THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 07:42:47 UTC
Lestrade is a worn man, hair graying early and face already lined. A victor who doesn’t relish his spoils, spending all his time holed up in the victor’s village. Jon thinks it strange this is the man who won, who outlived all the others when he barely seems alive. Jon wonders what this tired man was like, years ago. What quality in him meant he made it until the end?
When their eyes meet after looking at Moly, Jon realizes Lestrade knows just as well as he does that Moly won’t last long. They share a moment of quiet sorrow, but say nothing about it. Moly is smart enough to know her fate.
He’s grateful they decide to train separately, so he doesn’t have to think about her dying.
Plants he already knows from his time in the woods with his father, that he’s picked for the apothecary and had learned to use are one of his stronger areas. If his father hadn’t gone so early, if his mother wasn’t so paranoid, he probably would’ve learned much more.
The knives are saved for last, his cuts are clean and his throws solid. Jon’s always had a knack for them-likes the way they feel in his hands, likes the power they give him.
Jon feels in control, holding his knives. He can kill what he finds in the forest, he can cut it into pieces, chose a little bit of the future in this small way. He knows where and how to sever muscle from bone. He loves it when blood is pounding in his ears, when he feels vibrant and alive, like nothing matters but the moment. It’s not like he’ll be missed. Hellebore spends all her time with the still, surfacing only long enough to steal his food.
The judges barely seem to pay him attention, but he still manages an 8.
Re: THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS/ENDS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 07:48:10 UTC
A thunderous wall of water crashes down the slope, tearing apart the underbrush and smaller branches. The first trap has sprung, too few deaths today.
Jon manages to catch a tree and clings for his life, the cold water sucking at his clothes and pack. Luckily the pack seems to be waterproof, so his scant rations won’t be ruined, but it won’t mean anything if he’s sucked under. The next branches are too high for him to reach. He pulls out his belt to better secure himself, when he sees a flash of movement.
The curly-haired boy is floundering in the water, barely keeping his head up. The current will carry him close, only a bit of effort should get him to the same tree. Jon isn’t sure what possesses him, but he finds himself shouting “Here, here!”
The thin arms try to adjust the path. Jon cinches his leg to the tree, knowing this could go badly, knowing he should let the boy die. He pushes his body out into the water, knee wrenching painfully with the pull, stretching out as far as he can go
“Come on!” he bellows, and then there are hands scrambling with his, he grabs the bony wrists as hard as he can and starts curling his body back in, his abdomen burning in protest at the added weight, the water sucking angrily at their skin. But he makes it, the long arms climbing up his body until they reach the tree. He rights himself and covers the shivering, angular body with one of his arms.
The curls look ridiculous when wet, the formerly cool exterior covered in muck and damp. He’s looking at Jon with eyes that seem to tear through everything, strangely calm for a boy that was drowning moments ago.
“Are you alright?” Jon asks, unsure of what else to say, not really having an explanation for his actions. He gets a curt nod in response, the strange boy apparently not up for words just yet.
“We need to climb higher. If you climb on my shoulders you should be able to reach the next branch.”
The boy helps Jon detach his belt, uses it to pull himself out of the sucking water. Jon has a moment where he can see the boy consider leaving him behind, stomping on his face and leaving him to die, keeping Jon’s pack for himself. But instead a hand extends down to help him up. It takes work and his hands are raw from scrabbling on the bark, but Jon finally makes it onto the next branch. Sopping wet and exhausted, Jon smiles at the other boy. “I’m Jon.”
“Sherlock,” the other boy says, still a bit breathless from the exertion, clinging to the tree more than strictly necessary.
The pale eyes bore into him like he’s reading every detail in the twigs in Jon’s hair, the mud on his clothes. “What you did, back there, that was-”
“Ridiculous? Stupid?”
“Good,” the boy finishes with a sudden smile. “I think we’ll make an excellent team.”
And suddenly they’re laughing together, at the insanity of it all, and Jon is too busy smiling to think that the warmth creeping into his chest means nothing good.
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 07:51:40 UTC
Sherlock suddenly clutches him close, an emotional display that catches Jon flat-footed. He wraps his arms around the other boy, reveling in the warmth, the touch and comfort he can’t remember when he last had. He waits for a knife in the back that doesn’t come, feels the wild curls tickle his cheek. Ah, something for the cameras, their forbidden friendship, overcoming all obstacles. He never would’ve gotten sponsor help without Sherlock. It’s undoubtedly the smartest thing he’s done.
