Fic: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor [Sherlock/The Hunger Games]
Title: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor
Fandom: Sherlock/The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC. The Hunger Games was created by Suzanne Collins.
Overall Rating: R
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Elements of all three books.
Warnings: Character deaths all over the place. Angst.
A/N: Thank you to jesse_kips who jumped on board as beta, fixed my little mistakes, and generally helped out enormously. Any errors are mine. This is going to be a long fic, folks. LONG.
--
Summary
John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute).
May the odds be ever in their favour.
--
Some people say they can’t remember their reaping, but I can. I go back to it all the time. I remember odd things, forgettable things; the white bow in the hair of the girl two rows in front of me, the beetle crawling across the ground near my shoe, the soft, half prayers between brothers and sisters, sisters and sisters, cousins, friends, all saying the same thing; “It will be ok.”
As we walk towards the square I hear Bill Murray whisper to his twelve year old brother; “Just remember to be like Ossie May Blue and it will all be fine.” Ossie May Blue* is a nursery rhyme about a moth and I distract myself with this puzzling advice until I take my place in line. I stand between Jonas Hollings, whose mother’s arm I once stitched back together, and Bleckly Warner, who is swaying with exhaustion from his all night factory shift.
I look around and notice Sarah some way to my right. She’s wearing her mother’s dress, yellow with a white collar. The buttons gape at the chest in a way they didn’t last year and she’s keeping one arm raised to try and hide it. She catches my eye and we share a look. This will all be over soon. It’s the mantra of the districts; we’ve nothing else to hope for.
“…and of course we welcome back our former victors who will act as mentors to the tributes. Emily Hudson and Harry Watson.”
They come onto the stage one after the other. Mrs. Hudson (as my mother insists I call her) is a friend to us since Harry’s victory. She’s wearing a bright purple dress that brings thoughts of the Capitol’s excess to mind but she gets the most applause because everyone feels guilty for voting for her to be tribute in the first Quarter Quell.
Harry, in an emerald suit, gets a fair share of applause too because she’s still a recent victor and up there on the stage she doesn’t look as damaged as I know her to be. Normally everyone’s eyes flick to me when Harry’s name is called, but today there’s a murmur in the crowd because all of us have realised the same thing; Walker Dorling is dead.
Walker was the third victor for our district. He was thirty-five and so addicted to Morphling that his skin hung from his face and his eyes darted around all the time trying to work out where he was. No amount of Morphling ever made his hands unclench or stopped his right leg from twitching. Last year he started screaming during the reaping and had to be led away by the Peacekeepers.
Officially no one knew what had happened to him, but at the same time everyone knew. That’s how our relationship with the Capitol works - they hurt us and we all pretend not to notice the wound.
But these thoughts are dangerous and are quickly brushed away by our district’s escort, Mike Stamford. He makes loud, jolly welcomes to us all as if we’re all there for a party and he’s the host. He’s a rosy-cheeked, fat man with bright red glasses and a suit of so many colours I assume he’s attempting to show off our district by wearing every piece of fabric it’s ever made. I tune him out and focus on my own thoughts.
It’s easy to feel safe for the few months after each reaping; with the knowledge that so far the odds have been in your favour. But the reaping comes nearer and you calculate how many times your name will be in the bowl. Thanks to Harry I’ve never needed the tesserae but my name is still in there six times today. And no matter how many times I tell myself that it won’t be me, not after Harry, it doesn’t mean a thing when Mike Stamford’s hand is hovering over those names.
He chooses the female tribute’s name and waddles back to the microphone painfully slowly. I’m surprised the force of us all listening isn’t strong enough to pull him off the stage.
His face is serious, but in a playful way that is for the benefit for Capitol viewers. “The female tribute for District 8 will be…”
A crackle of paper.
“Sarah Sawyer.”
Funnily enough Jonas Hollings reacts more strongly than I do. He knows her and he knows that I was seeing her. He gives a strange groan of pain. Maybe he feels sorry for me. Maybe he’s sweet on her too.
What can I do but stand there as she sleepwalks up onto the stage. I’m clenching and unclenching my fists so hard that it hurts, but I can’t do anything. If anything could be done then there are thousand mothers who would have done it by now, regardless of the personal cost. If anything could be done I’d be up there doing it.
On the screen Sarah gives her age. Her head stays held up high but her eyes are far away. I see her tug at the front of her dress to hide the gaping buttons from the stares of the nation.
--
I was at school with Sarah but my memory of her was lost amongst all the other pink-lipped, chattering girls. Of all the crushes that were thrown back and forth between the sexes, I somehow missed Sarah out. When I asked her if she’d had an unrequited crush on me back then she laughed and said that Riley Jaymes was a foot taller than me and had a squarer jaw.
I met her again six months before the reaping after an accident at Mill 34. I was sent instead of my parents because there’d already been an accidental scalping and a lost arm that morning; there can be up to ten serious accidents a day at the height of production.
The worker was already dead when I arrived in the cavernous mill. His artery had been hit and the supervisor was furious about the blood-soaked cloth and sticky looms. Sarah was sitting next to the dead man looking like she’d gone for a walk in a rainstorm of blood. After the accident she’d tried to stem the flow with scrap cloth and was blaming herself for failing to save him.
Perhaps it’s strange, falling for someone over a dead body, but for the first time I felt there was someone out there who was like me. Sarah knew there was more to life than factories and starvation and she wanted to find out what it was. She put Riley Jaymes behind her and I decided her lips were very nice.
Three days before the reaping we’d met after her evening factory shift and sat by one of the furnaces whilst I rubbed warmth back into her fingers. We talked about our modest, realistic dreams, and made up wild ones. We kissed until the foreman shooed us away.
We could have got married and had children and been fairly happy. Three days before the reaping we’d felt like we had all the time in the world.
--
That’s what I’m thinking of as I watch her on stage. I’m thinking of how nice it had felt to rub her reddened hands warm by that furnace. I’m thinking of how we’ll never have that again, not even if she wins.
But not for long because Mike Stamford’s hand is dipping into the second bowl and even I lose my focus on Sarah for a moment.
“The male tribute for District 8 will be…”
He takes an age opening the slip of paper.
“John Watson.”
This time the people around me don’t gasp. They pull away from me as though I’m contagious.
“Exciting… brother of former victor…” Mike Stamford is still talking but I can’t hear him. His voice is fading in and out.
My body starts working all by itself. I hold my chin up, push my shoulders back so far it hurts, and force my rib cage up and out. As I climb onto the stage I hope I look ready. I hope I look like a winner because I have to be one.
