A/M: Forever ago, someone on tumblr requested a Hunger Games AU. It got out of hand.
This is a Sherlock Hunger Games AU set during a Quarter Quell, spoilers for season two only. This was written before season three was released, which is why some things (mainly the structure of the Holmes family and details about Mary Morstan) don't match up. A couple of s3 details have been incorporated, but nothing of any significance. Any elements from Sherlock or The Hunger Games series that are included/excluded/altered were done so deliberately.
The whole thing has long since been written, but it updates weekly on Mondays, and is about 40k words in total.
CHAPTER ONE: AN ELEMENT OF BLANK
"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell. On the seventy-fifth
anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their actions against the Capitol
have consequences for every person in Panem, the tributes will be reaped from the
general population, regardless of the age or gender of the individuals chosen."
. . .
John woke to starvation clawing inside of him.
He could hear the faint clinking of bottles in the next room. Harry, desperately searching for a drink that she wouldn't find. She'd gone without for two days now. While John didn't approve of her drinking, he would gladly have supplied her had he been able to, just to keep away the withdrawal symptoms. But there was no money to be spent on an addiction. He had to make sure they stayed alive, not inebriated.
Harry was naturally not enthused by John's priorities.
John looked around the dirty little room, eyes lingering on the cracks running through the window. The wind seeped through them. They would have to be fixed before winter. There was only the faintest hint of sunlight forcing its way through the dirt and grime on the glass. John pushed himself up and reached for his bag. He would have to hurry if he wanted to get past the fences unseen.
As he slipped outside, he caught a glimpse of Harry, her hair dirty and pulled back out of her face, eyes bloodshot, tearing through a chest that she knew had no bottles in it. But she checked anyway.
She had become so much worse after Clara died. Clara had worked in the black market for as long as John could remember. One day, there was a raid, and she had been one of the casualties. John had had to drag Harry away. The image of Clara's body being removed was still burned on both their brains.
John wished he could have done more for them that day. But he had so little to work with. He did what he could, but he often felt it wasn't enough.
He rested his hand on the dead section of the electrified fence, and couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if one day he touched it and it was live again.
. . .
Sherlock watched as John eased through the hole in the fence at the edge of the District. Every morning the local healer would set out early to try and scrounge up enough food for him and his alcoholic sister. Since Sherlock almost never slept, he was the only one to ever witness this ritualistic devotion.
He watched John disappear into the woods, and for a moment thought about following him, joining him. But then he remembered his obligations, and he knew that there would be no way around them. Especially not today.
. . .
John sat on a fallen tree turning the gun over in his hands. It was his prized possession, passed down to him by his father. When he was very little, John had asked why healers would need guns, and his father hadn't answered. John had seen the extra years etched into his face, not understanding. Now he knew. Sometimes there was nothing left you could do for someone except end their pain as quickly as possible. Bullets were hard to come by, so it was always a last resort, but there had been a few times over the years where mercy called for them. He always carried it in the woods as a safety measure. He rarely used it to hunt. It was hard for him to see the pistol as an instrument for killing when for so long it had been an instrument to ease suffering for lost causes.
He couldn't decide if he should risk using the gun today. It was the morning of the Reaping, and his hand was a little shaky. There would be more people coming in and out of the District, a greater chance of the gunfire being heard, and a greater chance of being seen with whatever he killed.
"You're thinking too hard again," a voice said from a few feet away. John looked up and saw Mary smiling down at him, bow slung over her shoulder. Mary was a strong, athletic woman, blonde and tan, usually wearing a smirk. She had a fiery personality, and John always thought that her enthusiasm was her way of coping. He also believed it could potentially get her into trouble.
They had been hunting together for years. Mary had her own family to look after, but the two of them usually worked together, and more than once they'd managed to catch enough to share with other families.
"I'm just trying to decide how much to try and bring in today. You know the streets will be more crowded than usual."
Mary flopped down next to him. "Yes, the District will be crawling with Capitol morons, strutting around in the latest fashions," she said, her voiced laced with disdain.
"Aren't you worried?"