“Jon,” the teen bursts out, like he can’t keep the emotions in, burying his face in the crook of Jon’s neck. Really, Sherlock is an amazing actor. But his breath quiets, there’s another point to this. “My brother,” growls Sherlock, more vibration than sound, “made me do this. He rigged it.”
Jon wants to say it’s delusion, surely one man from a District couldn’t be so powerful, but the rage roiling under the surface, the hate from a boy who’s usually so distant, silences him. It’s the truth, he’s sure of it. He’s not sure what he did to deserve this raw admission. Perhaps it’s because he saved Sherlock’s life twice, perhaps it’s the pain from the thorns that nearly choked them earlier. It’s not like they can be friends beyond the camera when any moment will signal the time they need to kill each other.
“We’ll beat them,” Jon says for the cameras and Sherlock.”No matter what.”
He doesn’t talk about them both making it out of this alive. No sense in lying.
If he has to die, he’d rather it be Sherlock than anyone else. It wouldn’t be so bad, dying to let him live. But he’ll still fight for it.
“We’ll face it together,” says Sherlock, voice wavering with false emotion. And Jon knows he feels the same way.
(I am about to fall asleep on the keyboard, will post the rest later. Again, apologies that this is a clunky, melodramatic, unedited mess.)
Re: THIS IS HOW IT ENDS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 08:49:19 UTC
Oh my gosh what NEVER APOLOGIZE especially not for melodrama. OP's on tenterhooks here. I love what you've posted. Oh John. (And ha, Jonquil, CLEVER. XD)
THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 16:47:47 UTC
As Jon prepares to run from the bloodbath at the cornucopia, he sees Moly dart forward, heading directly for the choicest prizes.
He shoves the emotions down into their little box, but she calls his name and he’s forced to look. A bag, dark splotchy green and obviously full of supplies, is hurled in his direction. He barely catches it, only notices the belt of knives attached to it when his hand touches the cold metal. It’s an impressive throw. But it’s too late, the others are moving in.
“Moly,” he screams, desperation clawing. No, she can’t be-All those sessions, she was training for this.
“RUN!” she cries, face desperate and determined all at once. Don’t waste it, she’s saying with her wide eyes. I’m choosing this.
Jon swallows his emotions, knowing the weakness will reflect badly and hurt his slim chance at sponsors. He shifts the pack fully on and starts running for all he’s worth.
She screams but he doesn’t look. Perhaps, were he a better person, he’d have done the same. Instead he’s thinking about how live a little longer, even if it means killing people do to it.
In the corner of his vision he sees the curly-haired boy from District 1. His lithe form is desperately grabbing for a bag of rations, he doesn’t seem to notice the girl from District 7 behind him. Jon doesn’t know what makes him hurl a knife into the throat of the tall girl but he doesn’t stop to look at the outcome.
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 17:00:45 UTC
“Are you sad?” the boy calls, sing-song. “So sad, so sad your little pet died. Had his uses, I’ll give you that. You’d never have managed that overgrown idiot alone. But surely you never intended anything else. Things that are all used up get discarded, Sherlock. I did you a favor.”
Sherlock feels Jon’s knife, solid and steady where it’s concealed beneath his sleeve.
“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” the boy coos, softly venomous. The cameras must love the show. Moriarty has a dramatic flair that makes him draw out every death. “You wanted to be the one to end him. Wanted to squeeze the life right out of him, look into his eyes and tell him he was such a good boy, you’re so very sorry, kiss kiss.”
The boy moves closer and closer. Sherlock keeps staring ahead, frozen. “Looks like you fell a bit too much into that nice show you put on. Got a little too friendly with the bait.”
Moriarty is hissing in his ear, baton tipping Sherlock’s chin so he can look into empty eyes, finger lingering on the power button. “Poor dear. I’ll just have to put you out of your misery.” He snarls, “I can fix-”
Suddenly Sherlock is moving, pressing forward so the baton touches them both, knife in his palm and slicing into vulnerable belly. Sherlock bodily pushes him away before he can activate the baton, slashing at his pale throat. Moriarty goes down in a spray of arterial blood and gurgling, last words drowned out.
Sherlock stands, not minding that his face is covered in blood, and kicks the boy in the ribs until he feels bone caving under his boots and hears the cannon fire.
THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 17:06:44 UTC
The first volunteer isn’t one of the hulking careers scrambling for attention but a skinny, small boy, surely just turned twelve. There’s a berth around him before he’s even called, like none of the other boys want a thing to do with him.
He’s smiling the whole time. Grinning, giggling, blowing kisses at the camera, skipping up the stairs to the platform. The careers are always pleased to be selected, but this is different. There’s something empty in his eyes, something dark and burning beneath that Jon feels even through the screen. This one is dangerous, his gut tells him.
They aren’t smiles, but a baring of teeth in challenge.
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 17:10:21 UTC
“I’ll kill you, you know,” the boy says, cocking his head to the side and grinning. He holds the stun baton he seems to favor and a serrated knife. The blade is slicked with something green--poison, surely. “Look at you, all beat up. Like a dog nobody wants.”
“I know,” Jon says, feeling his own tight smile on his face, the blood sluggishly leaking from the cut on his cheek, the ache of the burn on his hip.
The boy stops for a moment, confused. “Then why are you here? Suicidal, like the useless girl from your district? Trying to be noble, after all this?”
He’s trying to goad Jon into anger, but he remains calm, hands steady as ever. “You’re awfully fond of talking,” he says, and springs into action before the sentence is even finished. The knives are familiar in his hands now. Slashing cuts, aimed at tendons and arteries. The boy doesn’t run, despite the size disadvantage.
Thighs are easiest. He lands the right one, but it’s not deep enough. The left is interrupted by a serrated knife stabbing his shoulder. Pain and blood bloom forth, but he presses forward still, slashes wild but persistent. Moriarty’s out a weapon. He can’t land any solid hits, but keeps slashing lines of angry red that slip past the sparking baton, ignores the ozone smell and crackling air. The boy isn’t used to close quarters brawling but knows how to make his small form difficult to pin down.
Jon’s left arm is nearly useless now, he takes a glancing blow of electricity that nearly topples him over, but he pushes past the pain with seething anger. This boy fed Griselle to the mutts without mercy; this boy felt nothing when others died. He had to make him lose enough blood.
Jon’s strength is flagging. More blows to arms, ribs. Moriarty doesn’t even bother using the electricity, assured of victory.
A blow to the temple makes him see triple, pain rattling his skull to where he can’t think any more, only try not to puke. Moriarty starts laughing, raining blows and stomping viciously on his shoulder.
“You were too stupid to win between the two of us. It was right that you gave up.”
With his last energy, he grabs the foot as it makes contact with his injured shoulder, slashes the back of Moriarty’s ankle through the leather of the boot, severing the tendon running up the back of the leg. He smiles, the boy howling in agony and rage.
THIS IS HOW IT BEGINS
anonymous
January 24 2011, 17:27:14 UTC
His mother is a sturdy woman, muscles built from handling haunches of meat, wrestling everything from whole pigs or cows, though most of the time it was smaller work--dog, goat, squirrel. Whatever the poachers could snag, whatever they could afford to buy from District 10.
She didn’t need to be sober to cut meat; nobody cared if her hands were steady.
It was only after his father was caught poaching and killed that she came down on him. Said he was supposed to take his father’s place, supposed to take care of the family, but he was never good enough. He was the one getting tessarae, he was the one going into the woods hen she wasn’t looking but she always caught him and grew angry. She’d hit him, screaming at him for tempting fate like his father.
It’d been growing worse. Hellebore spent most of her time hiding. Jon endured the screaming, the increasing number of bruises. He lost a tooth to one of her blows, his injuries were impossible to hide. The adults all knew, but nobody wanted the trouble reporting it would bring, the burden of orphans and the eye of Capitol.
She always cried afterward, when she sobered up. Apologized and swore she’d never do it again, never touch the still they hid even though it was good money. He stopped believing her after a while, stopped caring about all the words that came from her mouth.
It was a bad day. He couldn’t see, she’d hit him hard enough his vision swam. But today, it made him angry. Today, he was tired of hiding for her.
There is a knife on the block. He knows it, has held it countless times.
Suddenly, it’s there, in his hands, when she isn’t looking.
Suddenly, it’s there, in the soft skin beneath her breastbone.
Suddenly, she ‘s convulsing on the floor, blood flowing into the runoff drains and into the collection pools. They cook it until it congeals because there is no room for waste, not with his mother and Hellebore drinking away their money. All he can think about is how it’s ruined now. They can’t use this blood, it’s all wrong.
