It was the fourth day, and Sherlock hadn't wasted any time. He had set up camp by the river as soon as he reached it, used the rope to trap a rabbit, and had even been able to start a fire and cook it. He thought, with pleasure, that the survival pack was of significantly more use than the gun would have been.

There had been a cannon shot in the early hours of the day- that made nine dead, sixteen left. He hadn't really been paying much attention, but he couldn't ignore that the death count really was remarkably low. There had been more than one year where the Games had ended by now, and yet they weren't even halfway through.

Hunger bit at Sherlock's stomach, and he frowned in annoyance. Eating again? Bodily tasks like sleeping and consuming were so very time-consuming, but they were necessary- especially with this level of activity. He had reset the snare, but when he checked, it was empty. The river it was, then. Even if there were no fish, something would be growing or living nearby.

He returned from where he had set up the rope to find that the fire, which he had been so carefully tending to, had gone out. Irritated, he moved closer to investigate. Most people would have dismissed the tiny movement out of the corner of their eye- but he was Sherlock, so of course he didn't. He had chosen a small copse of trees as his temporary sanctuary, and if he looked carefully he could even see the shadow wavering behind one of the trunks.

"I suggest that you come out," he said. When nobody moved, he added, "go on. I don't have all day."

The tribute obliged.

Sherlock dodged the punch that the man threw and ducked under the pole that he aimed firmly between Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock sunk a solid punch into his attacker's stomach, and he went down with a groan. The man raised the spear to slash at Sherlock's ankles but Sherlock jumped, and the man's swipe missed. He lunged for Sherlock's legs and knocked him to the ground, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's shirt as he landed. He rolled them so that he was pinning Sherlock down, pushing his face into the dirt.

"Don't make another move if you value your life," the man said in a low, warning tone.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Fucking freak," the man spat.

"Now that's just unkind."

"Shut up!" the man shouted, a little desperately. He grabbed Sherlock's hair and smashed his head against the ground. Sherlock winced, but when the man let go he lunged and twisted to head-butt him hard in the chest. The man fell backwards and reached for his spear, but Sherlock was there first. His fingers were closing around it when he felt something slash at his leg, and he recoiled with the sudden pain. Then the man was slamming him over again, holding a dagger in one hand and pressing a knee against Sherlock's throat.

"That was a mistake," the man snarled. Sherlock could feel blood running from the cut blooming on his calf, and was very conscious of the blade in the man's hand. District One, he remembered he looked up at the tribute's face.

"If you move again, I will drag you over to the fire and push your face into the burning ashes, and I will hold it there. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Sherlock murmured. The tribute was much weaker than Sherlock had originally thought, with few muscles and a dangerous dependence on weapons he was not very good at using. If Sherlock could just get that knife away from him-

"You're going to die," the man said, seeming to take pleasure in the fact. "You're going to die like the boy from Four did, and like the pair from Three did, and like that bitch I came here with is going to."

"Did you bore them to death?" That earned Sherlock a hard slap to the face, but it felt worth it. Yes, good. Angry is good. Angry makes people clumsy, and clumsy makes people drop weapons.

"I think that I want something a little bit grander for you," the man said, tossing the knife aside. He picked up the spear instead, and made sure to hold it so that Sherlock could see the red stains coating the blade. He positioned it directly above Sherlock's heart, the metal point cold even through his clothes.

"You think you're so clever," the boy sneered. "You think you're so much better than everybody else. Well, you aren't, and I'll prove it."

"See, that's a bit of a mistake," Sherlock said calmly. The boy began to laugh. He pushed his outspread hand against Sherlock's throat and chin, clumsily keeping him down.

"What are you even talking about?"

"You asked earlier if I valued my life."

"And?" the man demanded.

"I don't. I do, however, value my intellect, and you just insulted it." He bit the man's finger, hard, and took advantage of his temporary surprise to lunge to the side, rolling awkwardly. Sherlock scrabbled to his feet and ran, fast and hard. The spear only just missed him, and Sherlock looked back in time to see the other man grab the knife and start to sprint.

