thearena | Survival

Entry tags:

Survival

Who| Sherlock, the Watsons, and OTA
What| Like it says on the tin
Where| The jungle
When| End of week 1, early week 2
Warnings/Notes| Sherlock, John and Joan are all available here to thread with, one of them, two of them, or all three. Just specify who in the subject line!

Surviving in the jungle hadn't been easy on the three of them. Among them, only John had any real outdoor survival experience prior to the Arenas, and that had been for deserts, mostly. Sherlock had plenty of theoretical knowledge on the subject, but not much practical experience beyond the previous Arenas. And as far as survival techniques went, Joan was the most useless of the three.

Regardless, they were making it work. They had picked a decent spot to set up camp, managed to keep their supplies passably dry, and took turns scouting or keeping watch while at least one of them stayed at the camp. That one was frequently John, since he had to stay off his injured leg as much as possible. Joan checked his stitches every day, and so far there hadn't been any major problems.

It was a relatively comfortable setup, but Joan knew it couldn't last. They were already running low on food, and eventually they would have to worry about the wrong type of person finding them. The kind of person who wanted to win. If they could only hold out a couple more days, until John's wound is sufficiently healed...

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John was asleep. Sherlock preferred to keep watch when John was sleeping - for completely logical, rational reasons that had absolutely no trace of superstition or emotional attachment.

Obviously.

So he sat, resolutely, outside of the entrance of their shelter, half listening to the rhythmic sound of John breathing, half to the quiet sounds of the jungle. It was a few hours after dawn, hot but not oppressive, and the rain had let up, if only for an hour or two. Joan was out surveying the surrounding area, so Sherlock had nothing to do for the next few minutes but wait, stewing in his own mind as the boredom creeped into place just next to the worry that certainly didn't exist.

"Let me see it."

The words came seemingly out of nowhere as Sherlock materialized out of the forest to find John around the campfire, Joan curled up asleep under the shelter.

"Your leg," He clarified as he crouched down next to the man.

He sighed, shifting to let Sherlock examine the wound. It was healing well, all things considered- Joan's stitches holding everything in place extremely effectively. A few more days, and he'd be up and about with cautious optimism.

"I would tell you if there was something wrong with it," he grumbled, though he kept his voice down so as not to disturb Joan.

Joan wasn't sure what she was looking for by this point. Something different. Some sign of a possible solution to their dwindling food supplies. She had been asking Sherlock to identify the plants they came across, memorizing what they are, what their affects are, and hoping that somewhere there just might be some plant that is edible.

So when she made her way back to the camp, she was carrying a shiny pointed leaf with black berries. Sherlock was sitting watch like he always did, as much watch over John as over the camp.

"Hey." She crossed over to sit next to him, and held out the plant. "How about this one?"

It takes the better part of a day to track them down. Separated from Orc for the time being, Howard's moving faster than he was yesterday, but he's low on energy. Trying to supplement his diet with the local wildlife ended up being disastrous, and the humidity is smothering the last of his energy. He takes rests frequently, utilizing the shade as much as he can and wishing for breezes.

The light purple - supposedly a bleached royal, but if Howard's honest it looks like lavender or some color that would be used in soaps - of his t-shirt is taking on a dirty grey and brown color from sweat and dirt. He's cut the hems of his cargos off for rope, but also because they kept getting caught under his shoes, short as he is. The grass has given him light welts across his ankles. There's a stain of vomit that he tried to wash out with rainwater down the front of his overshirt.

Despite all this, he feels almost like a child approaching John, about to show off. Look, I didn't get injured this time, I'm not coming to you for medical care this time.

What he knows is that John won't attack him, and while Sherlock may search him again, Sherlock doesn't kill. For the most part, Joan is still an uncertain variable, and Howard waits until she's at the far end of camp before approaching. His knife is heavy in his pocket, and there's a red cut along his palm from gripping it out of habit. He misses the one he has back in the Capitol, that folds closed.

He lingers at the edges of their camp. "Hello?"

Survival was important. Survival meant you lived, not died, and that's what you were trying to get. These new arenas that they kept having had the deep distinction of everyone coming back from the dead, could only mean that throwing all of the other Victors into it? Was something people wanted to see.