There are noises, faces, Hellebore screaming. He stares at his mother, feels the pain on his cheek where she hit him.
“A tragedy,” the mayor says, posture stiff. When did he get there? “She committed suicide.”
Jon looks up, the words slipping past, but the mayor doesn’t look at him. “I’ll take care of this, Jon. Nothing will happen to you or Hellebore. She’s only a few months away from being an adult, there’s no need to make a fuss out of this. The Peacekeepers won’t know.”
He vomits, doesn’t leave the house or eat for days. Hellebore brings him meals but won’t sleep in the house any more. She takes the still with her.
His hands shake now. He dreams of the feel of blood on his hands and wakes up crying.
THIS IS HOW IT ENDS (final part)
anonymous
January 24 2011, 17:29:02 UTC
The world is white when he awakens. For a brief moment he wonders if he’s dead but the sheet over him, the bright light directly overhead dispel the illusion. It’s confusing. Jon was sure-
“Ah, you’ve awakened,” says a man that Jon can’t help but instantly dislike just from his tone. It’s entitled, full of false charm and arrogance, Capitol through and through.
His whole body feels leaden and stiff, but he turns his neck to take in the stranger. “Who are you?” Jon hates him even more at the sight of him. His cheeks are full, stomach rounded with paunch. He’s overweight, and it’s such a blatant, offensive sign of wealth-he’s not gone hungry, not been malnourished and worked to the bone. Jon wants to tear him apart.
“Mycroft Holmes,” he says with a fake smile, like a snake playing polite to its food.
Now he sees why Sherlock hated his brother so badly. But it doesn’t make sense, why is he here? Is he gloating over the outcome? Jon opens his mouth to start demanding answers.
“Now now, no need to be angry with me. I’ve just recovered you from a very delicate situation.”
Jon can’t remember what happened, the details sliding away from him, but it can wait. “Why?”
“Sherlock made a deal with me.”
“What kind of deal?” Jon doesn’t trust this man, remembers what Sherlock said-the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.
“I am out to destroy the government, Jonquil Watchmen. I will tear it apart at the seams. Sherlock agreed to help me, provided I got you out.”
It’s spoken as nonchalantly as inquiring about the weather. Jon can’t help but admire his backbone, for as much as he hates him. He found some way to get into Capitol despite being from a district and only in his twenties, it seems impossible. Jon wonders what kind of price he paid for that power.
It makes no sense. They both couldn’t be alive. “But how-“
“The technology available in Capitol is truly amazing,” Mycroft explains as if he’s a small child. “Now, let’s get you fixed up and discreetly tucked away, shall we? Sherlock is waiting.”
Re: THIS IS HOW IT ENDS (final part)
anonymous
January 24 2011, 19:58:11 UTC
Ohhh my gosh, HEARTS AND STARS IN MY EYES, anon. Thank you for posting this. And oh Mycroft, you bugger. Of course you'd do that. I enjoyed the heck out of this.
Re: THIS IS HOW IT ENDS (final part)jesse_kipsFebruary 3 2011, 13:20:28 UTC
OMG OMG OMFG.
This was absolutely fabulous. Such a stunning fusion between the two worlds- you really wrote the harshness and hopelessness of the situation, and there was a plot and various endings and Mycroft being super-powerful, and the Sherlock and John relationship built up so well. . . Seriously, this was amazing. I am going to save this on my favourites, and read it a million more times.
Re: THIS IS HOW IT ENDS (final part)blamethecupcakeApril 21 2011, 03:15:33 UTC
I JUST FINISHED READING THE HUNGER GAMES THEN RUSHED OFF TO READ THIS AND I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT IT IS PERFECT AND I LOVE IT. CAPSLOCK ALONE CAN NOT EXPRESS MY LOVE.
When their eyes meet after looking at Moly, Jon realizes Lestrade knows just as well as he does that Moly won’t last long. They share a moment of quiet sorrow, but say nothing about it. Moly is smart enough to know her fate.
He’s grateful they decide to train separately, so he doesn’t have to think about her dying.
Plants he already knows from his time in the woods with his father, that he’s picked for the apothecary and had learned to use are one of his stronger areas. If his father hadn’t gone so early, if his mother wasn’t so paranoid, he probably would’ve learned much more.
