If you had asked Molly Hooper after her Reaping who she thought would care when she died, she would have given you the following list:

1. Her mother

2. Her father

3. John. Possibly.

If you asked her again in the arena, after enough time had gone by that she was starting to hope, she would have tentatively added a fourth:

4. Greg. For a little while.

The Gamemakers, after declaring the rule change, had decided that it no longer made any sense to downplay the romance. They had instead swung it the other way- there were contests, debates, merchandise, people divided into factions over which couple was better, all based in the Capitol and broadcast in dull moments. The government were making millions off it.

The majority of these people didn't give a shit about Molly as a person, but as a figure of a romance they wished they could be in, or as something to make the Games more interesting, or as somebody to bet on, they loved her. All the same, on an actual list of people who cared about Molly's death, they would not feature.

Even without them, the list would be far too long to write out in full. Here is a segment; the first fifteen of many:

1. Her mother, who shut the curtains and shut the doors and sat in Molly's room, on Molly's bed, lying down on her threadbare sheets and inhaling the scent of her daughter before it faded for good.

2. Her father, who took out the cut of meat he had paid a lot of money for, cooked it without really knowing why and went and sat on the doorstep. It took them a while to arrive, but once the stray cats realised what he was doing, they swarmed from miles to eat the turkey straight from his hand.

3. John. Definitely.

4. Sherlock, though he didn't know it at the time.

5. Irene.

6. Kate, though only as 'that pretty girl who was always nice to everyone'.

7. Glamor, not that he would ever show it.

8. An old man from the market in District 12 who had considered seeing Molly the highlight of his day. In a place so dark and dull, sometimes you needed somebody that bright.

9. Mabel Lestrade, who would have been more than proud to call a girl like that her family.

10. A lonely woman in District Nine who had always wanted a daughter like that and felt the loss like it was her own.

11. A seven year old boy named David from District Five, who had fallen in love with her the second he saw her smile.

12. Her teacher from her first year at school.

13. Her teacher from her second year at school.

14. Her teacher from her third year at school.

15. Greg. Always.


The thing is, Greg thought, that everybody dies and everybody gets mourned.

No matter who you were, those two things were true. But another fact was that twenty-three children died in the arena every year, and nobody really cared. Their families, sure, but overall? The world moved on. The deaths were forgotten. They were an unfortunate side-effect; collateral damage.

I'm as guilty as everybody else, he thought- a thought with no emotion attached- as he sat plucking at the grass underneath him. Every year, I watch people die- people I know- and I don't do a damn thing.

Year in, year out, and he had never done a damn thing. Why not? Because it was easier. It was safer, always safer, to say nothing. Why was it only now that he was seeing how wrong that was? Why hadn't he realised sooner?

It shouldn't have taken that. It shouldn't have taken her.

Molly was dead, gone, not coming back. And though it pained him to admit it, she was right: people would forget her. Others would die and maybe he would die and only two would live. But then the next year, more would die, and everybody would keep turning their heads and tutting about how sad it was and then forgetting. No matter how sad it was, it was just how things were.

That's how it has to be, isn't it?

"No," he said, softly, without even realising the words were slipping out. "No. No more."


The Gamemakers had thought it safe to broadcast the boy from Six; had thought Panem would appreciate an end to the story. After all, with Molly gone, Greg was good as dead to them. What was he now? A tragic figure? Dull. Nobody wanted to insert themselves into a cursed romance; nobody cared about an unpaired boy wandering the arena. He was out of public interest.

They cut the broadcast on the word 'more'- switched it to a screen with sponsorship information- but it was too late. The four Gamemakers in charge of censoring sat in place for a long time, looking at their screens in a terrified silence. 'No more'? What did 'no more' mean? More importantly, what would the audience think it meant?

"That was only four words," somebody eventually said unsurely. "We only let four words slip through."

They had done well so far. They had managed to strip out most of the dull but potentially dangerous conversations about life in the districts; had cut the nauseating section where the dead girl talked about dying cats; had managed to include just enough of the woman from One to keep things risqué but not too inflammatory.

They had stepped in when asked, twisted the footage, ran damage control. They had stopped the children from being people; turned them back into exports, runners to be bet on. They had done a good job.

"I'm sure you're right," somebody replied. "I've worked here fourteen years, and I've never slipped up before. I'm sure Lucan will understand."

