Fun fact: I originally intended for this series to have ten chapters. Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha.
I think it's going to end up having between 20 and 25- around 22, I would think. We'll see!
Everybody who's reviewing/alerting/favouriting: you are fantastic. You are the best kind of people. Thank you.
Sherlock woke up the second he heard the footprints outside. He squinted through the leafy canopy; judging by the light, it was early morning. He unwrapped himself from John's side (oh, so that actually happened?) and crawled outside.
"If you're here to attack me, I should let you know that I've dealt with much worse," he said. The boy spun around.
"I'm not here to attack you," he said immediately. "I didn't know anybody was here."
"I know," Sherlock said, yawning. "You would have attacked under the cover of darkness, not waited until morning. You would have presumably had a weapon, and you would have actually been facing towards the place you were aiming for."
The boy shifted uncomfortably. "We're going now, so-"
Somebody appeared behind him. "What's going on?" the girl asked.
"We need to go," the boy replied. But the girl had caught sight of Sherlock, and she stayed in place for a moment. When Sherlock looked at her, she gave him a feeble wave. He frowned.
"Do I know you?"
"Do you know him?" the boy asked.
"Yes, we met in training."
"Did you?"
"Did we?" Sherlock asked.
"Who is he, Moll?" the boy asked, standing slighter closer to her.
"His name's Sherlock Holmes," she said. "The boy who got an eleven in training."
"Ahh, the universal title," Sherlock muttered.
"I remember you!" the boy said.
"Do you?"
"Yeah, I saw you in training too! I'm Greg."
"You're obviously the boy from Six, and your friend is the girl from Twelve. But I can't say I remember either of you as such."
"Molly?" the girl offered. "Molly Hooper?"
"Er…"
"District Twelve?" she tried. "I spent a few days with you? I used to work with John."
"Oh, that Molly Hooper."
"Are there others?" she asked, laughing uncertainly. He ignored her.
"Would you rather to talk to John?" he asked.
Molly's face lit up. "You know where he is?"
"He's here. I'll get him for you." Sherlock crawled back in, glad to get away, and shook John by the shoulder. "You've got visitors," he said as John stirred.
"Wha?" John mumbled.
"The girl from your district. She'd like to say hello."
"Molly?" John asked, waking up properly now. "She's here? And okay?"
"She seems to be dragging a dull lump of a human around with her, but other than that she's fine. She's just outside."
"Fantastic!" John exclaimed, sitting up and clambering out. A few seconds later, he poked his head back in. "Sherlock," he said sternly.
"What?"
"Come on."
"What?"
"Out."
"Why? They're here to see you."
"They're not 'here' to see anybody."
"Good, then I don't have to talk to them."
"You like Molly!"
Sherlock snorted.
"You put up with Molly!"
"And you're putting up with a broken finger. It doesn't mean that either is a pleasurable experience."
"Could you try and not be awful for just ten seconds?"
"My time is far too valuable to be wasted like that. I'll simply stay in here until they're gone."
"I wouldn't have thought that the people of Panem would like that, Sherlock," John said, vaguely threateningly. Sherlock glared. Damn. Although the night beforehand genuinely hadn't been for the sponsors benefit, it certainly fit in nicely with things. Sherlock hadn't lost this game yet, and he wasn't one for giving up.
John hadn't known somebody could crawl sullenly, but Sherlock somehow managed it.
Molly and John collided together, laughing and hugging each other tightly.
"I thought I'd never see you again!" Molly said.
"Come on, have a bit of faith," John grinned. He pulled back to examine her.
"You're okay?" he said questioningly.
"I'm great, yeah. But you…" The smile dropped from her face as she took him in. Out in the light, Sherlock had to admit it looked bad. John's face was still caked with blood, his left eye was swollen and dark, and bruises were beginning to blossom all over his skin. Anger and remorse hit Sherlock hard. I should have gotten there sooner. I should have done more.
"Is that broken?" she said, lightly touching his splinted finger.
"I think so."
"Somebody got you pretty badly, didn't they?"