The big problem, though, was that Peeta was just not ready to go back into any kind of arena. He was adjusting fine to the new leg. He could walk on it, climb stairs, do whatever needed to be done to get around in a city. He wasn't ready to climb hills, walk through jungles. Run.

So he had been fairly content to wander with Katniss, maybe get a deeper look at things, when the little camp was seen. Peeta could see a few figures, and once he knew who they were, he started to walk faster. He didn't have any weapons (yet), so it was obvious he wasn't an attacker.

"Hey! Joan Watson, the doctor, right?" Plus, attackers don't announce themselves that loud.

"Prunus lusitanica," He said immediately, batting it out of her hand. "No. The leaves contain cyanide and the berries - though sometimes rarely edible - can't be trusted. I've no doubt that they've made sure to bring a toxic strain. Don't burn anything from the plant, even burning or crushing it will release cyanide."

Useful in other circumstances. Here? Not so much.

He scowled as he spoke, kicking the leaves away while careful not to damage them. "There's no point. Everything here is poisonous. I'm half convinced that if we find something that isn't, it will be a trick."

"I still prefer to see for myself," Sherlock said in a matching quiet tone, examining the wound until he was sure he was completely satisfied before letting out a hard breath and nodding.

"Good." He said tightly. He sat back, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. "Hopefully we'll be able to avoid any more unpleasantness for a while."

It was Sherlock's turn on watch and he'd already alerted himself to Howard's presence long before the boy spoke, though he acted as if he hadn't. He might have tensed, at first, fingers sliding around the knife in his pocket - but they'd released when he'd put the data together and figured out who it was.

Howard wasn't a threat. Not to them, at least.

When the boy spoke, he turned his head.

"It's clear, Howard," He spoke into the trees.

She rolled her eyes. "You know, you could have just told me and I would have put it down myself." She took another look at the plant, memorizing the shape of the leaves and the berries. "Regardless of whether or not it's edible, it's good to know what these plants are and what they can do. I don't intend to use that knowledge to hurt other people, but I don't trust their intentions are at all the same."

She sighed. "Starving people are much more likely to resort to violence, of course. Sherlock would tell me like, over and over, that the vast majority of wars are started for one of two reasons, the first being too few resources for too many people."

Attackers didn't typically announce themselves, no, but she couldn't necessarily count on things being typical. So when an unfamiliar voice called her name, her head snapped up and she assessed the approaching figure for possible threat. She saw no weapons, which relaxed her a little, but still, she remained wary. He had called her a doctor, so she figured it was likely he needed medical attention. Under usual circumstances she would have clarified that, no, not a doctor anymore. But a lack of license meant absolutely nothing here. She had the skills, she was a doctor, period.

"Yeah, that's me. Do you need help?"

Do you hear the rustle of the trees? The quiet swaying of the leaves, the creaking of bush?

If you did - Joan, John, Sherlock, whoever - it was already too late. Or...well, not really. Homura wasn't exactly out for blood yet. But she was on the ground now, and more importantly, blocking the path to get past her. As to why she'd decided to come down from the trees, well...that remained to be seen.

Even so. The expression on her face was one which meant business.

Joan was adding some wood to the fire, hoping she wouldn't kill it in the process. When she heard the voice from the trees, she looked up, at first startled and worried. Sherlock's response helped her place the voice, though, and she relaxed. She wasn't sure about Howard, that he wouldn't hurt her. But if Sherlock was sure enough about him to invite him closer, that was good enough.

"I'm not sure hope has a lot to do with it," he replied tightly- but his irritation was entirely self-focused. He wasn't handling being mostly useless at best and an active liability at worst particularly well, though simply having Sherlock at hand and knowing he was alright soothed his nerves a little.
"I don't suppose anyone found any food, yet?"

John stirred at the sound and Joan's sudden stillness- he'd been snatching sleep where he could while the others kept watch with relative ease despite their predicament, something he seemed to have less trouble with than either of his compatriots. Soldiering would do that to you, he supposed. He registered Sherlock's lack of tension before he recognised Howard's voice (though the recognition wasn't too far behind the instinctual response to trust Sherlock's danger assessment), and sat up, looking for him.

"Howard?"

