Eight days before Molly and Greg were broadcast working out the code, Thomas Lucan swept into a room filled with utter chaos.

"Sir!" one man cried, grabbing at his sleeve. Lucan fixed him with a glare and the man dropped it hastily. Wise move.

"Sir, I wanted to let you know- to ensurethat you knew- that I am nothing but loyal to you and to the Capitol. I would never do anything to endanger the safety of the-"

"Shut up, Harris," Lucan said mildly. He knew Harris was having traitorous thoughts; had known it long before that skinny district boy walked into his gym.

People tended to think the only way to deal with a problem like Harris was immediate execution. Lucan disputed this. He employed another method: keeping the traitor around and feeding them false facts. You let them believe that they were getting somewhere when they were merely chasing ghosts. You could even garner information about the rebel force if you played your cards wisely, which Lucan tended to do.

And thenyou killed them.

"Of course, sir," Harris said, scuttling away obediently. The room was filled with Gamemakers, flittering around and jabbering anxiously.

"Sit down," he ordered, and they fled to their seats like schoolchildren. He stood observing them. As Head Gamemaker, it was his duty to sort this out.

"What are we going to do?" a young Gamemaker named Azaiah burst out before he could speak. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"About what?" he asked.

"What do you mean, what? The boy from Eight, what else?" she said, voice growing louder.

"Know your place, Azaiah," Lucan said gravely. The woman glared at him, but Lucan met her gaze and held it. She dropped her head.

"I'm sorry," she replied meekly.

"That's better." Lucan took his seat at the head of the table. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

"But the boy, sir," one Gamemaker interrupted. "The things he knew… how could he know them?"

"It must have been a trick," another replied. "There's no way he could have guessed all of that."

"Is he a rebel weapon?" one woman demanded. "Some kind of mutt made to be used against us?"

"It would make sense if he was a mutt," somebody agreed. "But how did the rebels get that kind of technology?"

"Stop it," Lucan ordered loudly. Everybody hushed. "You're letting yourselves get worked up over nothing. The boy's not a mutt. Don't you think we check these things when we select tributes? Are you seriously doubting the Capitol? Are you doubting me?"

"No, sir," the hasty replies came.

"I should hope not. Now, can somebody tell me, in a calm and mannered way, exactly why this boy has caused you all so much concern?"

"If I may, sir?" one woman volunteered. Lucan looked at her. Luci Helms.A slight, meek blonde thing that hadn't even been mentioned when the boy did his act. It could be assumed, therefore, that she would hold a more objective view. He nodded.

"Go on, Luci," he told her. She offered a flickering smile and then began.

"It's not just him, sir. Things are different this year. Everybody's said so."

"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who is everybody?"

"The trainers, sorry, sir. The trainers and the escorts have mentioned it, and we've noticed it too. The tributes this year are much… closer than usual."

"Closer to what?"

"To each other, sir. They're interacting much more. They're sitting together, talking- even spending time together outside of training."

"What?" he asked, alarmed. "That's forbidden."

"No, sir, we checked. Fighting's forbidden, but friendship isn't. It's heavily discouraged, of course, but it's never usually a problem. This year, though…"

"And the boy from Eight- this 'Sherlock Holmes'- is a part of this?"

"Yes, though he's one of the more solitary tributes. He spends time with a few people, but he's much less social than some of the younger ones."

"That's probably because he's unbearable," one man supplied bluntly. Lucan couldn't place the name (did he really have to have so many damn Gamemakers?), but he recognised the man's piercing blue eyes. "According to his escort, he's- apologies for the language, sir- a little shit."

"But he has formed someattachments?"

"It seems so, sir, yes."

"Then we have a problem," Lucan said gravely. "That boy is certainly not the first person to ever rebel in a private session. Equally, this isn't the first year to have one or two tributes forming relationships. It makes very little difference. Those who form meaningful alliances are usually those too weak to remain alone, and they die very quickly."

"What about District One and Two?"

"I said 'meaningful'. Do you think there's any sentiment in those alliances?"

They had all lived for enough years and watched enough Games to know the answer was 'no'.

"Now, we can handle rebellion," Lucan continued. "We can handle friendship. But, as of yet, the two have never occurred simultaneously."

"Really?" Luci asked. "Never?"

"The rebels tend to despise anything they perceive as being to do with the Capitol or the Games, and as such remain alone. Those who ally are fearful and young, and would never stand up to a force like us. They two groups are antitheses. But you say the boy from Eight is forming friendships?"