“And let’s see our two tributes shake hands!”
Sarah and I look into each other’s eyes. Gone is the camaraderie of the reaping, instead replaced with sorrow for each other and the underlying acknowledgement that no matter how happy we could have been together here, neither of us will die for the other in the arena.
I take her hand, still raw from her morning shift, and impulsively clasp both hands around it creating a final moment of warmth between us.
--
I’ve never cared that Harry overshadowed me but it is true that I can’t remember a time before she was a tribute. I was an underfed, cautious six year old who was proud of the fact I never complained about hunger or cold to my mother.
Harry was fifteen and no one thought she could win.
She was hot-headed but she couldn’t fight beyond childhood scraps, she’d never held a weapon, and in District 8 you’d have to walk for hours to find a tree not choked by smog. Her survival skills were nil.
Still somehow her flaws worked for her. Her temper (and golden hair) came across well in the interviews and she was quick on her feet. Her average score before the games kept her unnoticed by the careers, and she was stronger than she looked. But it was her medical skills that saved her - what should have been a fatal stab wound only incapacitated her for a few days and when Clara (a skilled hunter) found her the two of them became a threat.
It’s that alliance that she was remembered for. District 8 doesn’t go in for alliances much, but Harry’s affair with the District 9’s tribute gripped the nation. Thousands wept when, after a desperate final kiss, they were attacked by the dragon-like mutts that were the showstoppers of that game.
Clara was incinerated.
I don’t remember anything of Clara. I was six; I was scared for my sister. All I remember is the dragons.
--
I’ve always felt embarrassed when I thought about the Justice Building. The last time I was there I was saying goodbye to my sister. When she reached out to me I flinched away because her hands were so clammy. It’s a stupid thing to be embarrassed about; I doubt she even remembers it, but it’s a moment that I’ve berated myself for a hundred times.
Now I’m standing in the same room and my parents are saying goodbye to me.
Either they are the best possible parents for this situation, or the worst. They’ve been through this before; they know that tears won’t help. But they’ve also been worn down by watching one child go through the Hunger Games and they’ve always assumed I’d be safe. I’m not sure they have enough strength to go through it all again. My mother becomes more lost in her own world each time she goes into another factory to find flesh splattered up the walls and my father is older and frailer than he looks.
He’s trying to give me advice, is reeling off everything he can think of; “Do you remember how to treat burns? Heat ones? Did I show you that?”
“Yes,” I swallow.
“Chemical?”
“Yes.”
“Remember to play up the connection to your sis- to Harry. You’ll get more - get more - sponsors that way.”
“I will.”
Then our time is up and they both reach for me, trying to grab as much as they can to memorize me for after I’ve gone.
--
On the train to the Capitol Mike Stamford is embarrassed.
“I’m mortified about the facilities,” he apologises. “We’ve been trying to get an upgrade for years. You’re the last district due a new train, you know. Even District 12 has one. District 1 has a conservatory in theirs - with a waterfall and rockery. I can’t believe that District 12’s tributes are currently enjoying the use of nineteen bathrooms while you’ve got to make do with eleven.”
I wonder how many bathrooms he imagines we need. As far as I’m aware there are only five of us on the train. But in a strange way he seems desperate not to offend us.
“Anyway, I’ll go track down your mentors.”
Sarah and I don’t reply. We’re staring at the eggshell blue wallpaper and the dining chairs that look as if they are made from glass. Every surface has some sort of food on it - cakes rest on frosted stands, chicken legs are lined up on silver trays, and there are at least three bottles of champagne on ice in my line of sight.
Sarah reaches out to trace wood carvings and stroke the fabrics. She looks thoughtful rather than full of wonder.
“So this is what the Capitol will be like.”
“Yeah,” I reply. I am surprised at how gruff my voice seems in this delicate carriage. “Only with more bathrooms and rockeries.”
She huffs a laugh; the sort she always does when I’m not funny but she likes me anyway. I step closer and smooth down her thick hair which has fallen out of its bun at some point during her goodbyes.
Maybe my hands on her hair bring back those memories, or else I’m just a reminder of what’s happening to us. I pull her to me, out of habit more than anything else, and she clutches back just as hard. Perhaps we both hope that if we hold on hard enough, this will all go away.
We kiss for comfort. Her face is damp and her body’s shaking, but her mouth is hot and she is the only thing on this train that truly smells of home.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting this.”
Sarah jumps away from me, but I remain still. I know who it is.
Harry is standing in the doorway. She looks unwell - either from the movement of the train, which seems steady, or (more likely) from the alcohol.
She’s far taller than me but I’ve given up feeling miserable about it. She’s even prettier now than she was on her victory tour but the pinching around her eyes and the fume of drink around her hinting that her body is finally demanding payback for all of its abuse. If she was a firebrand before her games, she’s a time-bomb after it.
“What weren’t you expecting?” I ask. “The kiss?”
Harry stares and then replies in an unusually soft voice. “No. I wasn’t expecting you here.”
Really? Because is exactly where I wanted to be. What does she want me to say - sorry?
I reply as much, and something flickers in her eyes - maybe even amusement. Then she clutches at the doorframe again and the emotion is gone.
“Mrs. Hudson will be your primary mentor,” she says flatly.
Mrs. Hudson has already stepped around Harry and taken a seat. As Harry speaks she is fussing around a cake-stand.
“But I want you to be my mentor,” I insist. “No offense Mrs. Hudson, but Harry’s my sister.”
“Exactly!” snaps Harry. “How can you expect me to be neutral?”
I can’t believe this. How could there possibly be a question of Harry being my mentor?
“I don’t want you to be neutral! I want you to be on my side! I want you to keep me alive!” My voice lowers into a nasty hiss; “Maybe if you’d stop drinking for a day or two you might manage it!”
What follows is an embarrassing, screeching argument in which I’ll admit Harry isn’t the only one screeching. Very little worth repeating is said and various old family arguments are rehashed.
By the end one thing is clear; my own sister isn’t on my side.
When Mrs. Hudson speaks it’s with a warm voice that makes me want to hug her for being so comforting. “I think you should take him on, Harry.”
“Mrs. Hudson…” Harry whines.
“Or we could ask the young lady. Sarah isn’t it?”
Sarah nods from the seat she jumped into when Harry arrived. She’s absently fondling the velvet curtains. I briefly wonder which of our factories they were made in.
Mrs. Hudson’s tone becomes knitting-needle sharp. “Now you can choose me. I’m not glamorous, but I mentored Harry here and my own darknesses don’t interfere with my skills. Or you can choose Harry who has some alcohol problems and is related to a tribute you are in direct competition with.”
