A/N- Oh man, I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter. I hope it's okay. Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/sticking with this. It's really good to be back!


In the morning before five became three, in the dead of night, a woman's door in Six was broken down and a troupe of Peacekeepers flooded in. They found Mabel Lestrade sat at the kitchen table, calmly waiting for them. She raised her eyes as they raised their guns.

"I am proud of my grandson," she stated, "and that is all that matters to me." As far as last words go, they were the ones she wanted.

And so it came that, in the end, both died in the belief that the other was still alive.


"Sherlock?" a voice said gently. Sherlock ignored it. "Sherlock, look at me."

"Why?" he asked flatly.

"Because I'm worried about you, you dick."

"I'm fine."

"Yes, which is why you've spent the past two hours staring into the trees and saying nothing to anybody."

"In case you hadn't noticed, there aren't many people left to say anything to." Sherlock regretted the harsh words as soon as they'd left his mouth, but he made no effort to apologise for them. John sat down next to him.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not even slightly."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. I barely even knew them for twenty-four hours."

"Time works differently in here," John shrugged. "I guess that a day is as good as year when it might be your last."

"They were good people," Sherlock said brusquely. He left it at that.

He didn't like how the care flared through his veins, had never asked for the twisting feeling in his gut when he thought of how much blood there had been. He hadn't lied; he didn't feel guilty. He knew he had done the right thing and he felt comfortable with his actions. But that didn't change the fact that two people who Sherlock had felt some respect – perhaps even a form of affection- for were dead. They were bloodied and rotting and dead.

"Sherlock?" John said. Sherlock blinked.

"What was that?"

"I asked if you thought we should move. Away from the rock, I mean."

Sherlock had investigated the flower, working on the logic that a permanent gas emitter wouldn't make any sense, as it would render the 'CC' event pointless. He had been proved correct- after an hour's searching he had found a very thin glass tube lying on the ground, with a pointed end indicating it had injected the toxin.

"It must have had a heat seeking component or been controlled remotely," Sherlock had commented, running his finger over the tiny thing. "There's no way it could have 'accidentally' gotten into her bloodstream."

John had nodded along, but despite the agreement his entire demeanour had screamed 'does it matter?', and so Sherlock had kept further deductions about the thing to himself.

"In case the rock is like the flower?" Sherlock asked.

"The flower, or the berry bushes, or whatever else there is in this godforsaken place."

"And equally it could be like the rain-"

"- which was poisoned-"

"- or the other berry bushes-"

"- which got poisoned-"

"- or the fish-"

"- which are nowhere to be seen and almost certainly poisoned."

"Are you done?"

"Are you? Sherlock, these numbers don't mean anything good. They're not on our side. For every one good one there are about twenty bad ones, and even if it seems good it usually comes with a sting. Doesn't it make sense to leave this one alone?"

"And do what?"

"I don't know- we could always go back to where we were before."

"And then what?"

"Keep on living."

Sherlock snorted. "That's going to be interesting when there's no food left."

"Luckily for you, you're too thin to be killed and eaten."

"I'm serious, John."

"I know. I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say that I'm right," Sherlock said, "because I am. If we leave, we'll die. If we stay here, we might die, but at least there's a 'might'. Irene would agree with me."

Irene was sat on her own, fingering a flower she had pulled off a nearby plant. She hadn't spoken more than a handful of words in hours. Looking at her, Sherlock was suddenly struck by the very strange notion that, out of the three of them, John was coping the best.

"Why are you handling this so well?" Sherlock asked. John frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what happened to Kate and Lestrade. You're taking it well."

"I screamed at you for something I didn't blame you for."

"Yes, but now you're functioning perfectly adequately. You're the most humane out of the three of us, so why are you spared the emotional reaction?"

"I'm not."

"Then why aren't you showing it?"

"Because I've had practice." Sherlock looked at him in a way that invited him to continue. John elaborated.

"My parents both died when I was a child- not that that's anything unusual in Panem- and then my sister's girlfriend died, and it was like Harry died with her. I had people I healed die- not many, I was never allowed near the more severe cases- but enough. And then I got here and the first damned thing I did was kill Serra, and you'd best believe I didn't cope well with that."

"No?"

"Sherlock, I had a breakdown. I was hallucinating. I hid in the forest and I'd have stayed there and let myself die if it wasn't for Sarah."

