A/N- *is desperately trying not to apologise for how hideously long this is*
The cannon shot wasn't really necessary; the girl was most definitely dead. Shelley, the female tribute from District 2, had too many knives in too many places for anybody to think otherwise.
At least Irene had made it quick for her.
"So you don't react like people sneaking up on you, I guess," a girl laughed behind her. Irene paused, but then continued pulling knives out of the body (she was not about to lose valuable resources to that damned hovercraft).
"There's a difference between sneaking and attacking," she stated. "Would you like to tell me which one you're doing?"
"Neither," the amused reply came. "I'm observing."
"How boring."
"Not one for observer sports?"
"No. I always preferred to take a direct involvement in things."
"You're missing out. If you don't take time to just sit back and watch, you never really get to know how the other team are playing."
"Was that a euphemism?"
"Most things are, if you want them to be. I'm Kate."
"Irene." Irene's lips twitched up into a smile. She pulled out the final knife with an audibly slick noise, and set it neatly at her side with the others.
"You've done impressively to make it to day five, Kate."
"Same goes for you. Now, are you going to hurt me, or should I stick around?"
"I don't see why the answer can't be both."
"Oh, then I'm definitely sticking around." A hand touched Irene's shoulder, and she prided herself on not jolting. She instead casually lolled her head to look at the hand. Female, slim, pale. That didn't exactly narrow it down.
"Should I turn and look, or would that be dull?"
"I think you know the answer to that."
"Life is too short for dull," Irene agreed. "In the poorer half?" she asked, taking in the calluses on the girl's fingertips.
"But only just," Kate replied.
"Seven?"
"Correct. But you're a rich girl if I've ever seen one."
Irene snorted. "Yes, well wealth is relative in Panem."
"Two?"
"The girl from Two was just carried out by a hovercraft."
"One, then. Oh, I remember now! Irene Adler, the woman in… nothing."
"I had hoped that would make me somewhat harder to forget."
"To be honest, I wasn't paying much attention to your name." Irene had to turn around to look after that.
She vaguely remembered the girl from training, but with twenty-three tributes drifting around there hadn't been time to really take everybody in. Kate had hair that was some strange shade between blonde and auburn ( perhaps bleached lighter by time spent in the sun; Seven dealt with lumber, after all). She was pretty despite the cuts and bruises on her face, and her eyes seemed to dance with a light that was all too familiar.
"Somebody's gorgeous," Kate grinned brazenly.
"I have got to stop picking up girls at fight scenes," Irene muttered to herself. Kate raised an eyebrow.
"You do this often?"
"To be fair, I suppose that the last one wasn't really a fight scene. I turned up, she ran."
"Skittish?"
"Like a baby deer. Tell me, Kate- do you have a partner right now?"
"In what sense?"
"Every. Especially the fun ones."
"No, not in any. Especially not the fun ones."
"Allies, then? For a while, at least?"
"I don't see a reason why not," Kate said, and the subtext heavy tone broke as she smiled. It seemed to de-age her by several years. "What was wrong with the last one?"
"Nothing much. It doesn't suit to stay with one person for too long in a situation like this, so I'm ally-hopping. Though admittedly, Molly and I were somewhat incompatible in our game-plans."
"Ahh. I hope we don't have the same problem."
"What are your feelings on taking things from innocent people while they're sleeping?" Irene asked.
"It's much easier than when they're awake."
"We're going to get along just fine."
Sherlock was packing up his things when the parachute came. John had been asleep for around an hour, and Sherlock was trying not to wake him up without really knowing why; there was nothing wrong with what he was planning to do. They had eaten all the meat so there was little to be gained from staying allied. He had debated taking John's gun, but he had been doing reasonably without one so far, so had decided there was no point in burdening himself with something else to carry.
Sherlock was just tying the bag closed when the parachute drifted down. He pounced on it immediately. If it was intended for him, he wanted to ensure it wasn't lost. If it was intended for John- well, John would never have to know. He opened the silver silk in one fluid motion to find a fresh box of bullets- bullets that would fit the gun he had decided not to take.
Sherlock scowled, perplexed. Was it a message to take the gun after all? Or was the ammunition intended for John? There was no clear indication which district had sent it, after all.
It was only when he looked from the box to the peacefully sleeping boy that long overdue realisation hit him. Oh. He thought back to the training, to things John had said that Sherlock had disregarded as irrelevant. Stupid! The one thing that was making this year's tributes stand out wasn't intelligence- it was kindness.