All four nodded, but all four would be dead within nineteen minutes.


"Nothing," Sherlock said, sitting down by John's side. "I mean, I have theories, but nothing conclusive as of yet." He held the canister up to the light and frowned at it. He had been trying to examine the pills, but with John still insisting he didn't open the bottle, it was difficult.

"You'll work it out, I'm sure," John said. A few minutes of silence passed.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock eventually asked.

"Yeah."

"… are you good?"

"Not even a little bit," he replied quietly.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He set his hand on John's shoulder awkwardly.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't that how you comfort people?"

"Not… not really. But I appreciate the effort."

"So can I…?"

"Yep."

Sherlock withdrew his hand gratefully.

"How's Lestrade coping?"

"Greg? I don't know. I shouldn't think he'll stay with us much longer, though."

It had been awful. They had been sat together, Sherlock re-examining the berry-dotted plant for the five hundredth time, when they had heard the cannon shot blast out. There had been nothing to do but wait.

"Who is it?" John had asked Sherlock after several minutes passed, with nobody coming back to confirm or deny anything.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Sherlock checked. John nodded.

"Please."

"I think that it's probably Molly," Sherlock had said, watching John carefully. He had nodded tiredly.

"Do you want to know why?"

"No." John had leant his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock had fastened an arm around his waist as they waited in silence.

And when they saw Greg walking towards them, blood coating his hands and chest, they hadn't needed to ask anything. There was nobody by his side.

He hadn't spoken to them then or since. He was sat by the fire, staring into it like he was trying to read something in the flickering embers. John was fiddling with the cloth binding his fingers, and Sherlock sat and watched him sadly. I do not know how to make this better.

"Thinking about home?" Sherlock asked.

If John was surprised, he didn't show it. His fingers paused against the dirtied cloth. "Yeah. Well, about Harry."

Sherlock nodded; he had known that. "What about her?"

"She was all I thought about on the way here. I've hardly thought about her since."

"And that makes you feel… bad?"

"Good guess," John said, flashing a quick smile at Sherlock. "I don't… why haven't I thought of her? It's like I almost forgot her. I don't know how she's doing, don't know if anyone's looking after her- it hasn't even crossed my mind. I feel so damn selfish."

Sherlock drew back to stare at John. "What?" John said defensively.

"Selfish?"

"Well, yeah."

"So far, you've allied with a girl to try and help injured people, taken care of a very frightened fourteen year old boy, risked your life trying to rescue them both, nearly died because you didn't want to hurt somebody, and then nearly died because you didn't want somebody to hurt me- and you call that selfish?"

"Are we leaving out the part where I killed two people?"

"In self-defence. And me-defence, which I'm also alright with. What have you got to feel guilty about?"

"How long do we have?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now who's being melodramatic?"

"Okay, maybe a little," John conceded. "It's just… Molly was important. That's all."

"Of course she was," Sherlock said, and when John looked at him he saw that he wasn't joking. John leant back into Sherlock, who pulled him close.

"Somebody needs to talk to Greg," John said. Sherlock pulled a face, then realised John couldn't see.

"Really?"

"Really."

"What if he doesn't want to talk?"

"Then- oh, no. No, no, not now." John said angrily, pushing away from Sherlock and standing. Irene and Kate stood in front of them, observing.

"So it was Molly?" Irene said, and she sounded much younger than usual. A child, easily hurt, losing something that mattered.

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"What do you two want?" John asked. "We're not really in the mood for visitors right now."

"Oh calm down, boy toy," Kate said. "We're not going to hurt anybody."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said. "It's still advisable that you leave."

"Are you saying we shouldn't be here?"

"We're saying you can't be here," Sherlock said.

"There's no such word as 'can't'."

"That's a ridiculous notion. Of course there is."

"It's not supposed to be taken seriously."

"It's still wrong."

"As much as I would love to debate grammar with you-"

"Why are you here?" John asked. "Why do you think this is a good idea? Arriving and flirting and threatening and stealing? Do you seriously think we need that right now?"

"These are Hunger Games, John. Were you expecting a happy ending?"

"For fuck's sake- no, of course not. That's why I want you gone."

"I'm going to need some elaboration."

"Three of us are going to die," John said flatly.

