Sherlock face was a mask - stern, sharp edges and no softness. His curiosity had disappeared and was replaced by petulance and spite, and he had been quite nasty to his handlers as he was brought to the arena. Prepared.

The parka (suitable for at least minus forty, he told himself, glancing at it) gave him a clue to what to expect, even if he couldn't quite believe it.

The countdown and the tunnel only served to further steel the muscles on his face. He would not look out of his element. He would not look afraid. And really, he wasn't. Sherlock Holmes wasn't afraid, he was mad.

The wind hit him with the force of a typhoon, and he braced himself against it. His eyes immediately scanned the entire landscape. Barren. Barren, save for the large metal structure, the heaps of supplies at its centre, and the dozens of tributes arrayed in a circle around the edge.

A death trap, in other words. But one he had to keep a close eye on.

He took off in the other direction almost immediately at the sound of the gong, running far enough to a crest of snow, throwing himself down behind it to better see what was happening at the centre.

And, unfortunately, the man barreling straight in his direction.