thearena | Open, Death

Entry tags:

Open, Death

Who| Sherlock Open, and Sherlock/Karkat/Cuthbert
What| A chance to chat with Sherlock before he gets himself horribly murdered. Threads already planned will get small set ups below.
Where| candy arena
When| week one
Warnings/Notes| horrible grisly murder and death. sherlock being a prat. the usual.

For Howard and Open:

John's package never came.

Sherlock's mood worsened. He didn't sleep, though he pretended to, and he didn't eat, even after he received food and water from Timaeus. He and Howard set up camp in the mountains and both of them acted like cats - sometimes there, sometimes not, though they checked every so often.

Sherlock had to admit to himself that John was probably dead. If he had made it back to the capitol, there was no way that he wouldn't have sent a package - and the Capitol definitely wasn't holding back packages, or he would never have received one from Timaeus. He was completely furious, though he kept his rage bottled up and blazing behind his eyes. But he'd promised John he'd win. So he would.

For Stephanie:

Night finally fell. Finally. Sherlock had lost track of approximating the time, even knowing that if he had, it would have been impossible. The mind was want to play tricks as it was. By the time night fell, however, he was too restless to sleep, even though the bags were starting to appear under his eyes.

So once he was sure Howard was asleep, he slipped out into the night, to scout.

MURDER: For Karkat and Cuthbert

John was alive. John was alive. The capitol had tried to fool him, tried to break him, but it backfired. Seeing John in the arena relieved him completely, despite how bad the situation was there. It gave Sherlock options.

There was no reason to stay in this hellhole anymore.

Sherlock wanted to laugh, but held it in. There were a few options. One, he could die and end up in the desert. Unfortunate, but at least there he'd be able to make sure John was set up properly, before dying again and getting back to the Capitol. Two, he could die and skip the desert completely, and end up in the Capitol. Then he could immediately start funneling sponsor gifts to John. Three, and the most unfortunate, was that he died and didn't come back. Always a possibility.

So the best way to ensure that was to go out with a bang.

Sherlock made a small package of what remained of his water, food, and fire starting kit, and left it next to Howard. He wasn't too concerned about the boy's welfare - his head wound doing much better - but he made a mental note to ensure him as sponsor gift as well, when he got back to the Capitol. If he got back to the Capitol.

He slipped out again before Howard could wake, and went out searching for his death.

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Sherlock carefully removes the bandage. They don't really have anything to replace it with, but he sniffs it - no petrification, good - and replaces it.

He doesn't reply immediately to the statement. Part of him is still incredibly angry with Howard for saying it in the first place, but he's not superstitious. He doesn't think that Howard saying it had anything to do with what happened to John - except, perhaps, a testament to the Capitol's cruelty. As if proving to Howard they could make dreams come true.

But Sherlock knows where the real blame lies.

"I know." He says finally, if only to get Howard to shut up about it, if only to assuage John (perhaps the Capitol won't let the tributes send gifts? perhaps they want him to think John's dead?).

He secures the bandage back as tightly as he can without hurting Howard.

It does hurt, but then again, Howard's used to pain. Even before coming to the Games, he was used to hunger and strain and infections and all sorts of aches and stings. Even before the FAYZ, he was the bully magnet on the playground, getting sent home from the principal's office with broken fingers, a broken nose, black eyes at least once a quarter.

"It's because you run your mouth at people," his mom said.

So he doesn't even wince. "Thanks," he says, although whether it's to Sherlock or to the fire for its warmth is up in the air.

"You're a planner," he says. "So what's your plan?"

"My plans are generally made for the solving of crime, not the perpetuating of it," Sherlock said, a little sourly, as he pulls his hands back and turns his attention to the slowly cooking animals.

In truth, all his plans are in ribbons. Everything he had worked so hard for, had sacrificed so much for, personally, was dashed. By a does of poison. The rage flashed in his eyes but he kept them peeled on the fire.

He couldn't mention it even to Howard, let alone the entire Capitol listening in on their every word, so he kept his mouth shut.

"Keep you alive. Keep me alive. Try not to run into any psychopaths with magic or massive weaponry." And burn this place to the ground.

Edited 2013-07-05 20:41 (UTC)

"That's legit," Howard says, getting back up and stumbling over to his little nest in the corner of the cave. He has a tendency to do that, to makes little nooks filled with soft things when given the chance, like a rodent. He's cut up parts of the sleeping bag and the bag and is using those as bedding.

He lays down on his side and watching the dead animals drip. "Why do you do it? The crime-solving thing?"

"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.

"Right, and you like the ego boost from being top dog at something, I guess." He watches Sherlock with a curious expression, sees the tension in his hands, sees Sherlock curl up in a ball like he often does himself. It's a childish gesture, but to Howard a familiar one.

I'm protecting myself and no one can hurt me like this.