For the first time I see a hint of a victor in this dotty woman whose nagging tone once made me avoid her when she visited our house. She knows how to get what she wants and she gives no indication that Sarah has any real choice in the matter.
Sarah doesn’t object.
I sigh in relief. My first battle is over - I have the mentor I want. But even as I think it my eyes are skirting over the faraway look in Harry’s eyes.
--
After dinner we sit in silence. It’s uncomfortable both because of the tension between me and Harry and because Sarah and I were presented with more food than we’d see in weeks at home and ate accordingly; our stomachs weren’t used to it.
Once a significant amount of time has passed, Mrs. Hudson stands and picks up a crystal jar on the bar. It’s full of sweets and she offers one to Sarah with a look that suggests ‘no’ is not a reasonable option.
Sarah takes a turquoise sweet carved into a rose shape. It’s the size of a pebble and shimmers like a precious stone. Under Mrs. Hudson’s watch she pops it into her mouth.
“Shouldn’t you have asked her first?” Harry drawls in the direction of Mrs. Hudson.
I look from one to the other in confusion.
“What good would it do? Ah! There she goes…” Mrs. Hudson’s tone is one usually reserved for a dog having done a good trick and as she speaks Sarah slumps backwards in her armchair. She’s asleep.
“What have you done to her?” I demand.
“Sleepers,” shrugs Harry**. “Everyone uses them in the Capitol. I think most of them don’t know how to fall asleep naturally.”
“They’re harmless,” adds Mrs. Hudson, “and she’ll be glad of a night’s sleep. Want one?”
I decline and watch as Mrs. Hudson harangues Mike Stamford into carrying the girl to her bedroom. They leave with Mike Stamford muttering about his bad back.
Harry and I are alone.
“Look - I know we got off to a bad start,” I begin, as Harry makes no move to start a conversation, “but I need your help.”
She turns to stare out of the window. She looks childish, and she must realise it because she relents and begins to talk. “You should have chosen Mrs. Hudson. Strategically it would have been the smartest choice. I’m the weaker of the mentors, and not particularly motivated to help Sarah win. Instead you’ve just given your rival a fighting chance.”
I gape. “That’s what that was all about earlier?”
She turns to look at me with a cruel smirk. “Of course not. But I’m sure that’s what you’d like to believe.”
Again, the act doesn’t last. The smirk falls and she looks… devastated. I’ve never seen her look so broken before. Her legs are pulled up in front of her and she’s clutching her glass; she looks more like a tribute than a victor. All her fight is gone when I need it most.
I’d imagined that she’d make everything all right for me, that she’d swear that I’d survive no matter what the cost… but now she looks like she needs my comfort more than I need hers.
“Why won’t you help me?” I ask honestly. I’m not angry now. I don’t understand and I want to.
“Because I’ve been exactly where you are. And if Mrs. Hudson had told me the truth… she’d have saved me a lot of pain.”
“What truth?”
She looks up from her glass with an odd, pleading expression. “That winning is worse than dying. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t lying when she said that the victors have their darknesses. She just hides hers better than most of us. You’re a better person than me John. You don’t deserve this.”
I feel my anger rise up again. Does she think I haven’t got it in me to win?
“You don’t think I can do this?”
“I know you can do it. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a survivor and you’re probably better at it than anyone imagines. That’s why you’re still leading on Sarah.”
I balk. “No I’m not! What happened before-”
“I’m not doubting what happened before, but I bet you’ve considered your options since then.”
This cuts a bit close - I have been weighing up how our connection can be used as an advantage and I know that she’s doing the same to me. Only one of us can survive and I know she can be harder of heart than she looks. She has as much potential to be a victor as I do, and has the advantage of seeming a lot weaker than she is. Keeping her as an ally is vital.
I don’t want to admit this to Harry though.
“I could play it up for you,” Harry offers. “Inter-tribute romances are pretty common, but being in a relationship before the reapings adds that little something extra. Might get you sponsors.”
I shake my head. “I think we’re allies at most now,” I say. “She’s smart.”
“I know that.” Harry smirks. “She fancied you.”
We both laugh a little.
“Does this mean you’ll help me, then?”
Harry shrugs.
“I have to help you, whether I want to or not. I’ll be your mentor, but think on what I said. Sometimes dying in the arena is better. The smartest tributes work that out sooner or later.”
That seems to be as close as we’ll get to an arrangement. She stands up and gives me an unsteady hug. It’s the first I’ve had from her since I was small and now she feels frail. She smells sickly sweet - she’s doused in Capitol scents.
“Now, go to bed. And pretend to be surprised when Mrs. Hudson uses the Sleeper incident tomorrow to lecture you on the dangers of eating anything when you aren’t one hundred per cent certain what it contains.”
--
It’s a gross overstatement to say I feel positive the next morning, but a combination of my conversation with Harry, a long shower, and more food for breakfast than I see in the average day back home cheers me up immensely.
We’ll be in the Capitol tonight so today will be about working out our plans and familiarising ourselves with the other tributes. I find a crisp brown shirt and green cardigan in the wardrobe and pair them with brown jeans. They must have been made in our district but they’re nicer than anything I’ve ever worn before.
The boots don’t look very sturdy though, so I choose to keep my own boots over the fashionable ones placed out for me.
At breakfast Harry picks at her eggs, Mrs. Hudson smothers everything in sight with honey, and I surround myself with every preserve on the table. Sarah catches my eye as she piles up her plate with sausages and we share a disbelieving glance. Even after we’ve finished Mrs. Hudson makes us eat more; “You’re both so thin. Every extra pound will help you in arena.”
I pretend to be surprised by the stern lecture on not eating anything we aren’t certain about and I hope she won’t test us by lacing lunch with something nasty. Then we switch on the recordings from the other reapings. Mrs. Hudson even hands us notebooks and pens.
They’re shown out of order - the Career districts nearly always win, so the Capitol leaves those last to build up excitement. This means there isn’t much of interest for a while. District 12 is first and offers up two sickly, worn out kids.
“Nothing to them,” says Harry. “The careers will wipe them out.”
I’d been thinking that they didn’t look much different to Sarah and I. Perhaps on their trains their mentors are saying the same things as our terrified faces look out from the screens.
Harry is surprised by the look of determination on the faces from District Eleven though. “He’s huge and she looks like she’d stab anyone in the back.”
I check my notes. The huge guy is called Moran and the girl with the determined mouth is Sally Donovon. Out of the two, I’d rather face him in a fight - he looks like he needs someone to do his thinking for him.