"I wouldn't call them friendships as such," one Gamemaker who been watching them said. "There are two people- well, one person- who I would say that he's at all close to. Yes, the boy from Twelve. That's all."

"It only takes one," he said grimly.

"What do you mean, sir?" Luci asked.

"Let me paint a picture for you. In the arena, the boy from Eight and his friend remain together. The boy says 'this feels wrong'. His friend replies 'I don't want to kill anybody'. The boy replies 'then we don't have to', and suddenly you've got two tributes who have talked each other into pacifism."

"But surely they'll die before that can have any effect," his informant said. Lucan looked at him.

"You said two at first, but changed it to one. Why?"

"Well, there's the girl from Twelve, but she really only talks to the boy from Twelve."

"That's exactly what I mean. The boy from Eight convinces the boy from Twelve not to fight. The boy from Twelve convinces the girl from Twelve. She convinces others. The children start to believe that they can stay with their friends; that nobody has get hurt. Before you know it, you've got an arena of twenty-four tributes stood there, refusing to attack- looking at you and saying 'now what?'"

Lucan paused to let this sink in. A panicked murmur began to spread through the Gamemakers.

"What do we do?" Azaiah asked.

"We don't give them the chance," he said darkly. "Whenever there's a reduced chance of tribute-induced death, you increase the chance of arena-induced death."

"So we make the arena more dangerous?"

"Yes. More deaths mean more partnerships get split in two. Rebellion is much less likely when it's only one person against everybody else."

"So that stops them from actively rebelling- but will it stop them from passively rebelling?" Azaiah asked. "From refusing to fight?"

"It will if we're clever about it. We need to create a system whereby the tributes don't realise what the danger is until it's too late. Their friends die around them and they don't know why. They panic. They forget their values. They kill. Problem solved."

"But what if they make the dead into martyrs?" Azaiah asked unsurely. "Once they work out the deaths were caused by the Capitol-"

"The deaths will have been caused by their own stupidity," he cut her off icily. "There will be nothing to avenge, no martyrdom. You're over-estimating them. Their friends will die, and they will move on and forget."

"Some die, so the rest get scared, so they kill, so more die, so more get scared," Luci grinned. "I like it."

"There's no way we can do it in time," Azaiah argued. "They're going into the arena in two days!"

"We can do it," he said firmly. "We have contingency plans for multiple scenarios. We'll find one that fits this, apply it, and have everything in place by the time that gong sounds."

"I've been working on something since I joined," Luci offered. She blushed. "A little event based system. Events occur at set times, with numbers around the arena specifying when they'll occur."

"They're visible? Why would you let them know when something's going to kill them?" he frowned.

"That's assuming they'll work it out, sir- which is doubtable. If they do, these events can be good- berries flourishing on a bush, a gift being produced- or deadly. They have no way of knowing until it occurs."

"Oh, that's gorgeous," he murmured. "They won't know whether to flee or thank the gods. That'll add to the confusion nicely."

"And the number disappears straight afterwards," she continued. "They might doubt each other- their ally said there were berries on a bush, and when they go to look, there are none. They might start to doubt themselves- they saw something, and now it's gone, with no sign of how it happened."

Lucan looked at Luci, and made a mental note to recommend her for Head Gamemaker once he had retired.

"Not to mention it would keep the kid from Eight busy," somebody said. "Random numbers with no clear meaning? He'd love it."

"Then it's decided," Lucan said. "We'll implement the system immediately."

"How about layout?" the man with the blue eyes asked. "The shelter pods are pretty close together. Should we move them apart?"

"No. No, leave them as they are," he said. "We don't have time to do a complete redesign."

"I could delete some," he offered. "That increases the danger."

"Tell you what, let's go one better. Delete the water source on one side. I don't care which."

"Won't that drive them together, sir?"

"So? There's no point having them scared and ready to shoot if there's no one around to meet their bullet."

"We're having guns?" Azaiah asked. Lucan supressed a groan. He was going to have to get rid of Azaiah soon. She questioned him far too much.

"We have to. It's less impressive, I know, but we can't play this one for effect. We just need to try and get the damn thing over and done with. It's the Quarter Quell next year; we'll make up for it then."

There was a general murmur of approval.

"We still need to discuss scores," somebody said. "Do we score him low?"

"No. Let's do the opposite. A high score means he's more likely to be seen as a threat and attacked."

"Nine?" somebody said.

