Fic: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor [Sherlock/The Hunger Games] Chapter 3
Title: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor
Fandom: Sherlock/The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC. The Hunger Games was created by Suzanne Collins.
Overall Rating: R
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Elements of all three books.
Warnings: Character deaths all over the place. Angst.
Summary: John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute). May the odds be ever in their favour.
A/N: I owe you all an apology for the wait for this chapter. Real life hit and hit HARD, and then the guiltier I felt for not writing the less I wrote. But I try never to abandon readers and so here I am again.
Thank you to my beta (jesse_kips) who didn’t give up on me!
--
Previous Chapters
Chapter 1 // Chapter 2
--
The games differ wildly from one year to the next. Fighting hypothermia in an ice covered arena can big the biggest threat one year while the next year tributes might have to avoid deadly swamps in their fight for survival. Once there was an arena entirely devoid of anything weapon-like, poisonous, or even vaguely dangerous - which sounds fine until you realise that the only way to kill the other tributes is to do so with your bare hands.
Personally I think the obviously dangerous arenas are the best - you know straight away what you’re dealing with. The ones that look normal can take you by complete surprise.
Despite this the routine leading up to the games stays exactly the same. It’s a fixed routine that the mentors know to the last second. If anything upsets the routine they begin to get nervous.
They are certainly getting nervous now. The interviews have barely finished and we have been asked to stay behind for a meeting with the head gamemaker.
“Is there some kind of problem?”
“We have a schedule to stick to…”
“It’s just a formality,” the unfortunate lackey informs us.
We wait another two minutes for the head gamemaker to arrive. He descends the nearby glass staircase slowly but gracefully and stands to address us from the third step up.
“Thank you for your patience,” Riechenbach says smoothly, “I understand how busy you all must be.”
Mrs. Hudson gives a noticeable huff of annoyance.
“This year we are adding an element of luck into the games and before we can begin we need the candidates to roll their dice, so to speak.”
I glance around. Most of the tributes look nervous, but they aren’t scandalised by this. The mentors on the other hand… they’re acting like this is outright cheating.
“Candidates can’t have any knowledge of the planned games!” Harry bellows above the rabble.
“I assure you - please settle down! - I assure you that the tributes will only reach into a bag and draw out a tile to decide their fate. The images are not connected to the games - they will gain no knowledge from it.”
He gestures to two gamemakers who have appeared behind us. Each one is holding a velvet bag. I wonder briefly if they were made in our district before I force myself to focus.
“The same tiles are in both - Verona is holding the bag for the female tributes and Hale is holding the one for the males. If the tributes can go up in their own time please.”
No one moves. I glance around and see most of the others looking around too, waiting to see who will make the first move.
An irritated huff from behind me makes me jump. Sherlock is so close behind my shoulder that I can almost feel his body heat. Has he moved closer to me?
“Oh let’s just get it over with,” he says imperiously.
He brushes past my shoulder and stalks towards Hale. He plunges his hand into the bag and draws out a single blue tile. We strain to see what it is.
“It’s just got a letter on it. ‘A’,” Sherlock announces after a careful examination. I wonder whether he has figured out more than he’s letting on, but he doesn’t say anything more.
“Animals?” whispers one mentor.
“Avalanche?”
“Attack?”
“Never mind him. Me next,” demands Kitty. She pushes forward to take a tile from a second bag.
She gets a tile with a star on it, shrugs, and then moves to see what else is drawn.
In turns we go up. Jim collects an apple shape - as does Soo Lin. Sarah’s has a stick figure on it, the same one is drawn by Anderson. Irene takes the matching letter ‘A’.
Moments later it’s my turn. The tiles are cool against my hand and I will myself to pick a good one, whatever a good one might be.
What I draw - good or bad - is a tile with five tiny teardrop shapes on it. They are arranged the way they might be on a dice. Seeds, perhaps?
I take my place in the group again and watch for the same tile to be drawn by the girls. It’s the last one to be drawn and is collected by Molly.
