"Because I'm good at it," Sherlock said darkly. Remembering what he used to do only fuels the rage, and adding John's death to the mix...

It was something he would never be able to return to. Never have a real occupation, never have a partner, just fight in these ridiculous arenas again, and again, and again, until the Capitol thought he was no longer entertaining enough and just killed him, or let him die, for good.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, leaning against them, hands wrapped around and pulled tight until the knuckles went white. "I was the best," he said sourly.