More terrified kids are offered up in District 10 (Molly Hooper and Henry Knight) and it would be depressing if the ache in my chest wasn’t reminding me that I’m in the exact same position.
District 9 is next. “They produce grain. And talk about grain. That’s it. Can you imagine living there?” This is Harry’s contribution. A girl who looks a bit like Sarah is chosen (Violet Hunter) and then a spotty boy who looks like a scarecrow and probably works as one.
The scarecrow has no sooner stepped forward when a voice shouts out;
“I volunteer as tribute.”
It’s not so much a shout, actually, as a drawl. As if the volunteer is doing so for a lark.
The camera wobbles as it tries to track down the voice and eventually settles on a thin boy with (in Mrs. Hudson’s opinion) strange eyebrows. He’s ushered up onto the stage and announces himself as Jim Moriarty aged fourteen.
“District 9 isn’t a career district,” the commentator reminds us, “there hasn’t been a volunteer before. We’re in uncharted waters folks!”
“And why did you choose to volunteer Jim?” asked the district’s escort. He has orange hair and is wearing a hay coloured suit.
The boy answers with dead eyes. “I was going to wait until I was older. But I got bored.”
“You mean you didn’t plan to do it today?” asks the escort in a shocked tone.
“Not until about two minutes ago.”
We pause the TV to discuss our thoughts.
“Suicidal.” This is Harry’s verdict. “Happens sometimes. They think volunteering is a good way to go.”
I squint at the screen. “He doesn’t look suicidal.”
Sarah nods. “He might have something up his sleeve.”
“He’s fourteen, he’s a pipsqueak - what can possibly be up his sleeve? If the careers don’t get him, everything else will.”
“I don’t know,” Mike Stamford muses, “he’ll have everyone talking about him.”
Harry snorts and switches the TV back on.
District 7 (Lumber) is much the same as the rest, though Harry points out the male - Greg Lestrade’s - strong arms. Mrs. Hudson points out his strong jaw. District 6 (Transport) has a stout, mean looking boy - Jeff Hope. We’re instructed to watch out for his ‘nasty little eyes’ by Mrs. Hudson. District 5 is forgettable other than the girl, Amanda, whose blonde hair catches my attention.
“She’s pretty.” It’s the first thing I’ve said and as soon as I say it I realise that it isn’t the most helpful interjection.
As if I hadn’t already realised this, Sarah, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson are all turn to stare at me.
“Well, she is,” I mutter.
We are thankfully distracted as the commentary moves to District 3 (District Four, as a Career district, is kept back). The technological district shows a frail girl of eighteen, Soo Lin Yao, being practically carried onto the stage and a seventeen year old boy, Andy Galbraith, try to fight back tears.
Harry’s unmoved. “Here we go! The Careers are up next.”
The Career districts actively train their children for the games and it isn’t unusual for a volunteer to step up. The tributes from the Career districts nearly always form alliances in the arena, meaning that they essentially became a pack who control supplies and prowl the area for weaker tributes.
The male tribute from Four (fishing) doesn’t live up to the hype. The young man, whose name is Anderson, looks shocked to be called and if he’s hoping for salvation from a volunteer then none comes. The girl chosen - Kitty Reilly - actually smiles.
“I was planning to volunteer anyway,” she announces. She has a husky voice with a grating edge and practically snatches the microphone from the escort.
Harry sucks in air through her teeth. “He’s devious but not that smart. She’s a loose cannon. She looks far too happy. Don’t you want to just punch her in the face?”
We pause for Harry to get another drink. When I glance over I see that Sarah’s notebook is filled with page after page of spidery writing. Feeling guilty at my mostly blank book I set about putting my own opinions of the candidates down.
District 1 (luxury items) is shown next. A striking girl is called - Irene Adler. Her face shows no emotion at all. I don’t comment on her looks this time.
“District 1 isn’t known for its smart women,” sniffs Harry. “They use their bodies to make the male careers do their bidding and get sponsors interested. They can be pretty lethal with weapons though.”
A pleased looking boy volunteers next. Sebastian Wilkes.
“More confidence than skill,” is Harry’s judgement.
“So here we are folks. The final reaping of the 54th Hunger Games, and as we all know, District 2 has the highest number of victors of any district. Volunteers are likely today.”
We watch and wait as the narration drags out the tension. After a pause that seems to go on for several hours a name is finally called and a volunteer steps up. She’s so beautiful that I think if I’d mentioned it this time everyone might have agreed. I barely catch that her name is Anthea and that she’s seventeen.
Statistically males from District 2 win the most and the tension is built up even more for this reaping. No one thinks for a second that the small boy who is actually chosen will end up as the tribute.
Right on cue a volunteer calls out. He does so with a strangely tilted head, as if he too is volunteering on a whim like the boy from District 9.
He’s almost as striking as Anthea and I wonder why it is that most tributes from Career districts are good looking. As he walks onto the stage I note how thin he is, but when the camera goes in for a close up there’s a spark in his eyes that would have been lost if he’d spent a long time living with hunger. It reminds me of Sarah when I first saw her by that body, and even as I think it I realise how strange that sounds. There’s a quirk to his lips as if he’s already won a battle just by volunteering.
“And what’s your name?” asks the glitter covered escort.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Stupid name,” mutters Harry. “Skinny too. Make a note of that.”
“His stupid name or his weight?” asks Sarah with a wryly raised brow.
I shush them and lean forward.
“And your age?”
“Seventeen.”
The escort pushes the microphone towards him one last time.
“So why have you volunteered today?” she asks.
The boy gives that strange, quirking half smile again.
“To annoy my brother.”
Harry flicks off the television before I can protest.
“And there we have it kids. Statistically speaking, he is your most dangerous rival.”
--
Chapter 2
Fic Notes:
*Ossie May Blue is a popular nursery Rhyme amongst district children:
Ossie May Blue
May fly up high
To the whitest moon
In the darkest night
But Ossie May Blue
Can’t see the blue sky
Or the yellow sun
But, why, why, why?
**Sleepers © were popular sleeping aids used in the capital during that period, sending the user to sleep instantly. Famous for their sponsership of the Hunger Games and their marketing slogan of ‘How do you sleep at night?’, they became very unfashionable due to their incompatibility with many weight supressing aids and after a series of Capitol public announcements re-educating the citizens on how to sleep naturally, they were withdrawn ten years before the second rebellion.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this so far. I'd love to hear what you think. Also if you'd like a message when it updates I usually post a comment under each review when a new chapter is up (I find it so easy to miss chapters on WIPs myself). Thank for for reading!