"You never told me that." He had known John had killed Serra, had worked out that he had taken it hard, but he hadn't known the full extent of the thing.

"Never saw a reason to. And then Sarah died- she was killed- and that was my fault. And the boy we were helping was killed, and that was my fault too. And the girl I was trying to save died, and that's when I met you. And well, you were there for the rest. I killed Jupiter. Molly died. Greg died. Kate died."

"There's been a lot of death," Sherlock murmured.

"Tell me about it. Besides," he continued, "I can't afford to break down again. I can't burden you and Irene like that. So I guess I'm handling it alright, yeah- but that's because I have to. This stuff- this death- keeps on happening and happening. You can either let yourself get trampled by it, or keep your head down and try not to think about it too much."

"And does that work?" Sherlock asked, genuinely, curiously.

"It does, but not forever. Eventually it gets you. I think… I'm pretty sure that's what happened to Harry."

Sherlock nodded, a child absorbing information.

"Have you really never grieved somebody before?" John asked. Sherlock hesitated.

"I suppose I have, but it was… different."

"How?"

"I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel sad, I didn't feel angry- I didn't feel anything."

"That's hardly uncommon."

"So why can't that happen again now?" Sherlock said, frustrated. He had never cared before, after all. Maybe this was John's fault. Maybe being open to one emotion had opened him to all of them; maybe humanity and compassion and empathy could be transferred through the skin.

He still didn't understand how he felt about John- was still terrified by it- but he didn't want it gone. Grieving wasn't like that. It was a hindrance. It was something he didn't want and didn't see a point in. He wanted to be able to go on and leave the dead in the past where they belonged, but he couldn't, and he didn't understand why. It had only been hours, but why should it be more than minutes? The bodies having names and faces shouldn't make them anything more than corpses.

"Because life's not fair."

"Inspiring words."

"Something of a family motto."


"It's midday," Sherlock said, looking up at the sun. "I'd say we're at around one hundred and eighty-nine hours. Maybe one hundred and ninety."

John nodded. "So ten or eleven hours until rock time. Do you think it's the final one?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "These games have lasted an unusually long time already and two hundred hours seems as good a place as any to end it- plus numbers that central? That obvious? I'm fairly certain this particular event was intended to be the last."

"That sounds ominous."

"It is," Sherlock asked. "But also exciting."

"If you insist." John moved his head to peer past Sherlock.

"Stop worrying," Sherlock urged him. "When she wants to speak to us, she will."

"She's had a bad shock, though. She should at least have something to eat."

"As should you."

"I'm not hungry."

"John."

"Well, I'm not, and we hardly have anything left now. What is there, one pot of stew?"

"And two bread rolls," Sherlock said, knowing even as he said it that he was grasping at straws.

The food had run out more quickly than they had anticipated. They had become reliant on sponsors, had become used to having enough to eat. It had been too late to turn things around by the time they started running out; rabbits already poisoned, berries turned rotten or absent or deadly. The arena was dying, and the presumed intention was for them to die with it.

"I'm sure Irene knows what she's doing," Sherlock said. "She isn't that stupid."

"Did I really just hear you say that?"

"You're right. Maybe I had ought to eat something."

John chuckled and elbowed him in the stomach. "Go on, you. Go and talk to the scary lady."

Irene couldn't be persuaded to eat, but she did come and sit by the campfire with them. There was something of a standoff between Sherlock and John, leading to them reluctantly splitting a roll. After several long and silent minutes, Irene turned to Sherlock.

"I take it you've reached the same conclusion I have?" she asked.

"Regarding?"

"What we need to do. How to end the Games, and how to finish this."

"Go on."

"I have to die," she said, perfectly calmly.

"You're joking, right?" John said after a few seconds. "This is a joke?"

"No, I mean it."

"I'm sorry, did you miss the 'we're not killing anybody' conversation?" he asked incredulously.

"On the contrary, I supported it wholeheartedly. I still do. It's not killing if I ask you to do it."

"It is! Of course it is! Irene, why the hell would we ever let you die?"

"To end this," she urged desperately.

"It goes against everything we're fighting for."

"There won't be anything to fight for if neither of you make it out alive."

"It's not happening," John said flatly.

"You don't-"

"We're not discussing this."

