Live and Let Die: Chapter 3

BBC Sherlock/ The Hunger Games crossover

Chapter 3: If you want survival, kneel on my arrival



The rest of the allotted time Sherlock spent alone, trying to regain his calm. Meetings with Mycroft always got on his nerves. But he realised that this time his brother was right. It would be foolish to disregard the other Tributes before actually getting to know their strong and weak points. Sherlock needed to gather as much information as possible and then prepare a plan, which would lead him to victory. Even for a second he didn't dwell on the possibility that he might forfeit his life. Impossible.

The door opened again, but it wasn't his brother who was coming inside. One of the Peacekeepers ordered the boy brusquely to get out and go into the car. Sherlock went pass the guard slowly, giving him a supercilious look. He hated to be ordered around, even though he wanted nothing more than to finally leave District 3 behind.

There were only Sally and Irene inside the car when he entered, and Sherlock found it really hard to conceal disappointment. Apparently, Jim Moriarty had other plans than to escort the Tributes to the railway station. Sherlock didn't grace his companions with any attention, staring blankly at the window and saying good riddance to the place he truly hated. Irene Adler kept observing him carefully and even tried to start a casual conversation. Sherlock ignored her efforts completely, though.

The platform was crawling with reporters, who were trying to catch the Tributes' every movement and grimace on camera. Sally, her eyes red and puffed, seemed distressed and perplexed with all the attention she was getting, but Sherlock knew that the game had already begun. No holds barred. He put on a winsome and confident smile as if he was challenging the whole Panem. Keeping in mind how Irene was glamouring the audience with her looks, he tried to appear sexy and mysterious. He was aware that women liked that type of men, which could get him some sponsors. The thought of selling his body to the camera was disgusting, but it wasn't the time to be fussy. If using his charms could ensure victory, so be it and to hell with morality or scruples.

Before they were finally allowed to enter the railway carriage, Sherlock shot a quick glance at the television screen, which was at the moment showing his face. He smirked to himself, seeing how photogenic he was. The camera loved him. Good. It would certainly come in handy during the games.

The door closed behind them and the train began to move, at first slowly and steadily, but gaining pace really quickly. No wonder, it was Capitol's feat of engineering. The train could easily reach speeds of over 250 miles per hour. Sherlock got a hold of a book describing its technical specifics some time ago and was instantly fascinated by the design. The trip to Capitol should not take more than three or four hours.

Irene Adler told the Tributes that dinner would be served in half an hour and they should spent the remaining time dolling themselves up. After that, they would watch the recap of the reapings. Sherlock went eagerly to his assigned room, being glad that he finally could be alone. The company of other people was tedious. He took a long and pleasant shower, picking up new clothes from the wardrobe afterwards. Skin-tight jeans and silk purple shirt seemed like a good idea if he wanted to maintain his new image. Sex sells, he thought cynically.

As he sat at the table, which was groaning under the weight of many dishes, he noticed that Sally also decided to change her outfit. Instead of a plain, boring dress she wore khaki combat trousers and matching T-shirt. Apparently, she tried to pose as a fighter. Sherlock smirked. Her sheepish expression could fool no one.

The feast for the three of them began. Irene Adler barely touched anything, gracefully dividing the apple into pieces, whereas Sally was gulping the food down as if she hadn't eaten for days. Which was probably true, the factory workers in low positions, like her parents, had it really rough even in relatively wealthy District 3. Sherlock looked at the plates and winced. He never liked to gorge himself. He ate only enough to survive. The digestion process had a negative effect on his mental capabilities. If he could eliminate the feeding element from his life, he would be happier. But he knew the games were coming and he needed all the strength he could get. So he forced himself to take a few bites and chewed on them while feeling miserable.

The door to the compartment opened without any warning and District 3 mentor finally showed up. He leaned on the door frame, putting his arms on his chest and eyed the Tributes up and down with his dark, staring eyes. The verdict wasn't favourable as he sneered at them with a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

"You'll be dead by the second day and your bleeding remains will be send home in a wooden coffin."

Sally looked aghast, but Sherlock seemed unfazed by Moriarty's observation.

"Maybe yes, maybe no. Depending what will be more interesting – to live or to die," he said impassively.

Moriarty fixed his burning gaze on Sherlock, his expression unreadable. He couldn't keep a straight face for long though and he burst out into a silly laugh.

"Good! Very good! I like you! We'll have so much fun together!" He grinned at Sherlock and threw himself on the chair, not letting his eyes wander off Sherlock's face. The boy's answer obviously satisfied him, he counted on that and he was right. Again. "By the way, I'm Jim Moriarty. Haaaai~!"

The boy and the mentor were staring at each other intensively, forgetting about the presence of the women. They knew they were the same. Amoral, bored, superior, brilliant, alone. In Moriarty's eyes Sherlock saw his own darkness, but multiplied by what seemed like aeons of revelling in the most appalling of sins. It was like looking into the eyes of the devil. And Sherlock loved it.