"John, look. We all have an equal shot this year, yes. But there's nothing we can do about it." The recently announced stipulation for the Reaping had been that the two tributes selected could be of any age or any gender. The Capitol said it was to remind them that their actions had consequences for everyone, but all it told John was that even surviving into adulthood didn't guarantee your safety from the Capitol's practices. And he had been horrified at the implications. What if the names drawn were, for instance, a strong healthy man and a four year old girl? It was drastically unfair, he thought. Everyone had an equal chance at the Reaping, yes, but that guaranteed that there would be nothing close to an equal chance in the arena. "Personally, I like my chances. The odds are in my favor for once." She grinned.
"But Mary, there are some people who shouldn't even have a chance at being tributes. Awful as it is, at least on a regular year you knew it would be someone between twelve and eighteen."
She laid a hand on his shoulder. "John, I know you want to save everyone, to fix things. But some things can't be fixed, and you can't protect every person in the District, as much as you try to. All we can do is keep fighting to the best of our abilities until we can escape."
John scoffed. "Escape? There is no escape from this, Mary."
"It won't always be like this."
"Don't talk like that. You know damn well that the people aren't strong enough to stand up for themselves. The Capitol has made sure of that." Mary had always been thrilled by the prospect of a new government. She had a revolutionary spirit. And while John could respect that spirit in other people, he simply wasn't hopeful enough to entertain the idea himself.
"Well, then. Let's prove them wrong." She grabbed her bow and led the way into the woods.
. . .
Sherlock walked across the Square in front of the Hall of Justice where an army of workers was finishing setting up the stage in front of the city hall building. He pushed past them to go inside, the sudden transition from dusty to clean more of a shock than ever. Sherlock had spent the better part of the last few years in this building. His brother had seen to that, much to his chagrin.
Sherlock was the product of an affair between a Capitol ambassador and Sherlock's mother. Mycroft was the man's legitimate child, born and raised in the Capitol. Sherlock had never even met their father, but had a feeling that if he was even remotely like Mycroft, he wouldn't have liked him much anyway. The man sent enough money to keep Sherlock and his mother alive. When she died, the money stopped for a few horrible years, and then was reinstated by Mycroft. Sherlock was never sure if he did it out of guilt or a twisted sense of misplaced familial obligation.
Mycroft himself was a minor government official. Sherlock sometimes doubted the validity of that statement, always believing that he had more power than he was willing to let on. For the last few years though, Mycroft had come from the Capitol to act as escort for the District's tributes. Every time, he would insist on seeing Sherlock, spouting words of "brotherly concern," which Sherlock mostly ignored.
Mycroft had also "graciously" gotten Sherlock work. Well known for his intellect, Sherlock was ordered to assist the Peacekeepers in their investigations. He felt like a traitor most days, and it did nothing for the general public's opinion of him. But he did his best to deliberately lead them astray when he could manage it. And he couldn't complain that his quality of life was higher than most people's.
His pride wanted to ignore every handout from his brother, and while he disliked the set up, it was better than starving to death.
Sherlock hadn't seen Mycroft since the previous year. That was one of the only perks of his brother being a Capitol tool. He never had to see him except when he came in on government business.
He shut the office door behind him and cast a distasteful glance at his brother, who stood across the room wearing an absolutely atrocious dark blue suit textured to look like snakeskin.
"Trying to imitate your animal counterpart, Mycroft?"
"Good to see you as well, Sherlock."
. . .
John and Mary met up on the way to the Reaping later that day. Harry trailed behind them, hands trembling from nerves and withdrawal. She had that spacey look in her eyes that told John she wasn't truly all there.
"She been like that all day?"
John nodded, stepping aside for a pack of children racing past him in their Reaping day best. "All week, really. I mean, you know how little we've been able to bring in lately. There hasn't been enough lying around for her to trade it in for alcohol. I just want her to get through this day. Then I'll strap her down in bed if that's what it takes to get her some rest."
John squinted in the sun. The Square was filled to the brim. He could see the bowl of names on the stage, not separated into male or female this year. Just one containing every name of every person in the District old enough to walk. He saw an old woman leading a child to the appropriate line and tried to push away the mental image of the woman fighting anyone to the death.
Standing nonchalantly on the other side of the Square was a tall man in a dark purple shirt. He looked terribly bored. John recognized him. He had seen Sherlock around before. No one in District 12 especially liked him. There were all sorts of rumors about what his actual job was, and most people thought best to not trust him at all. He had, as far as John knew, no family or friends to speak of. He may have been unlikeable, but John couldn't judge him for whatever work he did. They all did what they had to to get by.