She scowled and got angrily to her feet, sweeping back off to the corner. John looked at Sherlock helplessly.

"Leave her," Sherlock said.

And so leave her they did.


It was many hours later, even more hours of trailing conversation and dragging silences, that John asked Sherlock to talk to Irene.

"There's a certain sense of déjà vu here," Sherlock muttered.

"No, not me this time. God knows I only made it worse. But you could try."

"Why?"

"She likes you. She trusts you."

"No, she doesn't. It would be irresponsible for her to do either." He didn't enjoy conversation at the best of times, and he certainly wasn't interested when it took his attention away from other, much more interesting things. Night was beginning to fall, and Sherlock was guessing that they were only hours away from the final event.

"Sherlock," John said pleadingly. "Just talk to her. Try and reason with her. Please?"

"Fine," he grumbled, trudging over. John let the 'thank you' drop away from his lips and turned his attention back to the fire, poking at the embers with a stick.

"John dispatched you," Irene said as Sherlock grew near. It wasn't a question.

"He appears to be under the impression that you trust me."

"What a ridiculous notion." He flashed her a smile, but for once she didn't respond. "I meant what I said earlier," she said. Dropping the pretence, he sat down next to her.

"I know."

"It's the logical option, Sherlock. Only two can live."

"That doesn't necessarily mean John and I," Sherlock pointed out.

"But you'd prefer it to be. No, don't bother lying, I'm not a child. It's irrelevant anyway- I have my own reasons, and that isn't one of them."

"I thought you better than this," Sherlock scolded. "You lose a girlfriend and become a martyr?"

"It's not just her. Don't you know what they do to victors? There aren't many from Eight, I know, but we've had so many in One. I've known a few- not closely, but all the same. They're never the same when they come back. Of course they're shaken, they're traumatised- but it's more than that," she said, swallowing hard. Sherlock thought he saw something like fear in the movement.

"They're not their own person anymore. Even though they're not in the arena, they never escape it. Their every movement, every word is controlled by the Capitol. They're puppets and the Capitol pull every single string. They're controlled, oppressed- almost all are prostitutes-"

"How is that-"

"Don't," she said. "There is no similarity. When you're a victor, somebody arrives and tells you to drop your plans, drop your boyfriend or girlfriend or family- because it still goes on when you're married, you know. You can have a husband and children and try to leave it all behind, but you'll never get to. Victors are mentors; you can't take another job. Victors are the Capitol's; if they tell you to leave your dying child's beside to fuck a man who's bought you for the night, you have to."

"Not much control," he mused.

"None at all," she agreed. "I thought that, with Kate… I thought that maybe we'd escape it. That there could be a part of my life that belonged to us- not them. I thought she could be… something good. You know what that's like, don't you? To have to find your redemption in somebody else?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"But without her, there'll be nothing. There'll be me and I'll be alone again, but my life won't even be my own anymore. I can live with many things, but I cannot live like that. Do you understand?"

"I do," he said.

"So you'll agree?"

"No."

"Why not?" she said, frustrated. "Because of what John thinks?"

"No, it's not that. I'm… sorry."

"But surely you can see it's the logical thing? The best way out of this? Sherlock- please."

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

He thought she was going to continue arguing, but instead she sagged. "Okay," she said numbly. "The final event activates soon, I take it."

"In an hour or two, yes. Look, uh… if you need anything-"

"- I won't bother asking you. Don't worry." She did smile at him then, and he laughed. "You can go and tell John you fulfilled your duty."

"She hasn't changed her mind," Sherlock told John when he returned. "She insists it's the right choice."

"But it's not," John said, frustrated.

"Mmm."

John paused like something new had come to him. "You do- you don't agree with her, do you?"

"What she's proposing is logical and she makes some very good points- but no. I don't know why, but no."

John nodded. He leant back against Sherlock, staring aimlessly into the fire. The other man looped his arms loosely around John's shoulders.

"Think they're broadcasting again?" John asked.

"I shouldn't have thought so. I imagine by this stage they're showing either nothing at all or airing segments later on- watching them, checking they're safe and then playing them as if live."

"But you think the cameras are still on?"

"Oh, without a doubt. Everything's continuing as it should be; it's just that none of it's reaching Panem."

"We pissed off a lot of people, didn't we?"