Fandom: Sherlock/The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC. The Hunger Games was created by Suzanne Collins.
Overall Rating: R
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Elements of all three books.
Warnings: Character deaths all over the place. Angst.
A/N: Thank you to jesse_kips who jumped on board as beta, fixed my little mistakes, and generally helped out enormously. Any errors are mine. This is going to be a long fic, folks. LONG.
--
Summary
John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute).
May the odds be ever in their favour.
--
Some people say they can’t remember their reaping, but I can. I go back to it all the time. I remember odd things, forgettable things; the white bow in the hair of the girl two rows in front of me, the beetle crawling across the ground near my shoe, the soft, half prayers between brothers and sisters, sisters and sisters, cousins, friends, all saying the same thing; “It will be ok.”
As we walk towards the square I hear Bill Murray whisper to his twelve year old brother; “Just remember to be like Ossie May Blue and it will all be fine.” Ossie May Blue* is a nursery rhyme about a moth and I distract myself with this puzzling advice until I take my place in line. I stand between Jonas Hollings, whose mother’s arm I once stitched back together, and Bleckly Warner, who is swaying with exhaustion from his all night factory shift.
I look around and notice Sarah some way to my right. She’s wearing her mother’s dress, yellow with a white collar. The buttons gape at the chest in a way they didn’t last year and she’s keeping one arm raised to try and hide it. She catches my eye and we share a look. This will all be over soon. It’s the mantra of the districts; we’ve nothing else to hope for.
“…and of course we welcome back our former victors who will act as mentors to the tributes. Emily Hudson and Harry Watson.”
They come onto the stage one after the other. Mrs. Hudson (as my mother insists I call her) is a friend to us since Harry’s victory. She’s wearing a bright purple dress that brings thoughts of the Capitol’s excess to mind but she gets the most applause because everyone feels guilty for voting for her to be tribute in the first Quarter Quell.
Harry, in an emerald suit, gets a fair share of applause too because she’s still a recent victor and up there on the stage she doesn’t look as damaged as I know her to be. Normally everyone’s eyes flick to me when Harry’s name is called, but today there’s a murmur in the crowd because all of us have realised the same thing; Walker Dorling is dead.
Walker was the third victor for our district. He was thirty-five and so addicted to Morphling that his skin hung from his face and his eyes darted around all the time trying to work out where he was. No amount of Morphling ever made his hands unclench or stopped his right leg from twitching. Last year he started screaming during the reaping and had to be led away by the Peacekeepers.
Officially no one knew what had happened to him, but at the same time everyone knew. That’s how our relationship with the Capitol works - they hurt us and we all pretend not to notice the wound.
But these thoughts are dangerous and are quickly brushed away by our district’s escort, Mike Stamford. He makes loud, jolly welcomes to us all as if we’re all there for a party and he’s the host. He’s a rosy-cheeked, fat man with bright red glasses and a suit of so many colours I assume he’s attempting to show off our district by wearing every piece of fabric it’s ever made. I tune him out and focus on my own thoughts.
It’s easy to feel safe for the few months after each reaping; with the knowledge that so far the odds have been in your favour. But the reaping comes nearer and you calculate how many times your name will be in the bowl. Thanks to Harry I’ve never needed the tesserae but my name is still in there six times today. And no matter how many times I tell myself that it won’t be me, not after Harry, it doesn’t mean a thing when Mike Stamford’s hand is hovering over those names.
He chooses the female tribute’s name and waddles back to the microphone painfully slowly. I’m surprised the force of us all listening isn’t strong enough to pull him off the stage.
His face is serious, but in a playful way that is for the benefit for Capitol viewers. “The female tribute for District 8 will be…”
A crackle of paper.
“Sarah Sawyer.”
Funnily enough Jonas Hollings reacts more strongly than I do. He knows her and he knows that I was seeing her. He gives a strange groan of pain. Maybe he feels sorry for me. Maybe he’s sweet on her too.
What can I do but stand there as she sleepwalks up onto the stage. I’m clenching and unclenching my fists so hard that it hurts, but I can’t do anything. If anything could be done then there are thousand mothers who would have done it by now, regardless of the personal cost. If anything could be done I’d be up there doing it.
On the screen Sarah gives her age. Her head stays held up high but her eyes are far away. I see her tug at the front of her dress to hide the gaping buttons from the stares of the nation.
--
I was at school with Sarah but my memory of her was lost amongst all the other pink-lipped, chattering girls. Of all the crushes that were thrown back and forth between the sexes, I somehow missed Sarah out. When I asked her if she’d had an unrequited crush on me back then she laughed and said that Riley Jaymes was a foot taller than me and had a squarer jaw.
I met her again six months before the reaping after an accident at Mill 34. I was sent instead of my parents because there’d already been an accidental scalping and a lost arm that morning; there can be up to ten serious accidents a day at the height of production.
The worker was already dead when I arrived in the cavernous mill. His artery had been hit and the supervisor was furious about the blood-soaked cloth and sticky looms. Sarah was sitting next to the dead man looking like she’d gone for a walk in a rainstorm of blood. After the accident she’d tried to stem the flow with scrap cloth and was blaming herself for failing to save him.
Perhaps it’s strange, falling for someone over a dead body, but for the first time I felt there was someone out there who was like me. Sarah knew there was more to life than factories and starvation and she wanted to find out what it was. She put Riley Jaymes behind her and I decided her lips were very nice.
Three days before the reaping we’d met after her evening factory shift and sat by one of the furnaces whilst I rubbed warmth back into her fingers. We talked about our modest, realistic dreams, and made up wild ones. We kissed until the foreman shooed us away.
We could have got married and had children and been fairly happy. Three days before the reaping we’d felt like we had all the time in the world.
--
That’s what I’m thinking of as I watch her on stage. I’m thinking of how nice it had felt to rub her reddened hands warm by that furnace. I’m thinking of how we’ll never have that again, not even if she wins.
But not for long because Mike Stamford’s hand is dipping into the second bowl and even I lose my focus on Sarah for a moment.
“The male tribute for District 8 will be…”
He takes an age opening the slip of paper.
“John Watson.”
This time the people around me don’t gasp. They pull away from me as though I’m contagious.
“Exciting… brother of former victor…” Mike Stamford is still talking but I can’t hear him. His voice is fading in and out.
My body starts working all by itself. I hold my chin up, push my shoulders back so far it hurts, and force my rib cage up and out. As I climb onto the stage I hope I look ready. I hope I look like a winner because I have to be one.
“And let’s see our two tributes shake hands!”