"Everybody dies."

"You know what I mean, Irene. Three of us are going to die soon- we're supposed to be killing each other, for God's sake."

"You can fetch your gun any time you want."

"That isn't funny, and that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Kate said, breaking in. "We won't stay long. We only- Irene wanted to check. About Molly. That was all. We're going."

"And then what?" Greg said suddenly, making them all jump slightly. They all turned their heads towards the fire, but he hadn't moved. "We hope you die?" he continued, not looking at them. "That you fall into a trap or run out of food or something?"

"Do you have a better solution?" Kate demanded.

The fact was that the five of them knew each other now. Some of them even liked each other. And yes, two could live, but that wasn't enough. John couldn't live with himself if he killed Greg, somebody that he considered a friend. Equally, Irene wouldn't be able to sleep at night if she killed Sherlock, one of the few people she had met who could match her. They were in an arena with people they liked and being told to pick one to live, pick three to die.

If they fought and killed and won- any of them- they could never really be happy. Whoever it was, whichever pair won, would find that being with each other brought back memories of the arena; of violence, death, killing. Pleasure would bind with guilt and shame, and John's mouth telling Sherlock he loved him would become Irene's lips dripping dark red blood. In the end, they had even taken that.

The tense atmosphere was interrupted by a single silver parachute, floating leisurely down. They all looked at each other unsurely, and Greg approached it. Pulling the material apart, he let out a bitter, humourless laugh.

"Look," he said, and he held up a handful of colour. They crowded around and saw that they were flowers- what looked like hundreds of them. Bouquets and bouquets of flowers- roses, tulips, carnations, all in shades of love-heart red and pink.

At the bottom, a white piece of paper was provided with a single word printed on it in computerised calligraphy: 'Greg'.

"That's a nice gesture," Kate tried.

"It's not," Greg said. "It's pointless."

"What do you mean?"

"It's for effect," Sherlock said. "Nothing more. It has no practical purpose and it will be of no help to him. Or to any of us."

"But you don't need any more supplies," Kate said. "They're not really practical, but isn't it just a way to show that they're sorry about Molly?"

"It's addressed individually to me," Greg said. "I'm not the only one that knew her and cared about her, but I'm the only one who gets anything- and even then, it's useless. If they wanted to make everyone who knew Molly feel better they'd have sent us all something, something we could use. This is… this is almost an apology. They've given up on me as a contender."

"'So long, bad luck, and thanks for playing,'" Sherlock agreed.

"Where do you think these were sent from?" Kate asked.

"The Capitol," Sherlock confirmed after glancing it over.

"Figures," John said. "What do you think, Greg?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that Sally died. She died because she ate poison, because she was so hungry. I nearly did the same even though I knew what they were. Moll and I used to get gifts, but nobody ever gave a shit about me and Sally. I think that's interesting- don't you?"

Sherlock thought back to when he had been crawling through the forest, dying of dehydration, and nothing had come. He compared it to the four separate parachutes he received purely for kissing John. It didn't feel like he was in control anymore; didn't feel like he had ever been. The desire to win the game was starting to be overtaken by something else- a kind of nausea, an anger at the Gamemakers and at the injustice of the whole thing.

"So what do we do?" Irene asked after a while.

"I think," Greg said, "that we do this."

And he pulled out the match box he had taken from their supplies, and they all watched in silence as he tried to strike one. It didn't light. He was too angry, fumbling with the small stick, hands shaking.

"Here," Sherlock said. He took the box from Greg and lit a match with ease. Looking briefly at everybody else and receiving only confirming glances, he dropped the lit match onto the flowers. They twisted and crinkled and turned a disgusting putrid black, smoke billowing away.

"Go on, then," Sherlock said, looking at Greg as the flowers burned. "I know what you want to say."

"I'm not killing anybody else," Greg said straight away. "I'm not. You can attack me if you want, but I'm not hurting any of you."

There were a few seconds in which everybody but Sherlock was stunned silent.

"I'm with him," Kate said eventually, but unwaveringly. "Irene?"

"Wherever you go, I follow," Irene teased, taking Kate's hand in hers.

"I'm in," John said. Sherlock looked at him.

