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.
Re: THIS IS HOW IT ENDS (final part)iwouldbegoodApril 13 2012, 12:15:29 UTC
I found this because it recently got recced somewhere, or someone asked for a Sherlock/Hunger Games crossover, and now I can't find that post anymore...
Anyway, I am so glad it did, I absolutely loved it! The intensity of the fic and the reality of it, and the plot and perfect characterization. And disjointed narrative and the form of it was so great, particularly how the This Is How It Begins/Ends part takes the central position and is the lengthiest one and includes this lovely lovely line:
Jon is too busy smiling to think that the warmth creeping into his chest means nothing good.
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.
Reply
“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.
Reply
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.
Reply
“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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Anyway, I am so glad it did, I absolutely loved it! The intensity of the fic and the reality of it, and the plot and perfect characterization. And disjointed narrative and the form of it was so great, particularly how the This Is How It Begins/Ends part takes the central position and is the lengthiest one and includes this lovely lovely line:
Jon is too busy smiling to think that the warmth creeping into his chest means nothing good.
Also, thank you for letting them both live! <3
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