From day one, the participants had spent their time together- talking, bonding, making friends. Even Sherlock himself had somehow managed to find companionship in John and Molly. John had mentioned off-handedly earlier that he had allied with the girl named Sarah, and that they had gone on to help the boy from Four. From the closeness in training to the allying to the low death count so far, the one continuous trend of this year's games had been friendship.
How the Capitol audience must be loving the heightened drama that brought.
Sherlock had steadfastly ignored his mentor's advice as nothing more than meaningless social protocol. Cordiality had seemed nothing but a waste of time. But the bullets were a test. A message. He could either do as he had always done- go his own way- or play the game. If he allied with John, he would be marketing himself as sociable. Likeable. Somebody worth sponsoring.
There was something sad and quiet in John's eyes. It usually disappeared when Sherlock spoke or something else distracted him, but it returned whenever he had time to himself to think. Was that what allying did, then? What would happen when- if- John died? If Sherlock himself had to kill him?
Deal with that when the time comes, he thought to himself. There's no point in wasting time wondering. Sherlock remembered the bread John had told him about. District Four. They had no reason to help boys from Ten and Twelve, other than that they had shown their tribute kindness. He took one last look at the sleeping boy in the tree, and began to unpack the bag.
The parachute arrived only seconds later, carrying two bread rolls- one from Eight, one from Twelve. Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a half-smile. Rook, I feel like we're finally speaking the same language.
Greg was ashamed to admit his first reaction to the hollowed-out bush had simply been 'that's weird'. It had taken him far too long to realise that it was not that way naturally. He blamed it on the fact that he had not slept in over twenty-four hours; he hadn't slept at all since Sally died.
Food was no longer of prime importance- earlier in the day, he had found a rabbit drinking from the river. He had ended up drowning it for lack of any other weapons, forcing himself to ignore urges to vomit as he held its thrashing body under the water. He was sure that it had been a bad idea to eat it raw, but he hardly had many other options.
It had brought mixed feelings. Of course he had been relieved, but he couldn't help but wonder why he had found food then and not twenty-four hours beforehand. Maybe if he had just worked more, just looked harder, Sally would still be alive. He didn't feel like he deserved the meat festering in his stomach, but guilt was a luxury he couldn't give in to.
It had been strange to be alone. Even when Sally was in a bad mood- which had been often- she had been company. Standing over the hollow bush and looking down at it, he felt a bizarre urge to just… stay. To see who arrived, and whether they'd be willing to ally with him. Yeah, and then you can get yourself killed. Just this once, don't be an idiot.
But he had hesitated for a few moments too long, and when he turned to leave somebody was already there.
"What are you doing?" the figure asked. She sounded angry, but her voice was too light and sweet to be truly intimidating. The arrow aimed at him, however, had Greg backing away with his hands held up.
"Nothing," he said. "Nothing, honestly. I was just… walking. I'm going now."
"Did you take anything?" she demanded.
"I didn't know you had anything to take. Not that I would have anyway," he added hastily. "Honestly, please believe me."
"Calm down," she said, lowering the bow. "I believe you."
"Thank you," he said gratefully. She shrugged.
"I don't have much worth taking," she said. There was pain in her voice, and it made a strange pang of sadness shoot through Greg's core.
"There are rabbits pretty nearby," he told her, though he wasn't sure why. She slid the arrow back in the pouch on her back and moved close enough so that he could see her properly. Even without her pretty black and silver dress with the matching earrings, he recognised the girl from District Twelve. Greg was suddenly very conscious that he had not bathed in five days.
"Really?" she asked. "That's great, thank you."
"No problem."
"There are some berry bushes around, just to let you know- but they're running low. And some have turned weird."
Something uncomfortable stirred deep in Greg's gut. "Weird?"
"Yeah."
"What do you mean?"
"I can show you, if you want," she offered.
"Okay," he agreed.
"Hold on one second," she said, and he watched her dark shape reach into a nearby bush and root around in it. "You can't really see in the dark, I know, but you can tell by touch. Sort of. Okay, so this is one of the berries I've been eating," she said, dropping a small, round fruit into his palm. He rolled it between his fingers. It was just like the ones he and Sally had eaten on the first day.
"I've had these, yeah," he told her. "What are the other ones like?"
"Here," she said, and dropped a different berry into his hand. It was heavier, larger in his hand. The skin felt tougher, the whole thing less delicate. It was paler, and though he couldn't make out the colour, the monochrome version was all the confirmation he needed.
"Have you eaten any of these?" he asked, heart pounding in his throat.