John's attention was drawn away by a flash of light from the stage.
. . .
Sherlock rolled his eyes as the sunlight reflected off of Mycroft's favorite prop, a metallic gold umbrella that he twirled around in swooping circles as he walked to the microphone.
"Good afternoon and happy Hunger Games, everyone! And may the odds be ever in your favor." With a snap of his wrist, Mycroft started the yearly propaganda film. Sherlock thought this was the worst part of the Reaping, sitting around, pretending to listen to the history that everyone could recite already. It was terribly dull. And then came the few words from the President. Sherlock found himself unnerved by the eyes of Moran staring down at all of them, smiling as amiably as possible for a man who allowed government approved mass murder every year. Then the video shut off and Mycroft began to speak, making Sherlock wish for Moran back.
"As you all know, this is our 75th Hunger Games. Recently, the special rules for the Quarter Quell were announced, and I know how excited you all are to hear the results of today's Reaping. So, let's get right to it, shall we?" With a pursed-lip smile, Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his free arm and reached in for his first slip of paper. "Now for our first tribute from District 12, the honor goes to...Harriet Watson."
The Square remained silent, as they did every year, as Mycroft's eyes searched the crowd for the tribute. Sherlock craned his neck and followed his gaze, his eyes landing on the woman. She was the healer's sister. Everyone in town knew that she was about one more drink of whiskey away from liver failure. Sherlock shook his head. He wasn't even sure if she was aware of what had just happened. She wouldn't last long.
Her brother looked terrified. Sherlock had never seen anything resembling panic on the man's face before. The blonde woman he always hunted with grabbed his arm, sympathetic while simultaneously reminding him to not do anything stupid.
One of the Peacekeepers came and began to lead Harry up through the crowds. She numbly obeyed.
When they were about halfway to the stage, Sherlock saw a change come over John's face. The panic had vanished. And he called out, "I volunteer!"
There were few things that could shock Sherlock Holmes, but he felt his jaw drop as he watched the healer push his way through to his sister. Harry began sobbing and shaking her head, trying to get him to take it back, but he wouldn't, and eventually one of the Peacekeepers grabbed her by the arms while the other led John up the rest of the way to the stage. Harry went into hysterics as she was being pulled away.
Maybe Mycroft is right. Maybe bravery is just a kind word for stupidity.
. . .
John tried to focus on his breathing as he walked across the stage. The only sound he could hear in the Square was Harry crying somewhere in the crowds. It hadn't even been a conscious decision when he'd volunteered. It was a given. Harry would never stand a chance in the arena.
He walked up to the Capitol escort, a prim and pompous looking man who asked for his name, and he replied quietly, and was then taken off to the side to wait for the second name to be called.
Please, God, no children. I will never be able to kill a child.
"And our second tribute from District 12..." John looked up. The man paused, staring at the slip of paper as if it were in a foreign language. His grin faded. "Sherlock Holmes."
John looked across the Square and saw the man walk toward the stage, refusing to let the Peacekeepers come get him. He didn't look scared or even worried, as most did, as John was sure he looked now. He seemed resigned, indifferent. Sherlock walked up toward the escort and stared him down. The man from the Capitol reached out to shake his hand as he had with John, and said in a hollow voice, "Congratulations, brother dear." Sherlock only looked down at his hand and scoffed before walking away to stand by John. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Sherlock and tried to pretend he hadn't just witnessed the most dysfunctional family reunion in the history of the world.
. . .
John sat in the little living room, waiting for his last visits from his friends and loved ones. Sherlock would be going through the same thing somewhere else in the building. John wondered how he was handling it. Sherlock Holmes had always seemed a detached sort of man, but how could anyone remain so cold and objective when they essentially heard they were going to die? John didn't have any delusions that he was going to come back from this. He could hope, of course, but the reality was that District 12 was not known for its winning tributes.
The door opened and a Peacekeeper let Harry slink in. Her eyes were red from crying, and when John stood up, she rushed to him and collapsed against him, holding on to him like she had no intention of letting him go. He put his arms around her and tried to calm her down, to no avail.
"John, what were you thinking?! Why did you do it!"