The knives are saved for last, his cuts are clean and his throws solid. Jon’s always had a knack for them-likes the way they feel in his hands, likes the power they give him.
Jon feels in control, holding his knives. He can kill what he finds in the forest, he can cut it into pieces, chose a little bit of the future in this small way. He knows where and how to sever muscle from bone. He loves it when blood is pounding in his ears, when he feels vibrant and alive, like nothing matters but the moment. It’s not like he’ll be missed. Hellebore spends all her time with the still, surfacing only long enough to steal his food.
The judges barely seem to pay him attention, but he still manages an 8.
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Jon manages to catch a tree and clings for his life, the cold water sucking at his clothes and pack. Luckily the pack seems to be waterproof, so his scant rations won’t be ruined, but it won’t mean anything if he’s sucked under. The next branches are too high for him to reach. He pulls out his belt to better secure himself, when he sees a flash of movement.
The curly-haired boy is floundering in the water, barely keeping his head up. The current will carry him close, only a bit of effort should get him to the same tree. Jon isn’t sure what possesses him, but he finds himself shouting “Here, here!”
The thin arms try to adjust the path. Jon cinches his leg to the tree, knowing this could go badly, knowing he should let the boy die. He pushes his body out into the water, knee wrenching painfully with the pull, stretching out as far as he can go
“Come on!” he bellows, and then there are hands scrambling with his, he grabs the bony wrists as hard as he can and starts curling his body back in, his abdomen burning in protest at the added weight, the water sucking angrily at their skin. But he makes it, the long arms climbing up his body until they reach the tree. He rights himself and covers the shivering, angular body with one of his arms.
The curls look ridiculous when wet, the formerly cool exterior covered in muck and damp. He’s looking at Jon with eyes that seem to tear through everything, strangely calm for a boy that was drowning moments ago.
“Are you alright?” Jon asks, unsure of what else to say, not really having an explanation for his actions. He gets a curt nod in response, the strange boy apparently not up for words just yet.
“We need to climb higher. If you climb on my shoulders you should be able to reach the next branch.”
The boy helps Jon detach his belt, uses it to pull himself out of the sucking water. Jon has a moment where he can see the boy consider leaving him behind, stomping on his face and leaving him to die, keeping Jon’s pack for himself. But instead a hand extends down to help him up. It takes work and his hands are raw from scrabbling on the bark, but Jon finally makes it onto the next branch. Sopping wet and exhausted, Jon smiles at the other boy. “I’m Jon.”
“Sherlock,” the other boy says, still a bit breathless from the exertion, clinging to the tree more than strictly necessary.
The pale eyes bore into him like he’s reading every detail in the twigs in Jon’s hair, the mud on his clothes. “What you did, back there, that was-”
“Ridiculous? Stupid?”
“Good,” the boy finishes with a sudden smile. “I think we’ll make an excellent team.”
And suddenly they’re laughing together, at the insanity of it all, and Jon is too busy smiling to think that the warmth creeping into his chest means nothing good.
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“Jon,” the teen bursts out, like he can’t keep the emotions in, burying his face in the crook of Jon’s neck. Really, Sherlock is an amazing actor. But his breath quiets, there’s another point to this. “My brother,” growls Sherlock, more vibration than sound, “made me do this. He rigged it.”
Jon wants to say it’s delusion, surely one man from a District couldn’t be so powerful, but the rage roiling under the surface, the hate from a boy who’s usually so distant, silences him. It’s the truth, he’s sure of it. He’s not sure what he did to deserve this raw admission. Perhaps it’s because he saved Sherlock’s life twice, perhaps it’s the pain from the thorns that nearly choked them earlier. It’s not like they can be friends beyond the camera when any moment will signal the time they need to kill each other.
“We’ll beat them,” Jon says for the cameras and Sherlock.”No matter what.”
He doesn’t talk about them both making it out of this alive. No sense in lying.
If he has to die, he’d rather it be Sherlock than anyone else. It wouldn’t be so bad, dying to let him live. But he’ll still fight for it.
“We’ll face it together,” says Sherlock, voice wavering with false emotion. And Jon knows he feels the same way.
(I am about to fall asleep on the keyboard, will post the rest later. Again, apologies that this is a clunky, melodramatic, unedited mess.)