"Force feeding anyone anything from the landscape would give you sufficient means to kill them," Sherlock said blandly, as if he might be talking about the weather. "Inducing cyanide poisoning would be a particularly convoluted way of dealing with enemies if you could simply skewer them with a spear instead."

He prickled, a little bit, at her mention of her Sherlock, though he wasn't entirely sure why he did and the emotional reaction to it was a little infuriating. He didn't care that there were other hims, elsewhere, rattling off lessons. Or at least he shouldn't.

His voice was slightly tight when he added, "Or a disparity of resources," just to prove himself just a touch smarter than the other one of him. "But yes. If they starve us out, it will be that much more likely to induce one or more tributes to commit murder."

Sherlock shook his head. "I've only further confirmed my original observation - everything here is poisonous, on some level, and has likely had its toxicity levels increased by the Capitol's scientists."

He glanced back at their supplies, doing quick mental calculations.

"We can last for a little while longer, but without a new source of food or sponsorship..."

"Yeah, that was a corollary," she replied. She looked again at the leaves and berries. "They say that poison is a woman's weapon. Which is really sexist." She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Still, the point is the same. It might be easier for some people to skewer you than to poison you, but not for people who can't run you through for whatever reason. I couldn't do it. If I wanted to kill someone, I would have more luck figuring out a way to get juice from the berries in their water or something."

She looked up at Sherlock.

"It's why people use traps."

She left the specifics unspoken, but she was thinking of the bear trap that took John down in the last arena.

"Remind me to double check my water," He said, a smirk flickering at his lips. (An attempt at dark humour.) But the humour died at the implication of her last words, his expression growing tight. Not only had John died of a bear trap, after all, but he'd fallen prey to one once as well. (His deaths never seemed to diminish in his memory - stark points on an otherwise bleaker and bleaker landscape.)

"Well you'd have more luck making a tea from the leaves than you would from the berries of that particular plant. The leaves would be a faster and more sure death."

He slinks into their encampment in his usual cattish way, placing each foot as if trying to step past the idea that it's going to land on a trap door. He waves a hand in a mockery of a greeting.

"How you guys holding up?" He gives Joan a long look, then flits his eyes back to Sherlock and John, silently asking she good?.

"As well as can be expected, thanks to Joan's quick handiwork," Sherlock says gesturing vaguely at John's leg; half as an answer to Howard's spoken question, and half as an answer to his unspoken one.

"Found any bomb making materials, yet?" He asked, surprisingly chipper given the fact that they were in the middle of an arena. He was better off in this one than he had been in the ones previous, and it was apparent.

"Ha. Right. That way I'd have John all to myself." She gave him a small wry smirk. She was so kidding. She had no intention of getting romantically involved with anyone, and wouldn't choose between Sherlock and John regardless.

Even though a love triangle would doubtless intrigue the sponsors.

"A tea. Good to know." She considered for a moment. "Hey...I know everything here is poisonous, but have you seen anything that might have medicinal value in small amounts?"

Joan blinked and raised her eyebrows at that look. It made sense for him to be wary of her too, of course, but he was apparently looking to Sherlock and John to get their opinions of her, so she was sure he would likely come to be okay with her at least as much as she was with him.

When Sherlock mentioned bomb building materials, she blinked again, this time in surprise, shifting her glance to him.

He chuckled lowly to her comment before she asked the question.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not that I would trust. You don't go to lengths like this to keep anything useful around. If I had my lab equipment, that might be a different story, but I certainly wouldn't attempt to use anything here without a good deal of testing."

He frowned, eyes catching hers.

"You cannot think of the arenas as real places. They aren't. The ecosystem and environments are designed specifically to impede us. My first arena was an ice field, with giant crevices were 'magic' was suddenly enabled. Then Disneyland. Then the place made entirely of candy. Then here. Disneyland was the only one that could be construed to be a 'real place', though they did their best to make it incredibly dangerous."

Edited 2013-11-07 14:29 (UTC)

She nodded, looking away. "It's one of those things. I mean, I get it, but my brain doesn't want to actually believe it. Because it's impossible. This whole thing is impossible, start to finish." She sighed. "If it's this bad for me, I can't even imagine what it must be like for people like Wyatt and Maximus. To them, even the television screens are impossible."

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Survival

For Joan

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For all three

Joan, Peeta, and Katniss!

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For any of them!

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