"Why don't we go even further?" Luci suggested. "A score of eleven would really highlight him. Nobody ever gets above ten."

"Eleven it is." Lucan settled back in his chair and smiled. "See? I told you that we would deal with this."

"I wish we didn't have to," somebody sighed, shaking their head. "I can't believe that we managed to Reap a rebel andthe only person in the world who'll put up with him."

"Who's also the only person in the world that he'll put up with," Azaiah muttered. "What did we do to deserve this bad luck?"

"You think they'll live more than a day?" Lucan said. "His friend can use a gun, but he's underweight, underdeveloped, weak. Good as dead already. As for the freak- yes, he can tell you what you ate for breakfast, but so what? Can he wield a knife? Defend himself in hand-to-hand combat? He'll die, and nobody will ever know there was anything special about him."

"There's not," the man with the blue eyes said gruffly. "He's an offering. A playing piece. Nothing more."

"Quite right," Lucan said whole-heartedly.

And four days later, when the boy from Eight was dying of dehydration and the boy from Twelve was having a breakdown over his first kill, Lucan allowed himself to take pleasure in a job well done.


Eight days later, John was sitting by the river, head in his hands, trying to think clearly. He had been sat there for at least two hours, and the sky was growing dark.

This is completely ridiculous, he chastised himself.Stop acting like such a kid and get a sense of time and place.John straightened up, but he still didn't feel any different. Nothing had magically clicked into place in his brain. Rationality wasn't coming easily today.

What was coming easily was moping, sulking, whatever you wanted to call it. It was inappropriate and self-indulgent, and John was ashamed of himself. He was angry at himself. But most of all- overwhelmingly- he was hurting.

Because, damnit, he had liked Sherlock. He still did. Exactly how he liked Sherlock had been where the confusion lay. It was only recently that it he had figured it out- and now that he'd realised, he couldn't imagine ever notknowing. It was all-consuming, undeniable. And really badly timed.

He liked Sherlock in the way Harry had liked Clara. He liked Sherlock in the way he himself had liked Clara, except multiplied by a thousand for every cell in his body. He liked Sherlock in the way that he was pretending to like Sherlock.

The hurt didn't come from the feeling itself- he had grown up with far greater concerns than whether he liked boys or girls- but from the implications it carried. The fact that he had killed somebody Sherlock knew. The knowledge that Sherlock couldn't live unless John died, and vice versa. And, of course, having to pretend he had something he genuinely wanted, with the entirety of Panem watching.

He had half-believed, beforehand, that Sherlock felt the same way that he did. Thathurt too; he cursed himself for not having seen the revelation coming. Of course there was a reason for the way Sherlock was acting. Everything Sherlock did had a reason, and not one born of something as pointless as affection.

Even after that, he had hung onto shreds of hope. He hadn't fully accepted what was happening until that damn parachute arrived. It was confirmation. A sign that, yes, the Capitol believed they were together. It was the prize Sherlock had promised, proof that he really was only playing a game. And then, of course, Irene-

Oh, don't start thinking about that again. This is stupid enough as it is.

John couldn't help it. It had felt like a betrayal. Every time Sherlock smiled at John it cut him up inside. Even when it felt good or right, that was tainted by guilt; the feeling that he was being inappropriate. He couldn't win, but he stayed anyway: if it was helping to keep himself and Sherlock alive, it was worth it. John had been working hard to ignore whatever his heart tried to tell him and to do what he needed to: to appear caring, and longing, and most of all, devoted.

Sherlock, apparently, hadn't got that memo.

It felt as though John had made the effort for nothing, and that stung. And if some tiny part of him hurt on a deeper, more personal level (she's so intelligent and she's so beautiful and he looked at her for longer than he's ever looked at you), then that was just another stupid little thing his heart tried to tell him.

Blended in with the hurt was the almost equally overbearing guilt. Guilt over the dead, guilt over the killed, guilt over his lack of guilt over the dead and the killed, all topped off with utter disdain for everything he was becoming.

With no small amount of effort, John pushed it all to the back of his mind and forced himself to think things through. What was he going to do now? He ran through his options.

One- He could stay with Sherlock and continue as they were. They would keep on getting sponsors, and either Sherlock would be killed and John would grieve, or John would be killed which he couldn't do much about, or it would come down to the two of them and the one gun.

Two- He could stay with Sherlock but tell him to drop the romance. Either Sherlock would leave, John's use long gone, or he would stay and they would stop getting sponsors. Then it was much more likely that Sherlock would die and John would grieve, or John would die and Sherlock would… do something. But it was much less likely that neither of them would, and the gun would become of irrelevance.