"I don't know why you're so astonished about injury. These are the Hunger Games, after all," Sherlock said. The comment was only partly intended for Molly.
"No, I do know that, I just- it's not nice, is it?" she said quietly. She raised her hand to touch John's face, and Sherlock and Greg sprang forwards simultaneously.
"Yes, that's quite enough of-"
"C'mon, Moll, we'd better be-"
"Are you going already?" John asked, as they obediently stepped apart.
"Can we stay for a little while?" she beseeched Greg.
"No," Sherlock said immediately.
"I don't know if it's a good idea," Greg said unsurely.
"I haven't seen John in ages, and I might not- well. He's from home."
Greg softened. "Right. Sorry. If you want to stay, then of course we can. If it's okay with John and Sherlock, I mean."
"Of course it is. Right, Sherlock?" John turned around. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock was crouched a few feet away, examining a plant intently. "John, look at this!"
"Sorry," John apologised to Greg and Molly, heading over. "What is it?" he hissed.
"There," Sherlock said, pointing at the ground. When John leant in, he could see a small carving on the dirt, partially hidden by the grass.
"How did you even spot that?"
"What's going on?" Molly asked John, bouncing over. Greg trudged warily behind her.
"Oh, it's just these weird number things he's obsessed with. Don't-"
"Oh, the Capitol Numerals?" Greg asked casually, leaning against a tree.
"You noticed them too?" John asked.
"Noticed them? We worked them out," Greg said. John winced sympathetically as Sherlock spun around and closed the gap between him and Greg in a few bounds.
"What?" he demanded, his face inches from Greg's. "When?"
"Y-yesterday morning. They're a schedule."
This meant very little to John, but Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Of course," he muttered. "Of course, it all makes sense. John, it all makes sense!"
"Does it? Good."
"They're time, time in hours. They let you know when something's going to happen. Oh, it all fits- before, when it rained, there was a mark on the ground! I thought it was too automatic, too specific, but I was too grateful to question it further. Stupid, stupid! I didn't see what the number was- it dissolved into mud- oh, unless it didn't-"
"They disappear after the thing happens," Molly confirmed excitedly. "That's why there are less of them now."
"The mark by the river," John said suddenly. "I didn't see it when I went back, after the fish had disappeared It wasn't there."
"That means these things can be good or bad, and you have no way of telling which," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Planned slaughters, mixed in with delivered aid, so the children never know if they're going to be cured or killed. Oh, that is fantastic!"
Molly and Greg looked a little taken aback. "Sherlock," John said warningly. Sherlock glanced over at him.
"Not good?"
"Bit not good, yeah."
"How did you even work it out?" John said Molly.
"This river we were by… it kind of generated fish. It was really strange. We saw it happen, saw the mark fade away and put two and two together," Molly said.
"That's brilliant!" John said.
"Hardly," Sherlock dismissed. "They happened to be in the right place and the right time- it's not exactly brilliant that they made the obvious jumps."
"We still worked it out before you," Greg said defensively. Sherlock twitched slightly.
"Yes, well-"
"So what does this mark say?" Greg asked, wandering over to examine the plant. Sherlock followed him agitatedly, and John had to smirk. Somebody's invading his territory.
"'CLX', one hundred and sixty," Sherlock said.
"The one we saw was 'one hundred and forty'," Molly offered. "That was yesterday morning. A bit later than this."
"Twenty hours ago. So this one could go off at any moment," Sherlock said.
"I want to see," Molly said, sitting down next to him. He didn't appear to notice. He continued scrutinizing the plant.
"Should we leave them to it?" Greg asked John after several minutes of silence had passed.
"Maybe, yeah," John said. "Where do you want to go?"
"The river might be a good idea. You have some, uh, stuff on your face."
John wiped his hand across his cheek and frowned. "Oh, yeah. Oops. Me and Greg are going to the river for a while," he told Molly and Sherlock. "We'll be back soon."
"Okay. Be careful, you two," Molly replied, looking up at them. Sherlock didn't even move. John shrugged, and left with Greg.