--
I could talk about the preparation for the arena - but it’s both boring and miserable. I’m exhausted after another sleepless and Sleepers free night so I react to the various prodding, dressing, and tests with zoned-out obedience. I end up dressed in thick black trousers, a grey t-shirt, and a waterproof jacket. The material is tough but it’s not very warm.
All too soon we are being electronically tagged by means of an implant and the clock seems to be speeding forward faster than a motor.
And then there’s no time left.
--
There is only one way to describe the sensation of the journey up into the arena and it's an unpleasant one for the reader. For those who have already felt it I know you’ll do anything to avoid the feeling again, and for those who haven't it's an unfair thing to ask anyone to imagine.
Any normal person has considered their deathbed, imagined themselves old and ill. They've wondered what their last words might be, or their last meal. And then they’d shelved those thoughts and consider them something not to be worried about for a long time.
But for a moment consider the inevitability of it. Unless you are to die in some unforeseen accident then that vision will come to pass. You will end up in that bed, facing the reality of it, and there will be no way of ignoring those thoughts because you'll be there, it will be happening.
Consider it long enough and your heart will begin to race and your mind will try and look for an escape route - some way to make it not be happening. But of course it will happen, it WILL, it WILL... think about it long enough and you'll end up dizzy with terror.
That's what it feels like on the journey up into the arena. It's really happening. No way out. No way out.
I only have two choices, to die or to win and the only thought in my head is ‘don’t die don’t die don’t die’.
I think I’ll accept anything if it means I live.
Harry may be right when she says I’ll regret that, but as I rise up into the arena I think there is one thought in all of our heads.
Do anything. Do whatever it takes. Keep death away from me.
--
We enter the arena on a metal disk that rises up through the ground, leaving the twenty four of us standing in a semi-circle. We cannot move from our place before the games begin unless we want to face immediate death - the metal disk acts as a landmine. We have sixty seconds to acclimatize before the cannons start the games.
In front of us is the cornucopia, a steel shell the size of a shack, is filled with items we'll need if we want to survive. Packages and weapons are littered around it - the ones nearest us are the basic things like blankets, rope, and bandages, but if we want the good stuff, the items that we’ll need to survive (weapons and food) we need to venture closer to the cornucopia.
The best strategy for a non-career is to get as far away from the cornucopia as soon as possible and avoid the bloodbath that inevitably follows. The initial battle can go on for hours and can wipe out as many as half the competitors. Harry has drummed my plan of action into me - use this time to get an idea of location and then run like hell into the most secluded looking area.
We are standing on the edge of a canyon. Beyond the cornucopia the ground drops away and even though there is no river in sight we can see water rushing over the side. It’s as if someone has built ground on top of a gigantic waterfall and we are standing on the very edge.
Just visible in the distance is the other side of the canyon. It has a matching waterfall and looks much the same as our side. If I were to risk the exposure it might be possible to make a run for the bridge that connects the two. It's a solid wooden one but it would be a big risk this early on.
I look behind me.
"Seven."
We are standing on the edge of a dark jungle.
"Six."
If I turned and ran I’d be out of sight in seconds.
"Five."
But I need a weapon, whatever Harry says. A knife at the very least.
"Four."
It's stupid.
"Three."
Really, really stupid.
I tense, ready to run.
"Two."
I focus on the first weapon in my line of sight. A knife, glints on the ground about halfway between me and the cornucopia.
"One."
BOOM.
I sprint from the podium, my eyes solely on the knife I'm aiming for. I hear other people running and a cut of female shriek to my far right marking the first kill of the games.
I jump over parcels and rucksacks and snatch up the knife easily. I then turn and realise my predicament - over half of the tributes are trying to loot the cornucopia and the ones already armed are attacking anything that moves.
I have to get out…
Another yell of pain, male this time. My heart is pounding as I’m suddenly frozen, unable to decide what to do. I’m trapped in the middle - the forest is behind me, the bridge is in front of me - and any second and I’ll be noticed by one of the careers.
There’s a set of bow and arrows resting by the cornucopia, if I moved quickly I could grab them, make it across the bridge and wait out the games by shooting anyone who tried to cross it. It would be difficult to manage by myself, but not impossible.