"You do understand the ramifications of this?" he said. "To your home? To your family?" He emphasised 'family', and John's eyes dropped to the rag around his fingers. Sherlock leant closer and lowered his voice. "This is a noble thing, John, but you stand to lose a lot. Are you sure?"

John considered this for a few seconds, before his jaw set firm.

"I think Harry would probably kill me herself if I said no," he said. Sherlock nodded; he had known this would be the reply, but it didn't feel right not to check.

"This is going to cause utter mayhem," Irene said, sounding very pleased all of a sudden. "The final five people in the Hunger Games, all refusing to fight. My, oh my."

"We don't know it's five," Greg said, looking at Sherlock. "How do you feel about it?"

It was almost certainly out of place and wrong, but Sherlock felt lucky. He felt excited. He had gone from playing simple games with the Gamemakers- telling them all that he'd worked out- to more complex games, like tricking them into believing a romance. But he'd fallen for his own damn trick and they'd found a way to use it against him- urging him on to kill others, to do their bidding, because it meant he could keep John safe.

This was the only way left to win the game, and Sherlock never played to lose.

"Have some sense," he said bluntly. "I would have done this weeks ago had I thought you idiots would agree." He felt John's hand close around his and a rush of affection filled him.

"Not good?" he asked out the corner of his mouth.

"Good," John countered, kissing him on the cheek. "More than good."

"So now what?" Irene asked.

"Now," Greg said, smiling, "I think we have some mayhem to cause."


The people in the Capitol and the districts watched a pair of hands open the parachute to reveal bundle after bundle of beautiful flowers.

"That's a nice gesture," the woman from Seven said.

Nothing more from the arena aired after that.


An hour passed. Then another, and another, and soon it was growing dark and still nothing had happened.

They spent the time sat around the fire, talking about life in the districts- but openly now, with nothing left outo r censored. They talked about the death. About the famine, about the disease, about the beatings. Irene had a much better lifestyle than John or Sherlock, without a doubt, but it still wasn't a happy one.

"Your career choice," Sherlock said, and Irene gave him a look which was more 'oh, go on then' than anything else. "It doesn't bother you."

"No. I don't see why it should."

"It's hardly a profession many people aspire to enter."

"I didn't aspire; I just realised that it was the most logical option. The majority of work in One is factory-based, and it pays a pittance. One day, a fairly drunk man offered me a lot of money to do things I shouldn't really talk about on camera. I turned him down, of course- but it got me thinking."

"But it's not… uh, sex?" John clarified. He was still reeling a little from the initial revelation, even though it had been hours ago. Kate's initial jealousy had worn off, though she was sat a great deal closer to Irene than was strictly necessary. Greg hadn't really seemed to take it in.

"No," Sherlock answered for her.

"Not usually," Irene added.

"But it pays well?" John asked.

"Yes, though the money's not the only reason I do it."

"It's control," Sherlock cut in, before John could ask.

"I am actually here, you know," Irene said, but she didn't sound angry. "Correct, as ever."

"It puts you in a position of power," Sherlock said to her. "Something I imagine you're in rather short supply of."

"Aren't we all? The entirety of Panem? How many of us can genuinely say we hold the power in our lives?"

Nobody answered.

"You okay?" John asked Greg, who had remained relatively quiet. He nodded.

"I don't like this," Greg said. "I don't trust it. Why haven't they done anything yet?"

"Any ideas, Sherlock?" John asked.

"I don't know. But I should imagine that what you said wasn't aired," Sherlock said.

"Do you think they're airing this now?"

"Probably not."

"Good," Irene said, turning up Kate's face suddenly and kissing her hard on the lips. "I'm not sure your brother could have coped with seeing that."

John laughed. "I'm sure he'd be happy for her."

"How revoltingly sentimental," Irene said. Kate hit her affectionately.

"That's sweet, John, thank you. You have a sister, right?"

"Yeah, Harry. You know, you two kind of remind me of her and her old girlfriend Clara."

"How so?"

"I don't know. You look… happy," he said, suddenly awkward. "Like you belong together."

"We are both stunning paragons of human beings," Irene said.

"Oh, would you stop it? Sherlock making me feel stupid is bad enough; I can't cope with both of you at once," John groaned.

"Luckily for you, you don't have to. I'm going to go to bed now," Irene said. "And I don't mean in the fun way."

"I'll take the first guard shift," Kate offered.