Sarah and I look into each other’s eyes. Gone is the camaraderie of the reaping, instead replaced with sorrow for each other and the underlying acknowledgement that no matter how happy we could have been together here, neither of us will die for the other in the arena.
I take her hand, still raw from her morning shift, and impulsively clasp both hands around it creating a final moment of warmth between us.
--
I’ve never cared that Harry overshadowed me but it is true that I can’t remember a time before she was a tribute. I was an underfed, cautious six year old who was proud of the fact I never complained about hunger or cold to my mother.
Harry was fifteen and no one thought she could win.
She was hot-headed but she couldn’t fight beyond childhood scraps, she’d never held a weapon, and in District 8 you’d have to walk for hours to find a tree not choked by smog. Her survival skills were nil.
Still somehow her flaws worked for her. Her temper (and golden hair) came across well in the interviews and she was quick on her feet. Her average score before the games kept her unnoticed by the careers, and she was stronger than she looked. But it was her medical skills that saved her - what should have been a fatal stab wound only incapacitated her for a few days and when Clara (a skilled hunter) found her the two of them became a threat.
It’s that alliance that she was remembered for. District 8 doesn’t go in for alliances much, but Harry’s affair with the District 9’s tribute gripped the nation. Thousands wept when, after a desperate final kiss, they were attacked by the dragon-like mutts that were the showstoppers of that game.
Clara was incinerated.
I don’t remember anything of Clara. I was six; I was scared for my sister. All I remember is the dragons.
--
I’ve always felt embarrassed when I thought about the Justice Building. The last time I was there I was saying goodbye to my sister. When she reached out to me I flinched away because her hands were so clammy. It’s a stupid thing to be embarrassed about; I doubt she even remembers it, but it’s a moment that I’ve berated myself for a hundred times.
Now I’m standing in the same room and my parents are saying goodbye to me.
Either they are the best possible parents for this situation, or the worst. They’ve been through this before; they know that tears won’t help. But they’ve also been worn down by watching one child go through the Hunger Games and they’ve always assumed I’d be safe. I’m not sure they have enough strength to go through it all again. My mother becomes more lost in her own world each time she goes into another factory to find flesh splattered up the walls and my father is older and frailer than he looks.
He’s trying to give me advice, is reeling off everything he can think of; “Do you remember how to treat burns? Heat ones? Did I show you that?”
“Yes,” I swallow.
“Chemical?”
“Yes.”
“Remember to play up the connection to your sis- to Harry. You’ll get more - get more - sponsors that way.”
“I will.”
Then our time is up and they both reach for me, trying to grab as much as they can to memorize me for after I’ve gone.
--
On the train to the Capitol Mike Stamford is embarrassed.
“I’m mortified about the facilities,” he apologises. “We’ve been trying to get an upgrade for years. You’re the last district due a new train, you know. Even District 12 has one. District 1 has a conservatory in theirs - with a waterfall and rockery. I can’t believe that District 12’s tributes are currently enjoying the use of nineteen bathrooms while you’ve got to make do with eleven.”
I wonder how many bathrooms he imagines we need. As far as I’m aware there are only five of us on the train. But in a strange way he seems desperate not to offend us.
“Anyway, I’ll go track down your mentors.”
Sarah and I don’t reply. We’re staring at the eggshell blue wallpaper and the dining chairs that look as if they are made from glass. Every surface has some sort of food on it - cakes rest on frosted stands, chicken legs are lined up on silver trays, and there are at least three bottles of champagne on ice in my line of sight.
Sarah reaches out to trace wood carvings and stroke the fabrics. She looks thoughtful rather than full of wonder.
“So this is what the Capitol will be like.”
“Yeah,” I reply. I am surprised at how gruff my voice seems in this delicate carriage. “Only with more bathrooms and rockeries.”
She huffs a laugh; the sort she always does when I’m not funny but she likes me anyway. I step closer and smooth down her thick hair which has fallen out of its bun at some point during her goodbyes.
Maybe my hands on her hair bring back those memories, or else I’m just a reminder of what’s happening to us. I pull her to me, out of habit more than anything else, and she clutches back just as hard. Perhaps we both hope that if we hold on hard enough, this will all go away.
We kiss for comfort. Her face is damp and her body’s shaking, but her mouth is hot and she is the only thing on this train that truly smells of home.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting this.”
Sarah jumps away from me, but I remain still. I know who it is.
Harry is standing in the doorway. She looks unwell - either from the movement of the train, which seems steady, or (more likely) from the alcohol.
She’s far taller than me but I’ve given up feeling miserable about it. She’s even prettier now than she was on her victory tour but the pinching around her eyes and the fume of drink around her hinting that her body is finally demanding payback for all of its abuse. If she was a firebrand before her games, she’s a time-bomb after it.
“What weren’t you expecting?” I ask. “The kiss?”
Harry stares and then replies in an unusually soft voice. “No. I wasn’t expecting you here.”
Really? Because is exactly where I wanted to be. What does she want me to say - sorry?
I reply as much, and something flickers in her eyes - maybe even amusement. Then she clutches at the doorframe again and the emotion is gone.
“Mrs. Hudson will be your primary mentor,” she says flatly.
Mrs. Hudson has already stepped around Harry and taken a seat. As Harry speaks she is fussing around a cake-stand.
“But I want you to be my mentor,” I insist. “No offense Mrs. Hudson, but Harry’s my sister.”
“Exactly!” snaps Harry. “How can you expect me to be neutral?”
I can’t believe this. How could there possibly be a question of Harry being my mentor?
“I don’t want you to be neutral! I want you to be on my side! I want you to keep me alive!” My voice lowers into a nasty hiss; “Maybe if you’d stop drinking for a day or two you might manage it!”
What follows is an embarrassing, screeching argument in which I’ll admit Harry isn’t the only one screeching. Very little worth repeating is said and various old family arguments are rehashed.
By the end one thing is clear; my own sister isn’t on my side.
When Mrs. Hudson speaks it’s with a warm voice that makes me want to hug her for being so comforting. “I think you should take him on, Harry.”
“Mrs. Hudson…” Harry whines.
“Or we could ask the young lady. Sarah isn’t it?”
Sarah nods from the seat she jumped into when Harry arrived. She’s absently fondling the velvet curtains. I briefly wonder which of our factories they were made in.
Mrs. Hudson’s tone becomes knitting-needle sharp. “Now you can choose me. I’m not glamorous, but I mentored Harry here and my own darknesses don’t interfere with my skills. Or you can choose Harry who has some alcohol problems and is related to a tribute you are in direct competition with.”