Perhaps later I might be shocked at my easy attitude to killing but right now it’s them or me and adrenalin is firing through my body.
I dart to snatch up the bow and arrows, realising too late that Wilkes, already covered in blood, is also running for it, blocking my path to the bridge.
I move on pure instinct. I need to outrun him and the bulky bow will slow me down, especially if I need to fight. If I can’t have it I’m not leaving it here.
I lob the bow towards the water, not even stopping to watch it slide over the edge. I hear Wilkes snarl but I’m already running back towards the jungle. He’s close behind me.
I feel a sharp blow to the back of my knee.
The adrenalin dulls the blow, though it’s almost certainly going to be a painful wound. I’m still running, almost back at the podiums now, and - because this might be my only chance - I pause long enough to snatch up a rucksack too.
I dart through the trees. Wilkes has stopped following me now, with the fight is still going on at the cornucopia running blind into the jungle is probably too much of a risk for him. I should stop and assess my wounds and my supplies, but I keep on going. I know that when I stop it’s going to be damn near impossible to start running again until I’ve sorted my knee.
--
Eventually my body forces me to slow down. I stop in a small clearing that is mostly hidden by tall bushes. It’s as good a place as any.
A twig snaps off to my left.
I’m a quick thinker in an emergency, so I don’t panic. I’m calculating. It has to be one of the non-careers because otherwise they’d be at the cornucopia. That means that I’m more threatening to them because I’m the one with a weapon.
“Hello?” I say carefully. I hold the knife out in front of me so that they won’t be able to miss it. “Who’s there?!”
The bushes part slightly and Sarah wriggles through. “John?!”
I sigh in relief. I’d assumed she’d ran for it. She’s the only friendly face in the arena and if I try hard enough I can pretend I’m at home with her for a second or two.
Her eyes flicker to the knife that I’m still holding up.
“You aren’t going to… are you?” she says in a half joking, half nervous voice. For a second we stare at each other. How strange our relationship has become - we trust and then we suspect each other over and over every day.
“I’d rather be allies,” I say softly.
She gives a relieved smile. “Me too. It’s not like we’ve got anyone else.”
There’s an underlying current to what we’re saying; the words ‘for now’ are hovering over us. But there’s a good chance exposure, thirst, other tributes, or the nasty tricks the gamemakers invent for us will take us out long before we have to worry about each other.
“What happened to you?”
I gesture to my knee. “Running towards the cornucopia turned out not to be the wisest plan.”
“Looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood…”
I nod. My entire trouser leg is sodden and I can see the flickers of faintness in the corner of my eyes. “I don’t suppose you have any water?”
She smiles again. It’s strange to be standing in front of a smiling girl in a calm forest clearing when all around us people are fighting for their lives.
“Why do you think I stopped here? Come see.”
She moves over to the bushes she appeared from and holds them back. On the other side is a small pond only a few feet wide but with enough water to last us for several days. The water is a little murky with plant life but neither of us will complain at that.
I gulp down handfuls of water as she begins going through the rucksack I picked up. She managed to grab a small package at the cornucopia; an empty water bottle, a tarpaulin, and a ball of string.
“This is pretty good - another water bottle, a blanket, six snack bars, matches… oh, brilliant! Bandages!”
I’m unable to believe my luck; without bandages the knee injury was going to make life very difficult. I set about cleaning the wound as best I can and bind my leg up. It still hurts like hell but there won’t be any long term damage.
For the moment we’re safe as we can be. We’re hidden away and most of the attention will be on the cornucopia today so I doubt there’ll be game trickery just yet. This is probably going to be our only chance to acclimatise and catch our breath.
We set some traps with the string in the hope of catching something and then settle down to wait for the cannons signifying deaths in the arena. Normally the cannon happens as soon as a tribute dies but on the first day they wait until the initial fight ends. We won’t know who has died until the images of the dead are projected into the night sky.
“Do you know how many are dead?” Sarah asks.
I shake my head. “Two that I was there for, didn’t see who.”
Sarah sighs. “A lot more by now I expect.”
I shrug. There’s not much we can do about it, and for all the wringing our hands over the deaths, the more that die the better our chances are.
