semi-open;

[alldeduction]

WHO| Sherlock, everyone from the BBC & CBS cast as well as Mycroft and Lestrade, and anyone else who Sherlock would invite to his last supper (you can check with me if you aren't sure, but i'm leaving it mostly open just in case!)
WHAT| What happened before and after Sherlock "killed" himself on television.
WHEN| Day before the arena, night before that
WHERE| Tribute Tower and a restaurant
WARNINGS| mentions of suicide, death, desecration of a corpse

 

The camera hit the ground and Sherlock waited until it when black and started repeating his note before tearing off the burning jacket. The fire wasn’t even hot - Cinna’s flame material a wonder in itself. It extinguished as he folded it up. His accomplice, a young dark-skinned woman, watched him with hard eyes.

“A little dramatic, but it should distract them,” She said as she pulled the body to the edge, Sherlock moving to help her.

“It will air in five minutes,” he reminded her as he set the body on fire. It was still eerie, seeing his face like this. The wounds that he’d taken during the mini arena had been patched up, they’d dressed him in exactly the same clothes save for the flame-making fabric. He waited for the body to catch, for the fire to spread, with the help of the gasoline they’d doused it in, and then he pushed it off the roof.

Good riddance.

He grabbed the Peacekeeper uniform and slipped into it, shoving the jacket into his midsection to give himself more of a belly before pulling on the helmet. 4 minutes to go.

Silently, they slipped into the elevator. The Tribute tower was already in a panic, but there were so many peacekeepers and scientists running around that no one even spared them a second glance as they arrived at the entrance and simply walked out.

They were several blocks away by the time the feed went live.

Thirty Minutes Prior:

Sherlock breathed deep. The plan was set. Everything in motion. In the next thirty minutes he would either be free, or he and everyone he cared about would be dead. He trusted the Hacker - as far as he could - but that wasn’t particularly far these days. He hadn’t given every piece of the game away, just in case he was betrayed. He watched his computer screen, the program that he’d devised blinked a foreboding ‘begin’ at him. He was already dressed. His supplies were at his side. There was no going back, if he pressed that button. He only had a thirty second window...

He took in a deep breath, and pressed it. Immediately, the feeds of every camera and surveillance system in the tribute tower switched to his carefully pre recorded sets. They wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny, of course, the loops were barely a minute long - but they would play long enough to confuse everyone watching them. They would give him half an hour to relay all the information the could to the people that needed it - though he knew there were even more that did.

But no. Molly. Joan. John. Everyone else would have to wait. Those were the people that would be affected most. He couldn’t risk Punchy knowing anything, couldn’t put him in that sort of danger again. He knew any information he gave anyone was like to a death sentence, if this didn’t work. If he was caught before he managed his escape, if he made a mistake --

He was thinking all this as he was already out the door. Molly first. She would understand best. She would know exactly what needed to be done. Then Joan. She wouldn’t understand, but she would respect it. He hoped. Then John.

That one would be nearly impossible, but he could not leave him to believe that he was dead. Not now. Not after everything.

He didn’t knock on any of their doors, just let himself in. Five minutes was all he had for each. Five minutes to say his goodbyes.

And then he was off to die.

The Night Before:

He didn’t know it would happen so fast. The plan was coming together quickly, the arena was fast approaching, and it was now or never. Jealously, he wanted a night with them all. Not that he particularly liked group gatherings, but something about this one felt important. He needed this, to gear himself up for what was to come. So he sent them all a message. Just a simple one.

The name of a restaurant. (Chinese, or the closest that Panem came to it.) A time. (8 o’clock. Not too early, not too late.)

His Last Supper, as it were, and only he would know what it was.

But something in him, even after all this time, even after everything that happened, just wanted the warm comfort of his family and friends.

One last time.