"No, I'd rather," Greg said. A familiar light lit up the sky, and the anthem began to play. Kate found Greg's hand and squeezed it reassuringly as Molly's face, smiling as ever, flashed up. They all waited in quietness until it faded away, and the air was silent and still once more.

"Are you sure?" John asked gently. "You'd do well to try and get some sleep."

"Yeah. I'm not really tired."

"I'll take the shift afterwards," Kate said," and I'll knock you out myself if you don't wake me up for it. John's right, you need to sleep."

"Are you sure you're alright alone?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm fine," Greg said. "I just… want some time by myself. That's all."

"Fair enough," John said. "Wake me up if you need anything, okay? Even if you just get bored and want someone to talk to."

"Thanks," Greg said sincerely. Irene smiled at him sympathetically, and her and Kate wandered off.

"C'mon, you," John said. "Time to sleep."

"I slept last night!" Sherlock protested.

"Oh, God, please don't let this be the eating argument all over again."

"I've told you, my mind is too well-maintained to require such menial things as-"

"You can talk like a normal person, you know. Irene's not even around."

"I'm not a 'normal person', therefore I don't-"

"Humour me."

"Fine," Sherlock relented, sulking, and let himself be led away. They were using the space under the tangled canopy of branches as a supply store, so they lay down nearby instead. Forty-eight hours ago, I slept here for the first time, John marvelled. I had only just found out what Sherlock was trying to do. There was a storm. Molly was still alive. How the hell had everything changed so quickly?

Around ten minutes passed, in which time they both lay on their backs and looked up at the sky.

"We're not going to get to sleep easily, are we?" John eventually said.

"I don't think so," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock?" John said. "Do you think… it's not going to be that simple, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean refusing to fight. We're not going to be let out of this. It's… it's not going to end well."

"No," Sherlock said. "I don't see how it could."

"Sherlock, we're actually taking on the Capitol ," John said, laughing at how surreal it sounded. "We're scared and insignificant, and we're challenging the Capitol. I'm not going to hurt anyone- I'm just not- but it's… people have been hurt. More people are going to get hurt, because of us. I don't know how to cope with the thought of that."

"You need to distract yourself," Sherlock ordered gently. "Talk about something else."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, anything." Sherlock looked around for inspiration. "The stars."

"Sherlock, you hate the stars. You didn't even know the Earth went around the Sun."

"Let's not bring that up again."

"Then why would you want to talk about the sky?"

"It's something to talk about, isn't it? Most other things are either about the arena or your district, and neither of those things are going to distract you sufficiently. The sky seems fairly neutral territory. So, stars."

"If you think I know a lot about science, you're very misled."

"Trust me, I am very aware that you know nothing about science."

"Not nothing."

"Prove it."

"What?"

"I'm waiting, oh scientific one."

"Dick." John kicked Sherlock good-humouredly. "Okay, okay, I've got something. This teacher I had told me once that some of the stuff that makes us up can't be found naturally."

"'Stuff'?"

"Fine, okay, elements. The elements require such high heat and such high pressure to be created that the only way they can be made is when a star dies."

"And?"

"And nothing. I just thought it was cool. There you go, lesson over."

"Oh, John, you do contradict yourself."

"What? How?"

"A moment ago you called us 'insignificant'. Can't you see how wrong that is? You're genuinely telling me that things that came from the stars themselves are too small to make a difference?" Sherlock demanded. "You're missing the point. Yes, we have hearts that stop and bones that break, but we're more than that."

"Like what?" John asked, like a child hoping a story had a happy ending.

"You said it yourself- we're stardust."

Sherlock reached across and took John's hand, their fingers clasped together. Sherlock raised his arm and held their hands up to the sky, entwined together. They lay there for a few moments, taking in the thousands of tiny white dots sparkling between their fingers, around their hands, surrounding them and reassuring them. A part of them.

Sherlock pressed a light kiss to the back of John's hand, then let go. "Try and get some sleep," he said. He moved so he was again lying against John's back, arms around him. The other boy yawned, pressed himself closer, and let his eyes close.

"Sherlock?" he murmured a few seconds later.

"Yes?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"I think you'll find that stars don't require sleep," Sherlock said, and he smiled at the mutter of 'dick' he received in reply. There was a small comfort to be had in some things remaining the same.