Sherlock was fast, but the other tribute was faster. His attacker was almost upon him and so Sherlock did the only thing that he could think of. He dropped to the ground instantly and grunted as the man's foot collided with his ribs, hard. His pursuer tripped and hurtled over, slamming against the ground. At first, Sherlock didn't understand why he screamed so loudly or for so long. It was only when the tribute rolled over, shaking hands curled around the knife embedded firmly into his chest that understanding dawned.

"Oh," Sherlock said- and then again, "oh", because he really did not know what else to say. The man, in a clear fit of panic, pulled the dagger from his chest. It was a mistake he didn't live long to regret. Sherlock didn't know why he stayed there until the cannon sounded less than two minutes later, but he did. He had never seen so much blood before in his life, couldn't really get his head around just how much there was. It stayed behind his eyelids like the outline of an image stared at for too long, flashing up whenever he blinked.

Sherlock picked up the knife from the dead man's side, grimacing. Holding it by the tip of the handle, he left for the river. The blade dripped as he walked, the droplets splashing onto his feet and dyeing them with little splashes of crimson. Sherlock paid it little attention. All he really cared about as he scrubbed the dagger clean was that his blood was still inside of his body, churning around with a regular, reassuring thud.


Greg had still eaten nothing since the few handfuls of berries since he had entered the arena, and even that felt like a long time ago. With the fourth day drawing to a close, he had to be careful standing up. He had gotten off the ground too quickly earlier, and found himself landing back on it with a thud only a few seconds later. It had been then that he'd snapped. Hungry, weak, tired and so very angry, he had found Sally.

"Have you-" she had begun.

"No, Sally, I haven't, because there isn't any food here. If there was, it's gone. We need to move. I'm going, and it's really up to you whether you follow or not."

She had looked at him, and he had thought she was about to argue. Instead she snapped "if you insist, you ass", and stormed off ahead of him. Shaking his head in disbelief, he had followed her. He didn't really care what happened as long as it got them moving.

And so they had been walking ever since, passing bushes and shrubs that were most definitely empty. Mostly they came across patches of rocks, jagged and blank and most definitely food free. It was late evening by the time they were forced to stop.

"This is stupid," Sally said, propping herself up on a rock. "We should be... better than this. I've seen people go much longer with no food. Much, much longer."

It took Greg far too long to organise his thoughts into coherent sentences. "Doesn't mean that it's a good idea, though."

"We'd be pretty useless if we got attacked," Sally said. Greg didn't want to consider just how right she was.

"We need to carry on," he said, but Sally shook her head.

"We should split up."

"Doesn't that kind of undo the point of allying?" he grunted, but she didn't laugh.

"I'm serious. We can have a signal or… something, and meet back here in an hour or so. We can cover twice the ground."

Greg hesitated. "I don't know-"

"Oh come on, you idiot. You can take care of yourself for sixty minutes."

"I wasn't worried about that," he said, annoyed.

"Then why are we still talking? Come on, let's just do it. The alternative's hardly been working."

"Fine," he found himself agreeing. "But how do we even measure an hour?"

"Just guess it," Sally shrugged. "You aren't that stupid."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "See you soon."

She nodded, and turned to her left. Grudgingly, he turned to the right and walked away from her. If he just walked in a straight line, it would be easy to find his way back. Left, right, left, right… rocks, empty bushes… left, right… bare trees… left, right, left, stop for a minute. Keep on going, left, right… nothing. There was nothing here. He couldn't see any pods of shelter or food stretching out ahead of him- only the river, carrying on and on until it was lost from sight. He had a feeling he was approaching the end of the arena.

Cursing, Greg turned around and headed back the way he had come. He was early, but there was no point in wasting energy chasing after nothing. He slumped down onto the rock, and rested his head in his hands.