"No," she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "They looked kind of scary. I didn't want to eat them before I had to. Why? Are they bad?"
"Very bad," he said. "Very very bad. Just don't, okay?" He dropped the offending thing onto the floor and stamped it into the dirt. She didn't stop him.
"I'll get rid of them all," she said worriedly. "That's a frightening. Terrifying, actually... wow. Oh, sorry!" she exclaimed. "Thank you. I nearly forgot- thank you so much."
"It's okay."
"You seem to know a lot about all of this," she commented.
"What?" he said, confused. "Seriously?"
"Honestly. You got a six, right? That's good."
"I got a five."
"Oh. That's still good, though! And you know about the berries and rabbits and… things," she ended feebly.
"Thanks," he said, unsure of how to respond. "It's pretty dark… I should probably-"
"Do you want to maybe stay for a while?" she blurted out. "I mean, um, we could be allies. I know that's sudden, sorry, but I could do with somebody who actually knows what they're doing. I'm a bit rubbish."
"So is it just you?"
"It is now, yes. I was with this girl, but, um, not anymore. So if you wanted, you could have me. No, wait-"
"S'okay," he said, amused. "Yeah, I think that'd be cool. You're Twelve, right?"
"No, I'm sixteen," she said. "Oh, God- you meant District number, didn't you?"
"Um- yeah," he said ruefully. "But good to know. I'm seventeen, and from Six."
"I'm sixteen- and yes, Twelve," she said. "My name's Molly."
"I'm Greg," he told her. "So you actually hollowed out a bush? That's pretty impressive."
"Oh, not really. I just moved some branches and things. Where have you been staying?"
"Places," he said vaguely. "Trees, bushes. I was with a girl but she- I- she's gone now."
"I'm sorry," Molly said, and she genuinely sounded it.
"It's okay," he said. "I'm sorry about- you know, your friend."
"Oh, Irene? No, she's not dead. She just gets distracted easily, I think," Molly said. There wasn't much that Greg could say to that.
"So should I take the first guard shift?" Molly asked. "Or you could, if you wanted. Do you think that we need to? I guess we could just sleep together- okay, no, that came out really really wrong-"
Greg wondered if she was permanently flustered. He didn't mind; for some reason, it made him smile. It's cute.
"Don't worry," he laughed.
"So should I go first?" she asked. "Or do you want to?" A big part of him wanted to just leave the decision up to her- he'd no doubt screw it up- but he found himself overwhelmed by desires to appear more in control; to impress her somehow. He stood a little straighter.
"Can I have the bow?" he asked.
"Um, no. Sorry."
"That's fair. You can take the first shift, then, if you want. Wake me up in a few hours?"
"Of course," she said. "You're really nice, Greg. I wish I'd we'd seen each other in training."
"Same here," he said, though he had first noticed her a long time ago.
"John? John, are you alright?" somebody was asking. John looked up to where Sarah stood.
He was standing in a pit of fallen leaves, brown and crushed and oozing with decay. She stood nearby, trembling slightly and eyes full of familiar concern.
"Are you alright?" she asked again.
He reached out to touch her, to reassure her, but the moment he touched her she began to cough, gasping desperately at the air. He withdrew immediately but Sarah kept scrabbling at her throat. She began to scream, animalistic and piercing. Rivulets of blood poured down her chest wherever her fingertips touched her skin, an ever-growing wound blossoming across her neck.
"Stop it," he pleaded, trying to pull her hands away, but whenever he touched her skin new wounds formed, cutting deeper each time. "Please, please, stop it." But she kept screaming, louder and louder until it was bursting his ear drums, blood seeping into every corner of his vision until all he could see was red. He tried to run but Sarah reached out and grabbed his legs, and he stumbled and fell into the pit of leaves.
Still she screamed and screamed and so he clapped his hands over her mouth to try and keep her quiet, to try and stop the noise. Then her eyes were widening and the air was being sucked out of her lungs and she convulsed, dying under his hands. He jerked backwards, horrified, but she didn't move. The leaves bubbled up to drag him down, down, rustling and hissing and then and hands- no, jaws, the metal jaws of the hovercraft- were descending on him again and when he looked at his arm, the cloth Harry had given him was dripping with blood, Sarah's blood, Henry's blood, Serra's blood, and then something was grabbing him and
"John? John, are you alright?" somebody was asking. John's eyes snapped open and it took a moment for the scarlet haze to leave his vision. "Are you alright?" the voice repeated, and John found Sherlock peering intently into his face.