“We’ll know soon enough.”
About two hours later the first cannon fires. Once, twice, three times, four, five, six… seven.
Seven gone. It’s now one against sixteen - one of whom is wrapped up in my arms and shivering a little.
At length the sky darkens and the heat seeps away from us. We decide against lighting a fire and instead wrap ourselves in the tarpaulin and blanket. I’m starving and weak but we’ve caught nothing and we’ll need the food more tomorrow. I keep a hold of my knife in case of unexpected visitors.
We’re waiting to find out who has died and - just as the stars become visible - the national anthem begins.
Sarah leans up to mouth two words.
“Hum it,” she breathes.
She’s never willingly joined in the national anthem in her life. I’m confused but I join in.
She must see the question in my eyes because when we’re finished she leans across again; “Because we’re hardworking, loyal, proud Panem citizens.”
I don’t need a translation for that; she’s playing up to the sponsors. Getting a good sponsor can mean life or death in here. It’s smart - so smart - but it’s another reminder that she can play a duplicitous game.
The projections begin and we turn our full attention to them;
The first image appears in the sky is the tribute from District 3. Andy. Not surprising. The next is; it’s a career, Anderson from District 4. District 5 loses Edward Van Coon, and District 6 and 7 lose the two tributes called Violet (Hunter and Smith as they were referred to by commentators). Henry Knight is a loss to District 10 and District 12 loses its female tribute, Mary.
“All were pretty weak,” Sarah says. “Even Anderson wasn’t that much of a threat. We’re not really any better off. ”
I can see her point. The careers will focus on the weakest tributes for the next few days and with so many killed off early on attention will turn to us.
We both try (and mostly fail) to sleep. For the first time I wish there were Sleepers available.
--
We rise at dawn and I check my wound while Sarah checks our traps.
“Nothing,” she reports. “I couldn’t even find berries - only poisonous ones. Thank god we’ve got the snack bars.”
The snack bars taste like carboard and don’t even begin to fill us, so we drink water to fill ourselves up. We plan to spend the day foraging and return here as soon as we find food.
The trip is frustrating in more ways than one. We move slowly in order to avoid alerting anyone nearby and to keep the strain from my leg; as a result our search takes an age and becomes increasingly painful for me. Even worse we quickly discover that none of the vegetation or berries are edible. We keep our ears strained for the rustle of animals or the calls of birds but hear nothing at all, not even the buzz of flies.
I’m also itching for us to move our camp. We aren’t that far away from the cornucopia and discovery seems very possible. I’m also worried we’re becoming complacent. We’ve seen very little violence and if there isn’t action soon the gamemakers are likely to create some danger for us.
BOOM
We hear the cannon as we head back to camp.
“I wonder who?” murmurs Sarah.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
We’re nearly back at our campsite when Sarah grunts.
“Nothing,” she shrugs the pain away. “Just a little stomach ache.”
I frown. “Hunger?”
She gives me an indulgent smile. “Trust me John, I know what hunger feels like. This is probably nothing.”
It’s not nothing. In less than ten minutes she’s on her knees and vomiting up her meagre intake of food. She feels immediately better but I’m suddenly not feeling so well myself. Before we’re back at the campsite I’ve also vacated my entire stomach.
“The water?” she suggests.
I shake my head. If there was something wrong with the water we’d have reacted last night. “I think it might be the snack bars… it hitting us at the exact same time is weird.”
“But we need them! We’ve not found any other food!”
I help wrap her in the blanket. “I know, but we’ll move on tomorrow and look elsewhere. My leg is feeling better now.” It hurts more than ever, but she doesn’t need to know that.
--
Before we try for sleep the familiar music begins and an image of the sole casualty of the day appears in the sky.
Dimmock, District 12.
Heartless as it is I’m disappointed it’s not someone with more skills.
--
I wake up feeling sick but this time its hunger causing it. The last food I ate was a single snack bar yesterday and that didn’t stay down. It’s nothing that half the people in any district don’t experience on a daily basis, but I’ve been spoilt by fairly regular, if meagre food for too long. I’m tempted to risk the snack bars again but I can’t afford to weaken myself further.