"Greg!" Greg glanced up, wondering if he had imagined the faint cry of his name. But then it came again- "Greg, over here! I found something!" And then he saw her- Sally, in the distance, hurrying towards him and waving. He pushed himself up and half ran, half loped to meet her. They both knew the risks of making so much noise in such a dangerous place, but they were past caring. Sally had found food.

"What is it?" he called when he was close enough.

"Berries," she said excitedly. "Come on, hurry up!"

"Did you bring any back with you?" he asked, following her eagerly. She shook her head.

"The patch is only a few minutes away. I ate some, though. They're not bad- a bit bitter, but edible."

Greg didn't particularly care about taste at this point. "What do they look like?"

"I've never seen them before- I reckon they're a… a crossbreed, or something. They're kind of orangey-red, and quite big. They're kind of bitter, but okay."

"How many are there?"

"Loads- three huge bushes, completely covered in red or orange berries. They're bitter, but they're not that bad."

The creeping feeling that something was wrong finally managed to break through the haze of anticipation. "Sally?" Greg asked cautiously.

"What? Look, there they are!" She pointed at two large bushes, each covered in the clusters of fruit.

"You told me there were three," he said carefully.

"Well, excuse me. I must have counted wrong. What are you waiting for?" Sally began to walk towards the bushes, but Greg forced himself to remain still and watch his ally. He noticed for the first time that she was unsteady on her feet, leaning heavily on her left leg to walk. She was nearly at the plants when the leg suddenly gave way and she fell.

"Sally!" he shouted, running forwards. She was trembling from head to toe, like she was terrified of something he couldn't see. "Sally, are you okay?"

"I- I can't-" Sally stammered, but she didn't finish the sentence. Greg pushed her hair away from her face and nearly recoiled when she contorted to look at him. Her pupils were huge, twin holes carved out of her irises.

"Christ," he breathed, rocking backwards and running a hand through his hair. "Just- just try and stay calm, Sally, okay? It's gonna be okay."

If Sally heard him, she didn't respond. Her limbs were skewed at odd angles, held too stiffly and still shuddering. He watched uselessly, unable to understand what was happening or to stop it as Sally began to jerk violently, eyes rolling backwards. He clasped her hand in both of his and buried his face in it, desperately trying to hold onto her juddering fingers without really knowing why.

When she all too abruptly fell into motionlessness, his first thought was that he had somehow managed to make it all okay. His second thought was that the cannon shot seemed so much louder than ever before.

Greg retreated into the bushes to watch the hovercraft scoop up her immobile body and neatly carry it away. He leant heavily against the sturdier branches of the plant. He was numb. Numbed by the swiftness of it, absorbed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and emptied out by the clawing hunger inside. He closed his unsure fingers around the berries beneath them without even realising what he was doing.

Could one or two really hurt? He hadn't known how many she had eaten. The image of her painful spasms didn't leave him, but neither did the image of himself gradually dying of starvation. He plucked a single fruit from the bush- and then two, and then three. He held the trio of berries in his cupped hands.

Greg slowly, so very slowly, pooled them into one palm and delicately selected middle berry. He brought it to his mouth and pressed it against his closed lips. He closed his eyes. Bitter, but not too much. One or two wouldn't hurt.

He snapped his eyes open. Before he could talk himself out of it, he threw the berries to the ground and stamped on them. The insides oozed a dusky red and he carried on crushing them until he was sure he wasn't going to peel them off the ground. Even as he stared at the dirtied mess on the floor, he found his vision being pulled back to the bush. Just the one can't hurt…

Greg turned and walked away as fast as his trembling legs would let him.


They hadn't meant to try and intervene. They really hadn't. They had been trying to help people, that was true, but actually breaking up a fight was something none of them were interested in.

The three of them had already had a good morning- Sarah's district had sent them three bread rolls, flecked with dark green seaweed and salt, and John had been so stunned that he nearly forgot to say 'thank you'. Sponsorship was not something he had expected. They had eaten them and started the day with a new sense of hope. It was only a few hours later that they entered a pod of trees, turned right, and found themselves face-to-face with a pair locked in combat.