They chatted while they walked- about school, work, the Games, the differences between districts- and eventually, inevitably, Sherlock and Molly.
"You met Sherlock in training, right?" Greg asked as John splashed water onto his face.
"Yeah, on the first day," John said, scrubbing at the blood. "Okay, ow. I only met him in the arena three days ago, though."
"Really? That's when I found Molly."
"How did you two meet?"
"I accidentally stumbled across where she was staying, she didn't shoot me and we took things from there. How did you meet up with Sherlock?"
"… he accidentally stumbled across where I was staying, I didn't shoot him and we took things from there."
"Small world, huh?" Greg laughed. "So you know Molly from Twelve?"
"Yeah, we trained together. She's a really great girl," John said.
"I know," Greg said, with a little more venom than was required. John grasped what was going on.
"Oh, God. You don't seriously think…?"
"What?"
"It's not like that. She's like family to me, honestly. I could never- yeah. No."
"I know," Greg said, but he seemed to relax somewhat. "Sherlock's, um, a nice guy."
"No, he's not," John said. "He's a dick."
"Yeah, okay, he is," Greg chuckled. "I guess you can't choose who you…" he trailed off.
"What?"
"Never mind. How did he get the eleven?" Greg asked instead.
"He's clever. He works things out. When we met, he knew what district I'd come from, who I'd come with, who I lived with, what I trained as- the lot."
"Okay, that sounds terrifying."
"It kind of is," John admitted, wiping the last of the blood away. "He told the Gamemakers things he'd deduced about them, and presumably it freaked them out enough to realise he was serious. Trust him to get a score that good without ever picking up a weapon."
"I feel pretty mediocre now. I just shot," Greg said.
"Same. I was glad there are guns this year, because I can't aim with a bow and arrow to save my life."
"Me neither. Molly's great with them, though."
"She seemed good in training, yeah. Did you ally with anyone else before Molly?" John asked. Greg sat down by John, pulling off his shoes and dangling his feet in the water.
"Sally Donovan, from Eleven."
"I take it she…?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well. Were you with anyone else?"
"Sarah from Four and Henry from Ten."
"Both of them…?"
"Yep. Henry was only fourteen."
"Shit. Do you miss them?"
"I guess so. To be totally honest, I don't think about them that much. I mean, I dream about them sometimes, but for now- I don't know."
"Same with Sally," Greg said. "I think I'm too busy surviving for it to have sunk in."
"Sounds familiar," John agreed. "Have you had to… have you killed anyone?"
"No, no one."
"Oh."
"You?"
"Um, yeah. Two," John said brusquely.
"How did you handle it?" John looked at Greg sharply, but he seemed genuinely curious.
"The first one… badly. Very badly. The second one, less so. Like you said, I'm not sure it's sunk in yet. It's funny," John began, not sure why he was saying it. "I said, after the first one, that I wouldn't kill anybody else. Even when Jupiter- the second one- was hitting me, I wasn't going to kill him. I thought 'no. I'm not going to do this'. I tried to run away, and when that didn't work I decided to just… let him."
"So what changed?"
"He attacked Sherlock."
"Ah."
"I didn't even have to think," John said, staring out across the forest. "It wasn't that I changed my mind, it's that there wasn't a decision to make."
"So are you two- you know?"
"What?" John asked.
"Together. Like, as a couple."
"What? No! No, we're not."
"Okay, okay, sorry I asked," Greg said, raising his hands.
"Sorry, but- no. Just no. He's not… I'm not… what even makes you think that I feel that way about him?"
Greg looked incredulous. "Really?"
"Yes, really. What?"
"For one, every time I've said something about Molly, you've answered with something very similar about him," Greg said. "And I don't mind telling you that I would want to be with her. If I could."
John was very quiet in response to that. "It's complicated," he eventually said.
"Isn't it always?"
"Even more complicated than usual."
"Knowing one or both of you will die in the next few days definitely takes the sweetness out of things," Greg said vehemently. "No, wait, I didn't mean it like that. It's not that- I don't blame the Capitol. I don't."
