Molly looks down for a moment to see if there's anything else useful around her, and when she looks back up there's a boy standing in front of her, bag slung over his shoulder. She feels as if her heart has stopped. Here she is on the ground, nothing but a loosely-held prybar in her hands. He has the advantage and Molly wonders if she's really going to die in the first ten minutes of the Games, and how disappointed Sherlock would be.

Except he isn't killing her. He's telling her to get up. Molly swallows and starts to her feet, not taking her eyes off him. "Thanks." The word is a whisper as well, not insincere but certainly awkward. She hadn't thought a random participant would basically pass her by when she'd been so vulnerable.