"A-aren't you supposed to give us advice on how to survive?" Sally ventured to ask hesitantly, breaking the silence. She seemed terrified of Moriarty. She was right to be. He turned his attention from Sherlock and looked at the girl with a derisive smile.

"Even the best advice in the world can't save you now, honey. " He cooed. "You're a breathing corpse."

She was frightened and hurt, but to her credit, she managed to hold back the tears that were welling up in her eyes. Moriarty kept smiling like a shark that just smelled the blood in the water.

"Did you know how I won the games, sweetheart?" He asked with deceiving calmness.

"Y-You've killed all the other Tributes," she stuttered, clenching her fists nervously.

"Naaah. I don't like getting my hands dirty if I don't have to." He paused creating a suspense and shooting a quick glance at each and every person in the room.

"So how did you win?" Sherlock inquired, most curious of the answer.

"I got myself a friend," he whispered as if it was a big secret, a roguish smirk on his face.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, feeling puzzled.

"You made an alliance with some other Tribute?"

"No, Sherlock, don't be daft," he chided him with a huff. "Alliances are broken. No, no, no. Never form an alliance. Find a friend instead."

Sherlock tilted his head, trying to figure the problem out. What was the difference between a friend and an ally? He had neither, so he didn't have enough data to begin the deduction. That was frustrating.

"If you do it right, a friend won't betray you," he explained, seeing Sherlock's confusion, and smacked his lips in displeasure. "You still have a lot to learn about the art of manipulation, my dear..."

Sherlock was all ears. He waited for this from the moment he was chosen as Tribute. A glimpse of Jim Moriarty's wisdom.

"Let me tell you a story, kids." He said in a soft voice. "A story about a young man called Sebastian Moran. He was big, strong, intimidating and surprisingly guileless Tribute from District 12. And he wasn't really keen on dying, oh no, but he had no problem with being the cause of death for the others. One sunny day in the arena our Sebby encountered a little weakling called Jim. Jim was tiny, emaciated and innocent as a lamb. But he was also a genius, everybody knew that. Please, please, Sebby, don't kill me! I figured out the way to save us both, I swear! Jim exclaimed, making a pinky promise to Sebastian that he'll get them both safely out of the games. Sebby believed his every world and trusted sweet, little Jim without any reservation. They soon became BBFs and were all lovey-dovey. Sebby protected sweet, little Jim at all cost and obeyed his every order. Oh, and he also mercilessly killed every other Tribute that crossed their way. And when they finally were the only one left, Sebastian stared at Jim, hoping to leave the dreaded arena together... and sweet, little, innocent Jim pulled out his gun and shot poor, naïve Sebby right between those beautiful, trusting eyes." He ended the story with a beaming grin, leaving a moment for his last sentence to sink in. "Ordinary people are sooo funny!"

"That's sick!" Sally had the audacity to shout in disgust.

"No, that's really clever." Sherlock looked at Moriarty with growing admiration. A crooked smile flickered across his face. "Sick nonetheless, but clever."

"Attaboy!" Jim whooped cheerfully. There was a mutual understanding between them and Jim couldn't be happier.

Sally was still glaring at Moriarty and that must have started to bore him.

"The outrage alone won't save you, dear. You're hopeless, you have no skills and no intelligence whatsoever, which makes you as good as dead. You may as well take a knife and slit your wrists right here and now. You'll only do yourself a favour." He said it without any particular malice, being very matter-of-fact, which only made the remark scarier.

Sally couldn't take it anymore. She stood up, turned on her heel and ran to her compartment, followed by Moriarty's guffaw.

"Women" He sighed, spreading his arms helplessly. Mischievous smile crept onto Sherlock's lips. Irene knew better and said nothing.




Sally was sitting on the bed, her head hidden between her knees, when the door to the room opened. She looked up, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks, but they still kept flowing. There she was. Beautiful Irene Adler.  

"Stop this," she said sharply. When Sally shot her a confused glance, Irene paced across the room with feline grace and sat at the edge of the bed. The smell of her perfume was overwhelming as she leaned closer to the girl, only inches left between their faces.

"He may not think highly of you, but that's not the reason to snivel and give up. Don't prove him right. There's so much more in you. I can see your inner strength, determination, your will to live. That's something Sherlock doesn't have and it gives you an edge over him." She explained in a serious voice. "Put up a fight, Sally. It's your life at stake. Go all out. No holds barred." She paused for a moment, gazing deeply into her eyes. "And if there's death awaiting you, so be it. But think how would you like to be remembered by your family and your friends? A whining and scared damsel in distress or a strong woman, who went down fighting and did her best? You're not fighting only for yourself, don't forget that. You're fighting for all of them. Do you understand?" She asked forcibly.

Sally slowly nodded.

"Yes..." she muttered quietly, but cleared her throat and corrected herself. "Yes!" Something has changed within her. Not all hope was lost yet.

"That's my girl." Irene smiled and gave Sally a soft kiss on the cheek. She stood up and went to the door. Before she left, she turned her head to the girl and said: "They're about to watch the recap. Join them. Show that you're not afraid."  And the woman was gone.