Well, combat was a rather ambitious way of phrasing it. A girl John didn't recognise lay on the ground, barely moving. An impossibly tall tribute loomed over her, his hands clamped around her throat.

"Hey!" Sarah shouted, unable to ignore them, and the man looked up. Seeing the gun in John's hand, he turned and sprinted.

"Lorena?" Henry gasped, and John's stomach sank. The girl was from District Ten. Henry knew her. That was going to make things much harder.

"Is she going to be okay?" Henry asked fearfully as John and Sarah dropped to her side.

"Yeah, sure," John said, keeping his eyes fixed on the body and checking her over for other injuries. Her breath rattled at the back of her throat, slow and infrequent. "Who was that, Sarah?"

"The man from Two. He calls himself the Golem. I can't remember his real name."

"I can't see any other injuries," John said, "but I don't know how long she was without oxygen for." He heard Henry starting to hyperventilate, and looked up at Sarah.

"Get him out of here," he told her, and she nodded.

"Come on, Henry. We're going to keep looking for food."

"But-"

"John will look after her, okay?" Sarah led Henry away, grabbing his arm firmly, and John pressed his fingers to Lorena's wrist. The pulse was faint and wavering.

"Come on," he muttered. "Please." There was little he could do but wait. He sat by her side, watching her closely. Less than a minute later, the cannon shot fired. John sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. He was still holding onto the girl's frail arm, unwilling to let go. It took him a few seconds to register that he could still feel the faint beat beneath his fingertips. His eyes widened as a sickening realisation dawned.

"John!" a voice screamed, and he was up and running.

"Henry?" he shouted back, and when there was no reply he just ran faster. He crashed through the canopy of trees frantically, but he was too late. Sarah lay on the ground, unmoving. He could see the heavy red marks on her neck, ugly grooves made by fingers. Her eyes were still open, staring blindly through John without seeing him. The Golem had Henry pinned down, hands squeezing around his neck. John aimed the gun at him and went to fire, but found that he couldn't.

"Get off him!" he shouted desperately, finger still trembling uselessly on the trigger. The Golem obliged, stepping away from the body as the cannon shot sounded. It was followed only seconds later by another, rocketing through the arena. John tightened his finger on the trigger again but his aim was unsteady, and the man could run as fast as he could kill. Then he was gone and John was alone yet again, with death all around him and the heavy weight of a gun in his hand- heavier, somehow, for the bullets he had not fired.

He didn't cry. He didn't break down, though he felt near to it. He took the water bottle from Sarah's side, numb. He closed her eyes with gentle but detached movements. John took the berries from Henry that they had collected the night before, and moved on without looking back. The hovercraft had already taken Lorena by the time he reached where her body had been. He ate the fruit as he walked, and after a few minutes a rabbit ran across his path. He had no qualms about shooting this time around.

The river ran directly next to the pod, so he picked a tree to climb. He still hated being in the forest, and it felt easier to manage from up high. He hid the rabbit in a nearby shrub for later, along with the half-full flask. He kept the gun.

It was still daylight, but he didn't really want to go anywhere. John instead lay back on a branch and closed his eyes. Sleep came much more easily than he'd anticipated. He didn't dream.

He was woken up several hours later by a rustling from below. It was dark, but he could just about make out the form below. He leant out of the tree and pointed his gun at the tribute without bothering to weigh up his options. Maybe he'd shoot if he had to. Maybe he wouldn't. His guess was as good as anybody else's at this stage.

"That would be very optimistic of you," a smooth voice said, and John nearly dropped the gun. "An eight is a good score, perhaps, but I think you'll find mine was somewhat higher."

"Sherlock?" he asked, not quite believing it.

"John," the familiar reply came. And then- "You can stop aiming that at me any time you want, you know."