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He shoves the emotions down into their little box, but she calls his name and he’s forced to look. A bag, dark splotchy green and obviously full of supplies, is hurled in his direction. He barely catches it, only notices the belt of knives attached to it when his hand touches the cold metal. It’s an impressive throw. But it’s too late, the others are moving in.
“Moly,” he screams, desperation clawing. No, she can’t be-All those sessions, she was training for this.
“RUN!” she cries, face desperate and determined all at once. Don’t waste it, she’s saying with her wide eyes. I’m choosing this.
Jon swallows his emotions, knowing the weakness will reflect badly and hurt his slim chance at sponsors. He shifts the pack fully on and starts running for all he’s worth.
She screams but he doesn’t look. Perhaps, were he a better person, he’d have done the same. Instead he’s thinking about how live a little longer, even if it means killing people do to it.
In the corner of his vision he sees the curly-haired boy from District 1. His lithe form is desperately grabbing for a bag of rations, he doesn’t seem to notice the girl from District 7 behind him. Jon doesn’t know what makes him hurl a knife into the throat of the tall girl but he doesn’t stop to look at the outcome.
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Sherlock feels Jon’s knife, solid and steady where it’s concealed beneath his sleeve.
“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” the boy coos, softly venomous. The cameras must love the show. Moriarty has a dramatic flair that makes him draw out every death. “You wanted to be the one to end him. Wanted to squeeze the life right out of him, look into his eyes and tell him he was such a good boy, you’re so very sorry, kiss kiss.”
The boy moves closer and closer. Sherlock keeps staring ahead, frozen. “Looks like you fell a bit too much into that nice show you put on. Got a little too friendly with the bait.”
Moriarty is hissing in his ear, baton tipping Sherlock’s chin so he can look into empty eyes, finger lingering on the power button. “Poor dear. I’ll just have to put you out of your misery.” He snarls, “I can fix-”
Suddenly Sherlock is moving, pressing forward so the baton touches them both, knife in his palm and slicing into vulnerable belly. Sherlock bodily pushes him away before he can activate the baton, slashing at his pale throat. Moriarty goes down in a spray of arterial blood and gurgling, last words drowned out.
Sherlock stands, not minding that his face is covered in blood, and kicks the boy in the ribs until he feels bone caving under his boots and hears the cannon fire.
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He’s smiling the whole time. Grinning, giggling, blowing kisses at the camera, skipping up the stairs to the platform. The careers are always pleased to be selected, but this is different. There’s something empty in his eyes, something dark and burning beneath that Jon feels even through the screen. This one is dangerous, his gut tells him.
They aren’t smiles, but a baring of teeth in challenge.
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“I know,” Jon says, feeling his own tight smile on his face, the blood sluggishly leaking from the cut on his cheek, the ache of the burn on his hip.
The boy stops for a moment, confused. “Then why are you here? Suicidal, like the useless girl from your district? Trying to be noble, after all this?”
He’s trying to goad Jon into anger, but he remains calm, hands steady as ever. “You’re awfully fond of talking,” he says, and springs into action before the sentence is even finished. The knives are familiar in his hands now. Slashing cuts, aimed at tendons and arteries. The boy doesn’t run, despite the size disadvantage.
Thighs are easiest. He lands the right one, but it’s not deep enough. The left is interrupted by a serrated knife stabbing his shoulder. Pain and blood bloom forth, but he presses forward still, slashes wild but persistent. Moriarty’s out a weapon. He can’t land any solid hits, but keeps slashing lines of angry red that slip past the sparking baton, ignores the ozone smell and crackling air. The boy isn’t used to close quarters brawling but knows how to make his small form difficult to pin down.
Jon’s left arm is nearly useless now, he takes a glancing blow of electricity that nearly topples him over, but he pushes past the pain with seething anger. This boy fed Griselle to the mutts without mercy; this boy felt nothing when others died. He had to make him lose enough blood.
Jon’s strength is flagging. More blows to arms, ribs. Moriarty doesn’t even bother using the electricity, assured of victory.
A blow to the temple makes him see triple, pain rattling his skull to where he can’t think any more, only try not to puke. Moriarty starts laughing, raining blows and stomping viciously on his shoulder.
“You were too stupid to win between the two of us. It was right that you gave up.”
With his last energy, he grabs the foot as it makes contact with his injured shoulder, slashes the back of Moriarty’s ankle through the leather of the boot, severing the tendon running up the back of the leg. He smiles, the boy howling in agony and rage.