"Fine," he gulped, trying to calm down. It was just a dream. Get over it. But it had felt so real. He had heard somewhere that you dreamt in black and white, but there was no way that was true. Not with that much red. He glanced at the makeshift hairband he kept hugged around his wrist. It was, of course, the same as ever. No blood, no death, just a dirtied strip of rag.
"You were screaming," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
"Oh, God. Sorry," John said. The light hurting his eyes was that of early morning- maybe five or six A.M. "You didn't wake me for my guard shift."
"What? Oh, no. I didn't feel like sleeping. Besides, look what I found."
Sherlock held his palm out, uncurling his fingers, and John looked. It was a small glass canister, unremarkable except for the two pills inside of it.
"Weird," John commented, taking the bottle and holding it up to the light. The pills were a faint speckled pink. "Do you know what they are?"
"No."
"Could you work it out?"
"If there was a way to, then I would have done so by now," Sherlock said impatiently, snatching the bottle back.
"Alright, alright, calm down."
"I did think about opening the bottle and checking, but I decided that would be a stupid thing to do."
"A very stupid thing," John agreed. "You don't know what they do, Sherlock. For all we know, they give off toxic fumes or corrode skin or something."
"And for all we know, they're medicine," Sherlock challenged.
"Are you ill?"
"… no."
"Exactly. Do not open that bottle."
"I told you, I wasn't going to," Sherlock said, but he dropped the bottle grumpily. John winced, but merely bounced and rolled on the soft ground. Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed. "Oh, and I almost forgot. We have bread."
"Bread?" John blinked.
"Sent last night, via parachute." Sherlock said, pointing to a silk-wrapped package. "One from Twelve, one from Eight. You can open it, if you want."
"Thanks," John said, crossing over to where the parachute lay. "Why do people keep sending me bread?" he questioned. He was talking to himself, but Sherlock answered anyway.
"Presumably they want to sponsor you."
"But why now?"
"However would I know?" Sherlock said, but there was something in his manner that made John cynical. Pushing suspicion aside, he carefully opened the bundle. Two rolls sat neatly next to each other, the delicious smell wafting out.
"You didn't eat any?"
"Wasn't hungry," Sherlock replied. John looked at him in disbelief. Only Sherlock could grow up in a famine-stricken area, survive off of berries and whatever he could catch for five days, and still treat food with that level of indifference. It was bizarre, but John was starting to get used to that.
"Here," John said, holding out the bread from Eight. "You need to keep your strength up."
"I'd forgotten I had a healer on my hands," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. He took the bread all the same, but tore it in half. He handed the larger half to John. "Try it. Eight's bread is good."
"I wish I could say the same about Twelve's," John said, doing the same with his roll and giving Sherlock half. It was an unusual thing to do, but it felt right. Not to mention that Sherlock had that look on his face again- a look that said that he was doing something very clever and was to be trusted implicitly. John waited, but Sherlock made no move to explain.
"You okay?" he asked cautiously.
"Me? Fine, yes," Sherlock said, biting into the bread like he had forgotten it was there. Maybe he had. "Have you seen the numbers around the arena?"
"Numbers?" John asked. He was growing aware that all he did was parrot what Sherlock said back at him. He didn't like what that said about his use.
"Yes, numbers. It took me far longer than is acceptable to work out, but I was in a near-death state. Capitol numerals."
"'V's and 'I's and things?" John asked. John had no idea where the Capitol had gotten their numbering system- they tended to claim they had invented it, but the older people in Twelve said they had remembered a different story. The system was only really used in the Capitol itself; it was a sign of grandeur more than anything else.
"Yes. 'I' is one, 'V' is five, 'X' is ten, 'L' is fifty and 'C' is one hundred. They're relatively straightforward once you learn them," Sherlock lectured. "What I don't yet understand is their purpose."
"Wait- I have seen them," John said, the memory breaking through the crusted layer of repression. "Yeah! I didn't realise they were numbers- I didn't know what they were. They were by the river with the fish."
"And what did they say?" Sherlock asked eagerly, leaning forwards.
"Um… God, um. I know there was a double X… and maybe an L?" he hazarded a guess. Sherlock slumped back, clearly disappointed.
"It's always the same with you people," he muttered. "You see, but you don't observe."
"What?"
"Oh, it doesn't matter. What matters is what they mean. I've seen numbers in the hundreds in places, so it's obviously not District number."
"Maybe they divide the arena up," John suggested. "Maybe they're always there, but they don't show them on the broadcast."