For the first time I see a hint of a victor in this dotty woman whose nagging tone once made me avoid her when she visited our house. She knows how to get what she wants and she gives no indication that Sarah has any real choice in the matter.
Sarah doesn’t object.
I sigh in relief. My first battle is over - I have the mentor I want. But even as I think it my eyes are skirting over the faraway look in Harry’s eyes.
--
After dinner we sit in silence. It’s uncomfortable both because of the tension between me and Harry and because Sarah and I were presented with more food than we’d see in weeks at home and ate accordingly; our stomachs weren’t used to it.
Once a significant amount of time has passed, Mrs. Hudson stands and picks up a crystal jar on the bar. It’s full of sweets and she offers one to Sarah with a look that suggests ‘no’ is not a reasonable option.
Sarah takes a turquoise sweet carved into a rose shape. It’s the size of a pebble and shimmers like a precious stone. Under Mrs. Hudson’s watch she pops it into her mouth.
“Shouldn’t you have asked her first?” Harry drawls in the direction of Mrs. Hudson.
I look from one to the other in confusion.
“What good would it do? Ah! There she goes…” Mrs. Hudson’s tone is one usually reserved for a dog having done a good trick and as she speaks Sarah slumps backwards in her armchair. She’s asleep.
“What have you done to her?” I demand.
“Sleepers,” shrugs Harry**. “Everyone uses them in the Capitol. I think most of them don’t know how to fall asleep naturally.”
“They’re harmless,” adds Mrs. Hudson, “and she’ll be glad of a night’s sleep. Want one?”
I decline and watch as Mrs. Hudson harangues Mike Stamford into carrying the girl to her bedroom. They leave with Mike Stamford muttering about his bad back.
Harry and I are alone.
“Look - I know we got off to a bad start,” I begin, as Harry makes no move to start a conversation, “but I need your help.”
She turns to stare out of the window. She looks childish, and she must realise it because she relents and begins to talk. “You should have chosen Mrs. Hudson. Strategically it would have been the smartest choice. I’m the weaker of the mentors, and not particularly motivated to help Sarah win. Instead you’ve just given your rival a fighting chance.”
I gape. “That’s what that was all about earlier?”
She turns to look at me with a cruel smirk. “Of course not. But I’m sure that’s what you’d like to believe.”
Again, the act doesn’t last. The smirk falls and she looks… devastated. I’ve never seen her look so broken before. Her legs are pulled up in front of her and she’s clutching her glass; she looks more like a tribute than a victor. All her fight is gone when I need it most.
I’d imagined that she’d make everything all right for me, that she’d swear that I’d survive no matter what the cost… but now she looks like she needs my comfort more than I need hers.
“Why won’t you help me?” I ask honestly. I’m not angry now. I don’t understand and I want to.
“Because I’ve been exactly where you are. And if Mrs. Hudson had told me the truth… she’d have saved me a lot of pain.”
“What truth?”
She looks up from her glass with an odd, pleading expression. “That winning is worse than dying. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t lying when she said that the victors have their darknesses. She just hides hers better than most of us. You’re a better person than me John. You don’t deserve this.”
I feel my anger rise up again. Does she think I haven’t got it in me to win?
“You don’t think I can do this?”
“I know you can do it. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a survivor and you’re probably better at it than anyone imagines. That’s why you’re still leading on Sarah.”
I balk. “No I’m not! What happened before-”
“I’m not doubting what happened before, but I bet you’ve considered your options since then.”
This cuts a bit close - I have been weighing up how our connection can be used as an advantage and I know that she’s doing the same to me. Only one of us can survive and I know she can be harder of heart than she looks. She has as much potential to be a victor as I do, and has the advantage of seeming a lot weaker than she is. Keeping her as an ally is vital.
I don’t want to admit this to Harry though.
“I could play it up for you,” Harry offers. “Inter-tribute romances are pretty common, but being in a relationship before the reapings adds that little something extra. Might get you sponsors.”
I shake my head. “I think we’re allies at most now,” I say. “She’s smart.”
“I know that.” Harry smirks. “She fancied you.”
We both laugh a little.
“Does this mean you’ll help me, then?”
Harry shrugs.
“I have to help you, whether I want to or not. I’ll be your mentor, but think on what I said. Sometimes dying in the arena is better. The smartest tributes work that out sooner or later.”
That seems to be as close as we’ll get to an arrangement. She stands up and gives me an unsteady hug. It’s the first I’ve had from her since I was small and now she feels frail. She smells sickly sweet - she’s doused in Capitol scents.
“Now, go to bed. And pretend to be surprised when Mrs. Hudson uses the Sleeper incident tomorrow to lecture you on the dangers of eating anything when you aren’t one hundred per cent certain what it contains.”
--
It’s a gross overstatement to say I feel positive the next morning, but a combination of my conversation with Harry, a long shower, and more food for breakfast than I see in the average day back home cheers me up immensely.
We’ll be in the Capitol tonight so today will be about working out our plans and familiarising ourselves with the other tributes. I find a crisp brown shirt and green cardigan in the wardrobe and pair them with brown jeans. They must have been made in our district but they’re nicer than anything I’ve ever worn before.
The boots don’t look very sturdy though, so I choose to keep my own boots over the fashionable ones placed out for me.
At breakfast Harry picks at her eggs, Mrs. Hudson smothers everything in sight with honey, and I surround myself with every preserve on the table. Sarah catches my eye as she piles up her plate with sausages and we share a disbelieving glance. Even after we’ve finished Mrs. Hudson makes us eat more; “You’re both so thin. Every extra pound will help you in arena.”
I pretend to be surprised by the stern lecture on not eating anything we aren’t certain about and I hope she won’t test us by lacing lunch with something nasty. Then we switch on the recordings from the other reapings. Mrs. Hudson even hands us notebooks and pens.
They’re shown out of order - the Career districts nearly always win, so the Capitol leaves those last to build up excitement. This means there isn’t much of interest for a while. District 12 is first and offers up two sickly, worn out kids.
“Nothing to them,” says Harry. “The careers will wipe them out.”
I’d been thinking that they didn’t look much different to Sarah and I. Perhaps on their trains their mentors are saying the same things as our terrified faces look out from the screens.
Harry is surprised by the look of determination on the faces from District Eleven though. “He’s huge and she looks like she’d stab anyone in the back.”
I check my notes. The huge guy is called Moran and the girl with the determined mouth is Sally Donovon. Out of the two, I’d rather face him in a fight - he looks like he needs someone to do his thinking for him.