Sherlock will win for sure, now.
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She didn’t need to be sober to cut meat; nobody cared if her hands were steady.
It was only after his father was caught poaching and killed that she came down on him. Said he was supposed to take his father’s place, supposed to take care of the family, but he was never good enough. He was the one getting tessarae, he was the one going into the woods hen she wasn’t looking but she always caught him and grew angry. She’d hit him, screaming at him for tempting fate like his father.
It’d been growing worse. Hellebore spent most of her time hiding. Jon endured the screaming, the increasing number of bruises. He lost a tooth to one of her blows, his injuries were impossible to hide. The adults all knew, but nobody wanted the trouble reporting it would bring, the burden of orphans and the eye of Capitol.
She always cried afterward, when she sobered up. Apologized and swore she’d never do it again, never touch the still they hid even though it was good money. He stopped believing her after a while, stopped caring about all the words that came from her mouth.
It was a bad day. He couldn’t see, she’d hit him hard enough his vision swam. But today, it made him angry. Today, he was tired of hiding for her.
There is a knife on the block. He knows it, has held it countless times.
Suddenly, it’s there, in his hands, when she isn’t looking.
Suddenly, it’s there, in the soft skin beneath her breastbone.
Suddenly, she ‘s convulsing on the floor, blood flowing into the runoff drains and into the collection pools. They cook it until it congeals because there is no room for waste, not with his mother and Hellebore drinking away their money. All he can think about is how it’s ruined now. They can’t use this blood, it’s all wrong.
There are noises, faces, Hellebore screaming. He stares at his mother, feels the pain on his cheek where she hit him.
“A tragedy,” the mayor says, posture stiff. When did he get there? “She committed suicide.”
Jon looks up, the words slipping past, but the mayor doesn’t look at him. “I’ll take care of this, Jon. Nothing will happen to you or Hellebore. She’s only a few months away from being an adult, there’s no need to make a fuss out of this. The Peacekeepers won’t know.”
He vomits, doesn’t leave the house or eat for days. Hellebore brings him meals but won’t sleep in the house any more. She takes the still with her.
His hands shake now. He dreams of the feel of blood on his hands and wakes up crying.
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“Ah, you’ve awakened,” says a man that Jon can’t help but instantly dislike just from his tone. It’s entitled, full of false charm and arrogance, Capitol through and through.
His whole body feels leaden and stiff, but he turns his neck to take in the stranger. “Who are you?” Jon hates him even more at the sight of him. His cheeks are full, stomach rounded with paunch. He’s overweight, and it’s such a blatant, offensive sign of wealth-he’s not gone hungry, not been malnourished and worked to the bone. Jon wants to tear him apart.
“Mycroft Holmes,” he says with a fake smile, like a snake playing polite to its food.
Now he sees why Sherlock hated his brother so badly. But it doesn’t make sense, why is he here? Is he gloating over the outcome? Jon opens his mouth to start demanding answers.
“Now now, no need to be angry with me. I’ve just recovered you from a very delicate situation.”
Jon can’t remember what happened, the details sliding away from him, but it can wait. “Why?”
“Sherlock made a deal with me.”
“What kind of deal?” Jon doesn’t trust this man, remembers what Sherlock said-the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.
“I am out to destroy the government, Jonquil Watchmen. I will tear it apart at the seams. Sherlock agreed to help me, provided I got you out.”
It’s spoken as nonchalantly as inquiring about the weather. Jon can’t help but admire his backbone, for as much as he hates him. He found some way to get into Capitol despite being from a district and only in his twenties, it seems impossible. Jon wonders what kind of price he paid for that power.
It makes no sense. They both couldn’t be alive. “But how-“
“The technology available in Capitol is truly amazing,” Mycroft explains as if he’s a small child. “Now, let’s get you fixed up and discreetly tucked away, shall we? Sherlock is waiting.”
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This. I love the books, but you just made them even more awesome. Oh John. My heart just hurt for him.
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This was absolutely fabulous. Such a stunning fusion between the two worlds- you really wrote the harshness and hopelessness of the situation, and there was a plot and various endings and Mycroft being super-powerful, and the Sherlock and John relationship built up so well. . . Seriously, this was amazing. I am going to save this on my favourites, and read it a million more times.
Hearts hearts hearts <3 <3
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THIS IS SLIGHTLY BETTER.
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