I leave Sarah sleeping, slip the knife into my pocket, and begin a more thorough search of our area. I check our traps (without much hope) and turn up rocks looking for bugs. I even scrabble in the mud for worms. Nothing.
When I get back to Sarah she is awake and staring hungrily at the snack bars.
“It’s not worth it,” I chide.
“I know. You found anything?”
“Not so much as a spider.”
She gives a dry chuckle. “Do you know what I was scared of before I entered this place?”
I look at her askance.
She smirks. “Aside from the obvious, I mean. I was scared that bugs or snakes would crawl all over me when I slept on the ground. It’s a stupid thing to have worried about.”
We share a smile - we’re two industrial kids in a world we’ll never understand.
I finally voice my thoughts. “Do you think this is part of the games - no food, not even edible supplies?”
“It makes sense. I don’t know what they expect us to do. Turn to cannibalism perhaps?” Sarah pretends to size me up. “Half the work’s been done for me with that knee injury - your leg could fall off at any moment.”
“Let’s make that plan B,” I say and we both giggle.
“At least the careers are in the same boat as us for once. They’re going to be busy looking for-”
--
That’s how suddenly it happens. I never finish the sentence.
A knife flies out of nowhere and strikes Sarah in the chest.
The force sends her backwards but doesn’t kill her instantly. I hear her whimper but I can’t go to her yet - the other tribute is still out there in the bushes and might come to collect their knife. They might be aiming another one at me.
My own knife is out and I wait for some movement from our attacker, but none comes.
A noise from Sarah. “John…”
It’s such a tiny sound, a mere puff of air. I kneel next to her knowing that these are her last seconds.
The knife is still sticking out of her chest but I don’t dare remove it. The sound of her breathing tells me that her rib is shattered and her lung is punctured. Her mouth hangs open as she tries to breath and her face, which had been tense, suddenly slackens.
“John…”
“I’m here.”
Blood is pumping from her chest and her grey shirt is so saturated that the fuid is just sliding down in. Her eyelids are heavy, as if she’s merely sleepy.
“John…”
“I’m here,” I repeat. What else can I say? I can’t give her any real comfort, so I take her hand and rub at it with my own.
“John…”
“I’m here.”
--
BOOM.
Another death in the arena and this time I know exactly who it was, and how she died.
One against fifteen now.
I hate myself for thinking it.
--
A rapid voice startles me out of the semi daze I’m in.
“Don’t just stand there - take the knife from her chest before the game makers take it away with her.”
The tribute who is speaking crashes into the clearing. I lunge blindly at them with my own knife.
To my surprise no return attack comes. He gives me an almighty shove backwards instead, sending me to the floor and giving me time to see who it is.
“Oh don’t be so predictable.”
It’s Sherlock, just about the last person I expect to see. I’d wondered what he might be doing during my trudging searches for food with - with Sarah. I’d assumed he was with the careers.
He replies like I’ve spoken aloud.
“Please! Only a lunatic would form an alliance with the careers. For what little advantage you get you are essentially giving them a list of your strengths and weaknesses ready for them to turn on you. I don’t have many weaknesses but the ones I do have I don’t intend to share.”
He pauses as if considering. “At least not with the careers.”
I’ve frozen in place halfway between the floor and standing up. “I didn’t say anything about the careers…”
“You didn’t need to. And by the way, I didn’t throw that knife. Happy?”
He moves towards Sarah’s body - Sarah - and grabs the knife hilt. The noise it makes when he pulls it out of her chest can only be described as a wet slither, yet he seems unconcerned.
I glance him over to check for injuries. He’s in one piece and (aside from a little dirt) looks no different and no less aloof that he did before the arena.
“We better get out of here,” he orders. “And while we do that perhaps you might give some thought as to why the tribute didn’t also kill you.”
---
TBC
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A/N: I realised Sherlock was a little absent in that chapter, but it wouldn’t work if it was the Sherlock and John show right from the start… from now on it’s all about them!
I hope you liked it and if you’ve got a moment some feedback would be wonderful!