Liar. But John nodded along anyway. "No, I know what you mean. If things were different… if you could both live… would you tell her how you felt?"
"Yes," Greg answered straight away. "No question. How about you?"
"I don't know," John replied honestly. "Like I said…"
"Complicated?"
"Yeah."
"So you do like him," Greg said triumphantly.
"I-damn it, okay, yes. Not a word to Sherlock or Molly though, okay?"
"Sure thing."
"We sound like five year olds comparing crushes," John chuckled.
"Oh, God, don't say crush."
"Well, what do you call it?"
"I don't know. It's not an easy thing to pin down, is it?"
"Not even slightly."
"I mean, she wasn't in my life- not properly- until three days ago," Greg said, plucking at the grass idly as he spoke. "Isn't that weird to think about? I can't imagine it now. I can't imagine that I lived for seventeen years not knowing there was a girl called Molly Hooper, who fed stray cats and had a pretty smile and long blonde hair."
"It was brown when we were younger," John offered. "She spends a lot of time outside. It goes darker in winter." Greg nodded, mentally cataloguing it. John wondered if he was picturing what it would look like; imagining long nights inside by the fire, a darker haired Molly curled up close to him. The knowledge of the reality that could never exist- the enormity of all the futures neither of them could ever have- pressed down on them both.
"It is mad, though," John said. "I mean, I'm telling you all this stuff, and I haven't even known you for an hour."
"I guess, in a situation like this, you make the most of what you can," Greg said. "Time's hardly something we've loads of."
"Maybe we shouldn't waste it," John said. "Maybe we should just go back, tell them how we feel and… yeah."
They both considered this for a moment.
"Nah," Greg said.
"Definitely not," John agreed.
"You know, this has been a very girly conversation," Greg said.
"And it's been broadcast to all of Panem."
"Shit," Greg said, face draining of colour.
"We'd better do something manly to make up for it."
"You got a weapon?"
"Yeah, a gun."
"Great. There are rabbits nearby- let's bring one home and have the women cook it."
John laughed. "Okay, if you say that around them, Sherlock will kill you."
"Only if Molly doesn't first."
Ferris Limber, the boy from Seven, was the only person in the arena without an ally. He didn't know that, and he wouldn't much care if he did; he had far greater problems to worry about.
Ferris had been so very grateful when he found water. He had been crawling, too weak to walk, when he came across the huge puddles. He didn't know where they had come from- he certainly hadn't heard any rain- but he hadn't stopped to question it. He was paying the price for that now.
Every cramp that tore across his stomach had Ferris doubling over further until he was completely tucked in on himself, a tightly curled ball of pain. Sobs wracked him as his stomach lurched yet again, but even as he cried his cheeks stayed dry. He was hidden in the undergrowth, had dragged himself to rest underneath a tall tree. He stared up at it, breath coming in slow, long heaves, as he tried to gather the energy to move.
He couldn't.
I can't die yet, he thought. I have to get back home for Ryan. He needs me. He's only eight, he can't even take tesserae yet. I promised I'd come back for him. I can't give up now. I'm
Meanwhile, in the Capitol, buildings were being locked. Footage from the Games was being interspersed with clips of people holding signs, holding banners, sobbing hysterically as they spoke to the cameras. After the most recent broadcast the Gamemakers were being advised not to go outside for their own safety. The desperate crowds outside- screaming, banging on the windows- meant they didn't dare disobey.
The boy from Seven died, alone, in pain.
It had been an hour since the riverside conversation was broadcast to Panem, and Thomas Lucan was paying the price. His personal phone line had been temporarily deactivated- somehow, the number had been leaked to the general public, and the influx of calls had been too much to keep up with.
He swept out of his office, ignoring anybody that tried to speak to him until he reached the person he wanted. She was busy at work, but she shot up when he shut the door behind him.
"I didn't know-" Luci began the second she saw him.
"One hour," he cut her off. "That's all it's taken to reach this level. Imagine what it will be like in two, in four, in a day. Imagine what will happen when one of them dies."