Three- He could call off the alliance and continue alone. He wouldn't have to deal with looking at Sherlock, or being around Sherlock, or sitting close to Sherlock and pretending not to like him so he could pretend to like him. And then maybe John would get killed, or maybe Sherlock would get killed- but if he did, all John would know about it would be a picture in the sky.

John was trying to be rational. The most sensible option seemed to be the third, and so that was the one he chose. He stood up, mind made up. He started to walk away but then hesitated. After a few steps, John turned back and began to walk the other way. He would go back to the camp one final time- to let Sherlock know his decision, and to see him for the last time.

He knew that this was nota rational decision, but you can't always win.


John had spent the walk trying to think of things to say, and failing miserably. As he hovered at the edge of their temporary refuge, he gave it one final attempt.

Thank you for making what are probably the last days of my life slightly less awful.

I hope you don't die- though of course, that means I would, which complicates things.

I hope Heaven is real, for both of our sakes.

It was no use. He would have to make it up as he went along- he couldn't afford to waste any more time. The light was dying, and it was getting harder to make out where he was going. Leaving this late in the evening wasn't a good idea, but he could deal with that. Maybe Sherlock would give him the torch.

The first kick was hard, to the back of John's knees, and he dropped to the ground. Then a boot stamped on his hand, and he released the gun with a cry. The tribute reached down to grab it, and John swung his fist to catch him in the face. The boy stumbled, cursing, and John grabbed the gun back and got to his feet. He dodged the first blow the tribute swung, but the second caught him in the gut and he doubled over. He raised the gun, but the boy slammed into him and John dropped it again.

John tried to imitate the boy's style by punching him in the stomach, but he was the huge tribute from Five; he didn't even seem to feel it. Again, he reached for the gun, but John did the same. They grappled over it and John managed to pull it towards himself. The boy let go to instead grab John's finger, wrenching until there was a sickening crack. John screamed and dropped the weapon. The boy grinned.

Before he could shoot, though, John was up and running. His attacker followed, footsteps heavy behind John's. There was no doubt that the boy was much stronger than John, but he was also larger and slower, and John was getting away.

Then the boy began to fire. He wasn't overly confident with shooting- even less so in the dark- but he was close enough to John that the shots were barely missing him. The first bullet hit the ground steps behind John; the second skimmed his ear. Distracted, his foot caught on a stone and he stumbled. He didn't fall, but he had slowed enough for the tribute to catch up with him. The boy wasn't grinning anymore.

His fist connected with John's chin, and then again with his cheek. He swung the gun to smack hard against John's temple, and John fell to his knees. He tried to defend himself, but the boy was hitting him over and over again and he couldn't get the chance to even move. The boy struck John hard across the jaw, and John felt one of his teeth come loose.

The tribute hauled John to his feet. He struck John hard in the stomach, and he retched. He did it again, and the broken tooth fell dropped the mud. The boy slammed John's head back against the tree, and the world turned fuzzy at the edges. Just let it be over.The boy pinned him still with one hand, and raised the gun to John's forehead with the other.

Before he could pull the trigger, he was knocked sideways by a strong punch to his neck. The gun clattered to the ground, and John automatically staggered towards it. He had no intentions of shooting, but he didn't much want to be shot either. His fingers closed clumsily around the weapon as Sherlock hit the huge tribute again, and then once more.

"Run away," Sherlock told the boy, standing back as he spat out a mouthful of blood. "This is your chance. Go on. We won't follow you."

The boy looked at him curiously, uncertainly.

"I mean it," Sherlock said. Suddenly, the boy stumbled forwards as if he was about to fall. Sherlock automatically reached out his hands to steady him, and the tribute's hand moved to Sherlock's belt and snatched his knife. Sherlock paled as the boy drew back his arm, ready to plunge the blade into Sherlock's chest. With the dense undergrowth surrounding them, there was no way he could run away in time.

The boy dropped the knife as the bullet entered his brain. He was dead before he knew what had happened.

Sherlock looked around wildly as the cannon sounded to see John calmly lowering the gun. His face was streaked with blood and dirt, he was holding his left hand awkwardly against his stomach, and he looked like he was ready to sleep for a thousand years. Sherlock approached him as John leaned heavily against a nearby tree. He had started to shake slightly, and his breathing was laboured and painful.