"I think we did, yes," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "Mycroft probably has his head in his hands behind a desk somewhere."

"I really hope he and Harry are okay."

"I don't know about your sister, but Mycroft's probably running Panem by now."

John sniggered. "He can't be that good."

"No, 'good' isn't the right word. Thorough, perhaps. Illegal, possibly. Thoroughly illegal should more or less sum him up."

"I'd like to meet Mycroft."

"You really wouldn't."

"I'd like you to meet Harry."

"You really wouldn't."

"Okay, no, I wouldn't. I don't even want to know what you'd deduce about her."

"I could-"

"No!"

They both laughed before falling quiet. John followed Sherlock's gaze up to the carving, the 'CC' staring out over them. "What the hell are we doing, Sherlock?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

"Is that hard for you?" John asked curiously. "Not knowing?"

"More than you could ever imagine."

"What did you want to do before this?" John asked. "For a job, I mean."

"Nearly everybody in Eight gets drafted into factory work."

"Ahh, but that wasn't my question. What did you want to do?"

"It doesn't matter. As I said, Eight is factories and fabric."

"Humour me."

"Why?"

"What else is there to do?"

Sherlock still didn't see a point, but he went along with it for John's sake. "I would have- I suppose I was interested in Peacekeeper work. Not as a 'normal' Peacekeeper- the force is full of stupid little men with big guns to make them feel clever- but I've heard rumours of some of the work they do to track down suspects in crimes. The process, the techniques, the technology… it sounds fascinating."

"It does," John agreed. "I used to think I'd like to do Peacekeeper work- not that, though, just the standard military stuff."

"Ahh, because you coped so well with shooting Serra." John winced a little at her name, but they both pretended not to notice.

"I know, I know," he admitted. "But that was different. She was a girl, our age. She hadn't done anything wrong. With Jupiter, when I knew it was to protect somebody else, it was different. And I'd have had training, I'd have been older… I think I could have coped."

"Would you still be interested in doing it?"

"Not for Panem," he said. "I used to think… I used to trust them. That was stupid, I know. I guess I still thought that it was all for good reasons- that it had to be. But being here? Actually seeing these things for myself? No, not anymore. Not for them."

"Maybe you could re-establish the Peacekeeper force," Sherlock suggested. "Make it fair. Make it trustworthy."

"Yeah, and maybe I could sprout wings and learn to fly," John snorted.

"It doesn't matter either way, I suppose. If we make it out we'll have to be mentors."

"That's assuming they don't just kill us."

"I'll take that over mentoring any day."

John sniggered, then yawned. "Sorry, sorry," he apologised. "You're comfortable."

"Then get some sleep."

"What, and miss the grand finale?" John said. "Not on your life."


The three of them- John and Sherlock together, Irene by herself- watched the engraving fill in until the rock was as smooth as any other, no indication there had ever been letters. They waited, holding their breath, but there was nothing.

"… what?" John said eventually. "Did something go wrong?" He'd been picturing landslides, volcanos, explosions, tsunamis, a thousand different outcomes. All had involved something more than just the silent, still night air.

"I don't think so," Sherlock said. "Something's happened- we just don't know what yet. Be very careful. Neither of you go near the rocks."

"The same applies to you," John said before Sherlock could move.

"It does not."

"Why not?"

"I'm clever."

"If you go near that thing, I go with you. You know that."

"I'm not being left behind," Irene said, her voice strange after so many hours of silence.

Sherlock grimaced before relenting. "You know, you're really not easy people to protect."

"But we're fun at parties," Irene said, breezing past them to examine the piles of rocks.

There was nothing. Sherlock even tried climbing them- on strict warning that, if he did anything stupid, John would bring him back from the dead and kill him all over again- but there were no signs of any change. Nothing new growing, nothing new dying, nothing falling or spawning. They checked the water levels but they hadn't changed, checked the plant life but it was the same as ever.

"I'm stumped," John said, sitting down by the riverside. "The rocks are fine, the plants are fine, the water's fine- what?" Sherlock was staring at him.

"Say that again."

"The rocks-"

"No, no, the last bit. You said water, the water's fine." John's eyes grew wide as he realised what Sherlock was suggesting. Sherlock dropped to his knees and scooped a handful of water up. He took a sip and rolled the liquid around his mouth, before spitting it out onto the grass. He grimaced.