"I didn't know!" she repeated desperately. "I never meant for-"
"Do you understand the gravity of this situation? The people outside are asking us to break the rules set down years ago," he said icily. "Seventy-four years ago. They're asking us to break that tradition."
"But why? Why do they all care so much? Any other year, they'd be cheering for them to die!"
"Love is stronger than hate- far stronger- and it's made these children into people. The viewers look at them and see living, breathing people, with relationships and stories, and that is your fault."
"Mine? How?"
"You told me this system would work. You told me you'd have the problem solved. You told me they'd be dead by now."
"I thought they would be! How was I supposed to guess that it would come down to this? I mean, the woman from One, maybe, but the others… the boy from Six alone! His odds were less than one hundred to one, he-"
"Shut up."
"I mean, nobody could have thought-"
"I said shut up!" he roared, and she flinched.
"I've had the President on the phone," he said, voice low again, "and he's not happy. We can't give into their demands, Luci."
"Then let's not! They'll forget soon- I mean, the boy from Seven died only minutes ago, and that hasn't-"
"He was never going to be the problem, and you know that. The people- in the districts, in the Capitol itself- are on the verge of rioting, but it's not over him."
"Just because the audience are interested in-"
"They're more than interested, they're obsessed. They're in love with the children in love."
"Those children aren't in love, they're desperate," Luci snapped. "They're teenagers, clinging onto anything they can. Take any of those pairs- Adler and Long, Holmes and Watson, any- out of the arena and they'd fall apart in days."
"Really? Because that's not what the boy from Six said."
"Okay, then what do we do?"
"You tell me."
"What?"
"I'm waiting, Luci."
She swallowed hard. "We… we…." Her eyes lit up. "Oh. Oh, I know what we do."
Her voice overflowed with relief as the words tumbled out, and he had to agree it had merit. It had style. It was the only solution he could see that wouldn't upturn everything they had worked so hard for.
"Good work, Luci," he told her, standing up. "I'll inform the President of the decision right away."
"Thank you so much," she gushed. "I'll just get back to work and-"
"No," he cut her off. "No, I don't think so."
"What? But I-"
"I told you the President was involved," he said. "That tells you how serious this is. He wants to know who's responsible, and he wants something done about it. Naturally, blame falls to you."
"What? No! I- I fixed this, I can fix this-"
"No, Luci. That's not going to work out."
"Please, just give me one more chance. I- no!" She was on her feet, knocking over papers as she tried to scrabble away. "No, please, please Thomas. I- I'm engaged, it's my wedding in two months, please just give me until-"
The bullet cut her off midsentence. Her face was almost comically shocked as she clutched at her chest and fell, still reaching out as if to stop him. He walked the few steps forwards to stand over her. Her hand grasped onto his trouser leg, grip feeble.
"Thomas… Thomas, please…" she was gurgling. He pulled away, disgusted. Lucan left, flicking off the light and locking the door behind him. The bitch was nothing more than a waste of bullets.
"Okay, it's done," Molly said, pulling the rabbit out of the fire. "I burned the leg a bit, sorry."
"I'll have it," Greg offered.
"No, don't be silly. I'll have it. I cooked it, after all."
"Exactly- you did the hard work, so you deserve the best bit."
"The hard work? You caught it!"
"Yeah, but it was John that shot it."
"And you seriously don't understand why I dislike being around people?" Sherlock demanded from John, who just chuckled to himself. They were sat a short distance away, watching the pair argue over who deserved what.
"They're being nice, Sherlock. That's what 'people' do."
"What a waste of time."
"How is it a waste of time?"
"There's a reason 'politeness' sounds a lot like 'pointless'," Sherlock snorted.
"Ahh, but there's politeness and there's kindness. They're being kind."
"The difference being…?"
"Kindness is genuine. It… makes you happy, I guess. It makes you happy to make the other person happy. You do it because you want to, not because you have to."
"So I was right. Politeness is ridiculous."
"Yeah, well we can all agree you're not polite."
"Abm I kind?" Sherlock asked, looking at John.
John caught the gaze, but then looked away. "You tell me," he said softly. "Look- last night-"
"No," Sherlock said immediately.