"Shit, of course. Sorry." He set the weapon down on the branch. "I… how've you been?" he asked, scooting to the edge of the branch. The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth. Is there a social protocol for this kind of thing?

"Nearly died a few times. Killed a man. Nothing of particular interest. Yourself?"

"Similar. Um, sorry- should I come down?"

"That seems logical," Sherlock agreed. John grabbed the gun and clambered down the branches. Sherlock looked much the same as ever. A cut ran down the side of his face and his usual long coat had been traded for the standard arena uniform, but he seemed just as imposing as usual. But then he smiled warmly, and a considerable part of John melted. Ah. I'd forgotten he did that.

"Hi," John said.

"I knew her, didn't I?" Sherlock asked out of nowhere.

"Knew who?"

"The girl you killed."

"How did-" Sherlock just looked at him. John exhaled. "Serra. I'm… sorry."

"Don't be. You did what you had to," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"Thanks, I guess," John said, guilt bubbling deep in his stomach all the same. "Who did you… you know?"

"Me? Oh, the boy from One. Something Anderson. He thought he'd attack me with a spear. I disagreed." In spite of himself, John smiled. "I spent the rest of my time trying not to die of thirst. Don't worry, I succeeded."

"Water's easy- it's food that's difficult. I shot a rabbit earlier- if you want some, I mean," he offered, suddenly feeling awkward. Irrelevant as it was, he still hadn't shaken the memory of Sherlock's interview. He doesn't want you around. Get over yourself.

"Ah, yes, you got the gun," he commented, nodding at the weapon in John's hand. "Well done- meat is valuable. I have some fruit that I could trade for it, though."

"Fruit?"

"Well, berries, but that sounds like a bad trade for rabbit. Fruit at least gives the illusion of indulgence."

"You are so strange," John laughed.

"So I've been told. I don't know why you put up with me," Sherlock said. He quirked the side of his mouth upwards in a smile, and John felt his heart skip a beat again. Stop being ridiculous.

People died because of you, his mind hissed at him. Innocent people. Are you really prepared to let that happen to somebody else? To him?

"You don't have to- well, you don't have to stay, I mean- if you don't want to," John said, ignoring his heart's loud objections.

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… well, your interview."

"That thing?" Sherlock looked annoyed by the memory.

"Yeah, well, I just got the impression that- well, that you preferred to be alone. You said that there weren't any people you… well, you know," John finished awkwardly.

"Oh, John, you do have such a fickle memory."

"What?"

"I've told you before- you aren't 'people'."

"You know, that's probably not as much of a compliment as you think it is."

"Why not? People are loathsome."

"You think?"

"Mmm. I prefer to spend time with you."

"I- what do you- that's-"

"You're babbling."

"Sorry," John said. "I'll shut up."

"That's the most intelligent thing you've said so far. Come on, we're going to light a fire and see if anybody wants to fight us about it." John laughed again, and helped Sherlock to gather wood ("no, not that wood, that wood. It's completely different. What do you mean, you can't tell?") and to cook the rabbit over the flames ("Sherlock, stop it. I don't care if I'm doing it wrong. Go stand over there and stop looking so pained.")

Sarah and Henry and Lorena and Serra never left the forefront of John's mind- it didn't feel like they ever would- but the awful frozen feeling was fading, thawing in the fire's heat. He felt more human. More in touch with reality. More in control.

He kept the gun lodged firmly in his hand all the same, on constant lookout for any attackers. Nobody else is going to die because of me. But that was an impossible promise, wasn't it? If he refused to shoot, Sherlock could be killed. If he shot, somebody else would die. But not him. There were too many factors to consider and it wasn't something he felt able to think through.

He knew that he would grieve later, but when he fell asleep later that evening ("I'll take the first watch. Sleep is unnecessary for my functioning"), he found himself feeling almost alright for the first time since this whole hideous thing had started. It was a little insane that a presence as chaotic as Sherlock's could be calming, but somehow it was.