appealing.

"Okay, so just come most of the way," Sarah bargained with him. "You don't have to go all the way to the river. You can stop a little bit beforehand. Okay?"

"Okay," John found himself agreeing, and she smiled.

"It's not very far away. Just follow me." He walked a few steps behind her, and she seemed comfortable to chatter away to him despite his lack of response. He tried to focus on the conversation, but his mind kept hazing in and out and her words slipped away. He was only jerked out of it when she stopped suddenly, and he almost banged into her.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" she accused. He smiled guiltily. "Come on," she said briskly. "One sided conversations are really boring, okay?"

"I don't feel like talking," he said, and he thought he saw fear flash in her eyes. He realised that he still had blood on his face, coating his eyelids, his lips. He wondered where she thought it had come from. But the wariness dissolved almost instantly, and Sarah looked mildly cross.

"Well, I don't feel like being quiet. So let's talk. What's your name?"

"You know my name," he said in confusion.

"Yes, but let's pretend I don't."

"Sarah-"

"Humour me."

"John."

"John…?"

"Watson."

"Middle names?"

"Hamish."

"John Hamish Watson. Nice name. What district are you from?" He noticed for the first time that she was brushing her hands against her legs, fluttering them backwards and forwards like butterflies. He wondered if it was a nervous tic; if she'd always had it, or if it was arena-born.

"Twelve."

"Who did you come with?"

"Molly Hooper."

"Did you know her before?"

"Yes."

"Where from?"

And slowly, piece by piece, Sarah lured facts out of him. He lived with his older sister. He trained in healing. His favourite colour was grey, which she found funny, and he preferred winter to summer. John's answers were monosyllabic at first, but gradually opened up. Going over the basic layout of who he was and what he did with his time helped, somehow. It gave him something to hang onto, an identity to claim back as his own. It was a little like an outline of a person that he could apply to himself, even if he didn't know quite what colours lay inside.

By the time the river came into sight, he found that he could stay focused on what Sarah was saying for several minutes at a time. If he started to slip away, he could snap himself back. This is where I am. This is who I am.

After all, hadn't he been through worse? His mother had died. His father had died. Clara- somebody John himself had had feelings for- had died. He had grown up in a care home before moving in with his alcoholic sister. He had been picked for the Hunger Games. For the first time, he felt like he truly understood what Harry had been trying to say. There had to come a point where you were proud of merely surviving, regardless of how you did it or who you were as a result. He moved his fingers to the familiar strip of rag around his wrist and pinched it between his fingers.

John could feel a hard, protective shell reforming over his cut-up insides. The things that had happened to him- wasn't he good at pushing it all back? John had trained himself not have feelings; well, not to show them, at least. He was the strong one, the good one, the brave one. He had had to be- for Harry. Looking over at Sarah, he felt himself naturally wanting to fill the same role, to be the protector rather than somebody in need of protection. Yes, he had done an awful thing, cut a jagged wound across his soul- but if he was damned if anybody was going to get close enough to find that out.

So when Sarah took a hold of his arm and firmly drew him towards the edge of the water, he didn't refuse. As he moved forwards his vision flickered with rusty blood, painted thickly up the banks.

Stop it, he told himself firmly, and was pleasantly surprised when the image faded. They were at a different part of the river. There had been no death here.

He pulled his arm away from Sarah, but only to walk forwards of his own accord. John pushed the fear down, down, to somewhere deep inside that wasn't worth naming. He washed the blood from his face and his hands and didn't flinch when he saw the river flashing with red. They moved a short distance upstream and both drunk straight from the river. Sarah filled up her empty flask and produced a pack of crackers she had taken from the Cornucopia. He found pale pink berries from a nearby bush and they ate their food, John feeling more human with each bite he swallowed.

"So what do we do now?" John asked when they had finished.

"Well," Sarah said, dipping her hands into the river to wash off berry juice. "I have a kind of mission, actually."

"Oh?" he asked, lips quirking upwards. "Go on."

"I'm going to help people. I'm going to go out, and give food or water or whatever I can to anybody I come across. I trained in healing for a while too, you know," she confessed shyly.

"That's… that's good of you, Sarah, but what if they don't want that help? We aren't supposed to be here to heal- if you go near some of those tributes, they'll kill you. They won't even think twice." I should know.

"I know that," she said.

"So you're prepared to commit some kind of saintly suicide?" he said in disbelief. "To let them kill you so that they can live? Christ, Sarah, don't you think you're worth more than that?"

Sarah looked at him, still scrubbing at her fingers in the water. "I don't know what happened to you, John, and I'm not going to ask. But I came here with a boy named Carl. Did you know him?"

"He was the little kid, right?" John asked. Sarah nodded.

"I watched a boy- the boy from One- stab him through the gut with a spear. Over, and over, and then when he didn't die quickly enough, he drowned him. He pushed his head into the river and he held it there and he drowned him, right there, in front of me. And I didn't do anything. I didn't even move. I just stood and watched as he struggled and thrashed and then he went limp. There was blood everywhere. I can't get it off my hands. See?"

Sarah extended a pale hand towards him, rivulets of water running off her fingers. It was spotless.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad or to make you relapse back into whatever world you were slipping into. I am telling you this because I want you to understand."

"You're trying to redeem yourself," he said slowly, working it out.

"It makes sense, doesn't it? If I can help enough people, maybe it can make up for what I didn't do."

"Let me come with you," he said. She looked at him like he was insane.

"Did you hear any of what I said? If you were attacked, I wouldn't do a thing. I would be useless to you."

"I shot a girl," John said, and the words hung like bullets in the air. "I shot her, and she died. I did too much, and you didn't do enough. That balances out, don't you think?"

Sarah, to her credit, didn't visibly react. "I-"

"Besides," John said. "I could do with some redemption." Because even with his shell firmly fixed in place, his feelings compressed and calmed and prepared to play this game and think about it later, he still felt the blood on his hands. When Sarah dipped hers into the river yet again, he followed suit.