"What is it?" Irene asked.

"Mercury."

"What?" she said, alarmed.

"The water, it's tainted with mercury."

"You think the whole river's affected?" John asked.

"Every drop."

It disturbed John how unchanged it seemed. There were no blooms of colour or swirls of cloudiness- he wondered if, without Sherlock's input, he would have realised what was wrong. Maybe he would have kept drinking it anyway, ignoring the taste and wondering why he was growing ever weaker. They had had one message hammered into their heads: find a water source. The food and the fighting and everything else had always come second. It had felt as though they could cope with anything, anyone, as long as they had that expanse of life-giving liquid at their side.

"The thirstier we get, the more we drink, the faster we die," Sherlock said, lifting his hand from the water and watching drops fall back in. His mouth twitched. "Neat."

"Sherlock!" John said, appalled.

"You have to admit that as far as execution methods go, it's an intelligent one."

"Now is really, really not the time. How much water do we have left in the bottle?"

"It's half-full."

"It could still rain."

"No, there won't be any more rain. They've gotten bored of playing with us now- this is meant to end things."

"So it's back to sitting around and waiting to see who dies first? Is that seriously it?" John couldn't ignore the panic building in his chest, the sense of dread spreading throughout him.

"Do you have an alternative approach? Because if so, I'd love to hear it," Sherlock snapped. "Right now all we have is Irene's suggestion, and we agreed that-" He stopped mid-sentence as they both hit the same realisation at the same time. They looked over to the pile of supplies and it was so clear to them, the missing item more obvious than anything lying in the clutter.

And then they were running, shouting her name, shouting 'don't' and 'please' and 'stop', and cursing the damned arena with its identical trees that seemed to spring up and disappear and move as the mood took them, and the bushes that got in their way and blocked them off, and the vines that snatched at their hadn't even heard her leave, for God's sake, had only realised she hadn't been speaking when it was already far too late. She had always been so good at disappearing, always an expert at melting away into the trees, and the darkness of night was on her side.

The muffled bang froze them in place, but only for a moment. They twisted around to tear towards the source of the noise: John telling himself that maybe it wasn't what it sounded like, maybe he'd gotten it wrong, maybe they'd misplaced the gun. Sherlock was hastily working out the probability of death depending on where she'd aimed the barrel- maybe if she had missed her target, if the gun had slipped, if they got there in time-

The cannon shot exploded through the air and through their minds. They both slowed down to a jog, and then to a walk, and they arrived just as the hovercraft was retracting its claws. In the fading light of the thing, Sherlock caught a brief glimpse of something on the ground. He stepped closer to investigate, steadfastly ignoring the thick red liquid seeping into his shoes and the gun lying nearby.

The carving had been done in a patch of dirt, next to a bush. It reminded Sherlock of the engravings scattered around the arena- but this was thinner, wobbly, less precise. It had been hasty, he could tell- scratched quickly and desperately, probably with fingernails. The forest wasn't as dense here, allowing some of the watery moonlight to filter through. Although he could read the words when he leant very close to the ground, it seemed to take several attempts for them to fix themselves inside his mind.

Goodbye Mr Holmes

Sherlock was vaguely aware of a hand touching his shoulder. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly. Sherlock straightened up, but he didn't reply. He turned to John and let himself be pulled into his arms. The pain inside Sherlock's gut was doubling by the second, twisting and cramping every cell of his body. He found himself suddenly feeling tired, for what felt like the first time in years.

"It's over," John said quietly. He raised the fingers of one hand to tangle in the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull. "We can go home. It's over."

It's over. Irene had taken things into her own hands and had died very much her own woman. She had saved Sherlock and John from days of thirst and agony. The knowledge was a lead weight stitched permanently into Sherlock's heart, a price he could never repay. It's over.

Sherlock forced himself to stand upright. John's hand found his and squeezed reassuringly.

"Ready?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, and they stood side by side. They were expecting the usual blare of trumpets, the triumphant announcement of winning. There was nothing. They waited, uncertain, but still there was nothing.

"What are they waiting for?" John asked weakly.

"I don't know," Sherlock said. Before he could make any guesses, a voice boomed into the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games," the announcement began. "The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rulebook has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favour."

There was a small burst of static, and then nothing more.