But Sherlock was shaking his head. "No, I would have noticed them. They're new. They mean something. I just don't know what," he said forcefully, drumming his hands against his leg. John stared at him.
"This is really bothering you, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course," he said testily. "How could it not be?"
"Try because you're the cleverest person in these Games? And perhaps the whole of Panem?" John said incredulously. "Maybe because you got an eleven in training?"
"I fail to see what any of that has to do with anything."
"Most people probably haven't even noticed the numbers, Sherlock. Just because you haven't worked it out yet doesn't mean you're any less intelligent."
"Of course it doesn't. That would be a ridiculous claim. This is just incredibly frustrating." Sherlock paused. "Thank you for the consideration, though," he said slowly, like a child prompted to say thank you for a birthday present.
"That's okay," John said, deciding not to question it. "Did you see the death count last night?" he asked instead. "I think I slept through it."
"Yes. Four more, so there's nine left now."
"Nine?" John asked, jaw dropping open. "Seriously?"
"Yes. Fifteen dead, nine left."
"Shit," John breathed. "Sorry, that's just… I didn't realise. Who's left, then?"
"Obviously there's us. The woman from One, the man from Two-"
"Molly," John added. "Um, I think the girl from Six?"
"No, she's gone. The boy's still there, though."
"Oh, okay. I don't remember the huge guy from Five going."
"Nor me, so he's still alive. The pair from Seven too."
"Really? Both?"
"Yes. It's interesting; Seven rarely make it this far."
"Yeah, well neither do Twelve. So that's the woman from One, the man from Two, the guy from Five, the boy from Six, both from Seven, you, me and Molly?" John said, counting them out on his hands.
Sherlock nodded. "Christ," John muttered. "Fifteen people dead in five days."
"If it concerns you so much, why pay attention to it?" Sherlock asked.
"I want to know what happens to the people I- to people I know. Like Molly." Like you.
"Why?"
"Seriously? I grew up with her, Sherlock. She's like family to me."
"So why do you want to know if she dies? Or should I say, when she dies?"
"No, you shouldn't!"
"Why not? Why lie? Either she'll die and you'll find out, or you'll die and that won't matter. All things considered, it's much more likely-"
"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, voice low. "I am not having this conversation."
"Why not?"
"Have some respect- I mean, you knew some of these people. You met them, spent time with them, and now they're gone," John said heatedly. "Don't you feel anything over that? Don't you care at all?"
"Would caring about them save their lives?"
"No, of course not."
"Then I'll continue not to waste my time doing so."
John wanted to answer- he really did- but nothing presented itself as a good enough option. He was finding himself somehow questioning the very basic things that made him human, and that scared him more than almost anything else.
John had only known Sherlock for a week, but sometimes he felt that Sherlock only observed the human race; existed purely to point out their peculiarities and illogicalities without sharing a single one of them. It seemed easy for him to divide what made sense from what was deep inside a person; he could cut the join between head and heart. John could not do the same.
Second after second passed, but he still couldn't think of a single damned reply. Instead he took a deep breath, and then another, and then he changed the topic.
"So those pills- where did you even find them?" he asked. Sherlock looked at him long and hard, but then he seemed to consent.
"Under that bush," he said, pointing nearby. "I've checked some already, but there are many more. You take left side, I'll take right. I doubt we'll find anything, but we've hardly got much else to spend our time on." Sherlock grinned at him, but John wouldn't meet his eyes. Sherlock's face fell back into stoniness.
"I've disappointed you," he stated flatly.
"Good. That's… good deduction, yeah," John said bitterly.
"Death happens, John," he said bluntly.
"I know," he said through gritted teeth. I've caused enough. "You're right, after all. Why should a killer have the right to grieve?" He regretted the words almost as soon as they left his mouth. Stop being such a child about this.
Understanding flooded Sherlock's eyes, quickly followed by annoyance. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to."
"I don't play games, John," Sherlock snapped. "I don't hide what I think. If I thought you were a 'killer', I'd simply tell you. I don't think you're a bad person for grieving- though I still fail to see the purpose- much as I don't think you're a bad person for doing what you had to do to survive." Sherlock paused, but John didn't say anything. "Like I said- death happens. Get over it."
Sherlock didn't speak again, but kept his gaze on John. Eventually, the other boy raised his head to look Sherlock in the eyes.
"So bushes, right? You're going to need to tell me what I'm looking for, though, because I really have no idea." And this time, when Sherlock smiled, John smiled tentatively back.