"I fucking hate forests," was all John said. Sherlock's face cracked into a smile.

"Do you need to sit down?" he asked.

"No," John replied, before sliding down to sit at the base of the tree. "Or maybe. One of the two." Sherlock sat down next to him and looked out into the forest, cloaked by the growing darkness. John by his side, Sherlock leant back against the bark and breathed in the night.

"Déjà vu," he muttered to himself.

"Rooftop?" John said, overhearing.

"Quite. Except I think there was less blood then."

"I seem to remember it that way, yeah." A few feet away, the hovercraft picked up the body and carried it away. They watched it in silence.

"Did you make that shot with your right hand?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Yeah."

"And you're left-handed?"

"Yeah."

"I think the Gamemakers may have underestimated you."

"We can't all get elevens," John laughed. They fell back into quietness for a short while.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yes, of course I'm alright."

"You have just killed a boy."

"Yes, that's true." John paused. "But… he wasn't a very nice boy."

"No… no, he wasn't really, was he?"

John leant back on his arms. "Ouch," he hissed, yanking his hand back up.

"What's wrong?"

"I think my finger's broken," he grimaced.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, shooting his hand out to… he wasn't quite sure. His fingers hovered awkwardly before returning to his lap. John didn't seem to notice.

"Oh yeah, it'll be fine. People have put up with a lot worse than this. It hurts, that's all."

"Is there anything that will help?"

"I'll try splinting it. The bone hasn't broken the skin, so it shouldn't get infected if I use a twig."

Sherlock nodded. "It's getting late. We should get back to the camp," he said. "Are you okay to walk?"

"Sure," John said, getting to his feet. "I'll do the splint now, if that's okay." Sherlock waited as John untied Harry's hairband from his wrist and found a twig. He pressed it to his finger, but it slipped from his grip when he tried to tie the cloth around it. He swore under his breath.

"Here," Sherlock said, taking the cloth from him. John held the twig in place as Sherlock wrapped the bandage around and tied it carefully. John mumbled his thanks, and they began to walk, relying on the watery moonlight streaming through the branches. They only spoke once.

"Why didn't you call me when Jupiter attacked you?" Sherlock asked.

"Oh, was that his name?"

"Answer the question."

"What question?"

"Why didn't you call me? I only heard you shout once, and I get the impression that wasn't intentional."

"I didn't want him to hurt you," John said, like there was nothing to discuss.

"But he was going to hurt you."

"I know," John said simply. Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that.

"You should sleep," he ordered when they reached their temporary home.

"Who's the Healer here?"

"Who's currently dribbling blood?"

"That's just my tooth," John objected, wiping his mouth.

"Your missingtooth. Sleep," he said. John reluctantly crawled under the canopy, and Sherlock followed.

"How about you?" John protested as Sherlock set the knife and gun back with their other supplies. "Like you said, it's late."

Sherlock didn't answer. John shrugged and lay down, setting his hand gently out to the side. Sherlock looked at him, and his mind waged a brief civil war. Deciding that he had earned the right to give into emotion just this once, Sherlock lay down awkwardly beside him.

There was no danger anymore, but Sherlock's nerves hadn't calmed down and adrenaline still pumped desperately around his body. For the first time since he entered the arena, he had felt genuinely, properly, completely afraid. He was bitterly aware of John's broken bone, and his missing tooth, and the bruises and cuts decorating his face. The image of the gun pressed against John's head was still live in his mind, showing no signs of going anywhere.

John froze as a warm, pale arm draped across his waist, the curled hand resting loosely on the ground by his chest. Sherlock's breath was soft and hot against the back of his neck.

"Look-" John began, very quietly. "Can we not? The sponsors-"

"No, it's not that. Forget the sponsors," Sherlock said, and he meant it. They don't have a part to play. Not in this.

"Then why-"

"I want to know- to check- you're okay. That's all."

"You don't have to," John said. "I don't need protecting."

"No, I know that." Sherlock said, frustrated. "It's- look, John, I'm a very selfish person. I don't often do things for other people, and this is no exception. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He didn't want to sleep- he wanted the proximity. There was something reassuring, something calming, about the physical proof that John were there, and that he was okay. Sherlock could feel his chest rise and fall under his arm, reassurance that he was still breathing. He moved his fingers to press against John's outstretched wrist, reassurance that his heart was still beating.

"Yeah," John said slowly. "At least, I think so." He carefully moved his good hand to lie on top of Sherlock's, and suddenly sleep didn't seem like such a bad option.