More terrified kids are offered up in District 10 (Molly Hooper and Henry Knight) and it would be depressing if the ache in my chest wasn’t reminding me that I’m in the exact same position.
District 9 is next. “They produce grain. And talk about grain. That’s it. Can you imagine living there?” This is Harry’s contribution. A girl who looks a bit like Sarah is chosen (Violet Hunter) and then a spotty boy who looks like a scarecrow and probably works as one.
The scarecrow has no sooner stepped forward when a voice shouts out;
“I volunteer as tribute.”
It’s not so much a shout, actually, as a drawl. As if the volunteer is doing so for a lark.
The camera wobbles as it tries to track down the voice and eventually settles on a thin boy with (in Mrs. Hudson’s opinion) strange eyebrows. He’s ushered up onto the stage and announces himself as Jim Moriarty aged fourteen.
“District 9 isn’t a career district,” the commentator reminds us, “there hasn’t been a volunteer before. We’re in uncharted waters folks!”
“And why did you choose to volunteer Jim?” asked the district’s escort. He has orange hair and is wearing a hay coloured suit.
The boy answers with dead eyes. “I was going to wait until I was older. But I got bored.”
“You mean you didn’t plan to do it today?” asks the escort in a shocked tone.
“Not until about two minutes ago.”
We pause the TV to discuss our thoughts.
“Suicidal.” This is Harry’s verdict. “Happens sometimes. They think volunteering is a good way to go.”
I squint at the screen. “He doesn’t look suicidal.”
Sarah nods. “He might have something up his sleeve.”
“He’s fourteen, he’s a pipsqueak - what can possibly be up his sleeve? If the careers don’t get him, everything else will.”
“I don’t know,” Mike Stamford muses, “he’ll have everyone talking about him.”
Harry snorts and switches the TV back on.
District 7 (Lumber) is much the same as the rest, though Harry points out the male - Greg Lestrade’s - strong arms. Mrs. Hudson points out his strong jaw. District 6 (Transport) has a stout, mean looking boy - Jeff Hope. We’re instructed to watch out for his ‘nasty little eyes’ by Mrs. Hudson. District 5 is forgettable other than the girl, Amanda, whose blonde hair catches my attention.
“She’s pretty.” It’s the first thing I’ve said and as soon as I say it I realise that it isn’t the most helpful interjection.
As if I hadn’t already realised this, Sarah, Harry, and Mrs. Hudson are all turn to stare at me.
“Well, she is,” I mutter.
We are thankfully distracted as the commentary moves to District 3 (District Four, as a Career district, is kept back). The technological district shows a frail girl of eighteen, Soo Lin Yao, being practically carried onto the stage and a seventeen year old boy, Andy Galbraith, try to fight back tears.
Harry’s unmoved. “Here we go! The Careers are up next.”
The Career districts actively train their children for the games and it isn’t unusual for a volunteer to step up. The tributes from the Career districts nearly always form alliances in the arena, meaning that they essentially became a pack who control supplies and prowl the area for weaker tributes.
The male tribute from Four (fishing) doesn’t live up to the hype. The young man, whose name is Anderson, looks shocked to be called and if he’s hoping for salvation from a volunteer then none comes. The girl chosen - Kitty Reilly - actually smiles.
“I was planning to volunteer anyway,” she announces. She has a husky voice with a grating edge and practically snatches the microphone from the escort.
Harry sucks in air through her teeth. “He’s devious but not that smart. She’s a loose cannon. She looks far too happy. Don’t you want to just punch her in the face?”
We pause for Harry to get another drink. When I glance over I see that Sarah’s notebook is filled with page after page of spidery writing. Feeling guilty at my mostly blank book I set about putting my own opinions of the candidates down.
District 1 (luxury items) is shown next. A striking girl is called - Irene Adler. Her face shows no emotion at all. I don’t comment on her looks this time.
“District 1 isn’t known for its smart women,” sniffs Harry. “They use their bodies to make the male careers do their bidding and get sponsors interested. They can be pretty lethal with weapons though.”
A pleased looking boy volunteers next. Sebastian Wilkes.
“More confidence than skill,” is Harry’s judgement.
“So here we are folks. The final reaping of the 54th Hunger Games, and as we all know, District 2 has the highest number of victors of any district. Volunteers are likely today.”
We watch and wait as the narration drags out the tension. After a pause that seems to go on for several hours a name is finally called and a volunteer steps up. She’s so beautiful that I think if I’d mentioned it this time everyone might have agreed. I barely catch that her name is Anthea and that she’s seventeen.
Statistically males from District 2 win the most and the tension is built up even more for this reaping. No one thinks for a second that the small boy who is actually chosen will end up as the tribute.
Right on cue a volunteer calls out. He does so with a strangely tilted head, as if he too is volunteering on a whim like the boy from District 9.
He’s almost as striking as Anthea and I wonder why it is that most tributes from Career districts are good looking. As he walks onto the stage I note how thin he is, but when the camera goes in for a close up there’s a spark in his eyes that would have been lost if he’d spent a long time living with hunger. It reminds me of Sarah when I first saw her by that body, and even as I think it I realise how strange that sounds. There’s a quirk to his lips as if he’s already won a battle just by volunteering.
“And what’s your name?” asks the glitter covered escort.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Stupid name,” mutters Harry. “Skinny too. Make a note of that.”
“His stupid name or his weight?” asks Sarah with a wryly raised brow.
I shush them and lean forward.
“And your age?”
“Seventeen.”
The escort pushes the microphone towards him one last time.
“So why have you volunteered today?” she asks.
The boy gives that strange, quirking half smile again.
“To annoy my brother.”
Harry flicks off the television before I can protest.
“And there we have it kids. Statistically speaking, he is your most dangerous rival.”
--
Chapter 2
Fic Notes:
*Ossie May Blue is a popular nursery Rhyme amongst district children:
Ossie May Blue
May fly up high
To the whitest moon
In the darkest night
But Ossie May Blue
Can’t see the blue sky
Or the yellow sun
But, why, why, why?
**Sleepers © were popular sleeping aids used in the capital during that period, sending the user to sleep instantly. Famous for their sponsership of the Hunger Games and their marketing slogan of ‘How do you sleep at night?’, they became very unfashionable due to their incompatibility with many weight supressing aids and after a series of Capitol public announcements re-educating the citizens on how to sleep naturally, they were withdrawn ten years before the second rebellion.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this so far. I'd love to hear what you think. Also if you'd like a message when it updates I usually post a comment under each review when a new chapter is up (I find it so easy to miss chapters on WIPs myself). Thank for for reading!