"No?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Okay," John said, recovering. "Okay, sorry, that's fine. I understand if you want to take it all back."
"I don't," Sherlock said. "Quite the opposite, actually."
"I-"
"Don't," Sherlock said. He swallowed. "Please."
"Why not?" John asked. He didn't understand what was going on. He hadn't understood the night before- had had a vague idea of what he thought Sherlock was trying to suggest- but in the daylight it sounded ridiculous. He half wondered if he'd dreamed the entire damn thing.
'Forget the sponsors', Sherlock had said- but what if that was just another ploy? If they were still doing it all for the cameras, the conversation didn't fit. If it wasn't for the audience, then why had Sherlock started the whole damn charade in the first place? None of it made sense.
Knowing fully well that it was a bad idea, John very cautiously laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned to look at it, and then his eyes flickered up to meet John's. They were filled with conflict and pain so real that it made John flinch. Can you act that well? Can you fake that much? John didn't know- but he had to admit that if anybody could, it was Sherlock.
"No," Sherlock said softly, and then he pulled away. Standing up, he re-joined the others- and after a few seconds, so did John, smile firmly back in place. Molly and Greg had ended up splitting the burnt flesh equally between them, and were yanking the remaining meat off the bones and sorting it into four equal piles.
"You two okay?" Molly asked cheerily as she worked.
"Yeah, you?" John replied.
"Great, thanks. Do you know we're down to six now?"
"Yeah, I heard the cannon shot earlier. I wonder who it was."
"The boy from Seven," Sherlock said, and John wondered why it suddenly felt like being slapped when Sherlock even talked. Would you get a grip already?
"What makes you say that?" Molly asked.
"It's clearly none of the four of us, so that reduces it to the women from One and Seven or the boy from Seven. The women operate as a pair- we'd have heard two cannon shots had they been involved. Either the attacker would have killed both, or the first would have murdered whoever harmed the second."
"Couldn't one of them have died naturally?" Greg argued.
"It's possible, but unlikely. Those two are clever, very clever. All things considered, it'll be the boy from Seven."
"So you've met Irene?" Molly asked.
"You could say that," Sherlock said evenly.
Molly grinned and would have presumably asked further questions, but was cut off by a sudden blast of trumpets. The announcer's voice boomed down from overhead, congratulating the six of them that remained.
"There's been a rule change," the man was saying. Molly and Greg looked at each other, confused. The rules- few though they were- never changed. They were decades old: a tradition. They both looked to Sherlock, but he was shaking his head; he didn't know either.
"Due to the many popular alliances and an awe-inspiring amount of public support, two tributes can now be declared winners if they are allied together." The announcer paused, like he knew they wouldn't understand it. "Again- if both members of an alliance are the last two alive, they will both be declared winners."
John had to go over it several times before it sunk in. Two people can live. Sherlock and I can both live. We can both live. For once, Sherlock wasn't any quicker to understand, and when the full impact finally hit him he was by John's side in seconds. John turned to face him and then Sherlock had one hand on the side of his face, gripping him hard and pulling them together.
For a moment, there was nothing else in the universe but Sherlock's fingers pressed tight against his skull and the desperate crush of his lips against John's.
Molly and Greg vaguely registered the couple a few feet away, but they were finding it very hard to look away from each other. Ever since they had realised what they were being told, they had just sat there with silly smiles on their faces. Every now and again one would laugh slightly, embarrassed- but they were unable to stop beaming or look away from each other. Greg felt that he had probably ought to move- to do something- but there was no rush. There will be time. We have that time.
Sherlock and John broke apart, but didn't move away. Sherlock leant forward so their foreheads were touching and John kissed him again, softer this time. The hand on the side of John's face ran a gentle thumb over his cheek.
Several minutes away, Irene woke Kate up by shaking her gently by the shoulder.
"Come on, wake up. I've got news."
"News?" Kate murmured, stirring. "Is it good?" Irene smiled, and moved her hand to play lightly with a lock of Kate's hair.
"The best."