He starts cutting up one of those horrible dead Neopet-looking things. Its blood is coagulated already, gooey and unappetizing.

"I like being useful," he corrected sharply, though really Howard was right. He did like being the best, but not for the ego boost - even when he was the best his peers rarely recognized him as such, save Lestrade - but for the justification.

Knowing he was right was infinitely more important than other people knowing he was right.

(Though he strove for that as well. Obviously.)

"This--" He waved around the cave, the wall, the slowly flayed creature, "Isn't useful. This is pointless."

Howard's opens his mouth to say something and stops. He wants to say useful is what he strives for too, but the truth is he strives for needed. The two are different; one denotes that you can be replaced.

"There's a point in catching killers, you think? In a culture that does this for fun?"

"They do it out of fear," Sherlock said darkly. "So of course there is use." He glanced back at Howard.

"They do this out of fear of another rebellion." He flashed his bracelet, glinting in the firelight. "Fear of their own demise. Of course they'd be just as paranoid about murder. And if they were smart they would put my talents to use instead of wasting them on entertainment."

He carefully doesn't answer the real question. Whether or not it is worth catching killers in a place that wants you dead. That is something he would never be able to answer in front of the cameras, though he almost does. Just then, he almost does. Because what does it matter, if he angers them again, if John's already dead?

Howard's eyes go from his cuff to Sherlock's, then to Sherlock's eyes. The real question hangs between them. Howard's vindictive enough to have the very same answer, and, fortunately, smart enough not to say so.

He nudges some of the meat over to near the fire. There isn't anything to cook it on, and anything stick-like here is made of chocolate or sugar, so the work will be messy.

"Why don't you petition out?"

"I was going to," He snapped, and then stopped, his throat siezing up entirely on it's own. A flash of rage and frustration, completely real, crossed his face, and he immediately turned his eyes from Howard.

It was a new feeling, this utter twist of hopeless rage in his chest.

Sherlock didn't like feelings.

"... Once I got John out. I was going to petition once he was out." He does his best to keep the words coming out ragged but fails, the rage (and the grief, though he cannot admit it, not even to himself) tearing the edges and leaving them bare.

Howard's quiet for a while. The meat makes sizzling and popping noises as juices run out of it and pool near the fire.

"I didn't, um. I d-" He winces as he loses the word, as he knows what 'realize' means and how to spell it but can't seem to get it from his head to his mouth. He sighs.

"I'll help you get him out."

"Seems a bit late now," Sherlock said, unable to keep the bitterness from his tongue. His knees draw tighter against his chest, knuckles white. He ignores the sizzling meat, the smell only making him less hungry than he already was.

"If he was in the capitol, we'd know by now." It was the closest he could come to outright saying he was almost assuredly dead.

"Nuh uh. Doesn't make sense that they'd give us a big special with love triangles and "romanceology" only to kill half of us off in the first thirty minutes. This is the Capitol. They like surprises but they also like stories."

Howard would shake his head, but his migraine makes it feel like every sudden motion is sending a knife up his sinuses and through his eye. Maybe he's being overly optimistic, but he hasn't bought into the idea that everyone has died for good.

"You notice the people who died are part of the pairs they set up in the special, right? You and John, Tim and Stephanie, R and Julie." Howard's picked his way through the wreckage of the Cornucopia to identify bodies. "My bet is that they want to do a 'true love will find you in the end' plot twist."

Sherlock's eyes narrow but he bites back the scathing reply.

He watched John die. Again. And the body was never retrieved. (He knew. He went back to look. Mangled. Half eaten. No longer John, but he couldn't deny that it once had been.

"I am not accustomed to judging truths on blind hope," he says finally. He doesn't deny that what John said could be true. That he desperately wanted it to be true. But it was that desperation that caused the burden of proof to be ever that much higher. He was biased - he wanted John to be alive - and he knew it.

"It's not hope," Howard snaps, and then he sneers slightly. "It's deduction."

He pokes at some of the meat and turns it over, wiping some of the juices on his pants. "Look, you may be real smart and all, but I was raised by a television. I know how these sorts of things pan out. If it were one, two pairs? Yeah, they'd off the less-popular half to milk some tears out of us all. But they aren't going to split up thirty pairs of people when they could be making bank off them."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, resolutely keeping his silence even as he comes to terms with the idea that Howard - in this case - is probably right.

"Then why the bodies." His voice is low, and quiet. If Howard is in a deducting mood, then Sherlock would hear his theory on that.

"Duh. You can't wrench proper tears if you know everyone just wakes up on the other side." Howard rolls his good eye - it occurs to him that he has no idea if the other is even capable of moving behind the eyepatch. "They're playing you, dude."

He frowns, but he has to admit the sense in it, even if the jibe at the end makes it impossible to admit to Howard that he may be right.

So he just continues to sulk quietly.

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