"I wasn't going to send you in to die, Harry." She pulled back and stared up at him.
"But you'll send in yourself? John, I'm not the only one here who depends on you. What will we do if we lose you?"
He gave her a weak smile. "Then I guess I'll have to win so you don't have to find out." He knew she could hear the lie in his voice, but the words seemed to comfort her all the same.
She hugged him tight again and whispered, "Be careful, John."
And then the Peacekeepers came and took her away. A few minutes later, they let in Mary.
"John, you idiot, you are going to get yourself killed." She stood a few feet in front of him, arms crossed.
"What did you want me to do, Mary? I wasn't going to send in a sad alcoholic like Harry. I stand a better chance than she does."
"You stand no chance, John. No one from our District ever survives. And the other man that was chosen? Sherlock Holmes? He's smart, John, and from what I hear, he won't hesitate before throwing you to the wolves the first chance he gets."
"We don't know him well enough to judge, Mary."
"You've always been a good man, John. But that's not going to help you now. Remember, when you're in that arena, the people you see there aren't people anymore. They're animals. And we hunt animals. Don't let your healer sympathies get in the way of protecting yourself."
"I won't."
Mary blinked back a few stubborn tears and shook her head. "I wish I believed that." She knew that if there were women or children from the other Districts left in the arena with him that he would sooner kill himself than them.
"Promise me you'll look after Harry while I'm gone. If anything happens to me and I don't come back, please take care of her."
Mary nodded. "Of course. I'll do whatever I can." She gave him a kiss on his cheek and said, "As long as you promise me that you'll try to win."
"I promise."
. . .
Sherlock heard the muffled crying as someone walked past the door in the hall. Had to be the sister. Sherlock leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling. He hoped it wouldn't take much longer for John Watson to go through his loved ones. Sherlock was getting bored. It was so tedious, pretending that someone would come. He knew better. No one would see him off. The only family he had was putting the finishing touches on the paperwork before they headed off to the train. And there was no one else in the District who would miss him. He was sure that, as far as they were concerned, he was as good as dead already.
John stared out the window of the train, watching the scenery fly by him. Sherlock Holmes sat a few seats down the table, picking at his food with distaste. John had thought it was delicious, but somehow the effect was ruined by what waited at the other end of the rail line.
The doors at the end of the room whooshed open and the escort from the Capitol, who Sherlock had called Mycroft, strode in, umbrella still hooked over his arm.
"Enjoying the delicacies, you two?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. John tried to smile. Mycroft took a seat on a plush sofa beneath the window.
"So, where's our mentor, then? I thought you said she was coming?" John asked.
"Get right to the point, do you? She will be along shortly. She was rather, how shall we say, indisposed."
Even as he said it, the doors opened again and a woman in a long bathrobe came in and took a seat across from John and Sherlock at the table. She had a great mass of dark hair hanging loose around her and was wearing a self-satisfied smirk on her face. John had heard stories about Irene Adler. She was considered wild and uncontrollable back in the District. But she had at some point had enough of a handle on life to win the Games, at least. John could remember the year she was chosen. She had been fourteen at the time and had gone into it with all the confidence and vitality of a Career. John didn't watch the footage, but he had seen her after she came back. She spent her life as a victor drowning in debauchery and drug use. He'd seen her around the District with her "friend" Kate and her collection of syringes. But John was sure that was her way of coping with what she must have seen in the arena, so he couldn't really fault her.
She reached across the table and poured herself a cup of coffee. Mycroft looked at her disapprovingly. "Decided to finally join us, Miss Adler?"
"Oh, don't be so grumpy, Iceman. I was tied up. Literally. Coincidentally, there is the cutest little worker bee a few cars down." She leaned her arms on the table and stared hard at John and Sherlock. "Hmm, I've certainly worked with less." She pointed at John. "You're the one who volunteered for a family member, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"That will look very good with the sponsors. They'll adore it. We'll play the martyr angle."
"What about survival skills?"
"Darling, that's what we're doing. Think of this. Who usually wins?"
"The first two Districts."
"Right. And what do those two have that none of the others do?" There was silence. John and Sherlock glanced at each other, not knowing what she was getting at. "Money. Money earns you an image long before you're even selected as a tribute. And an image gets your sponsors. The Careers are in the limelight from the second they're chosen. Since we have none of the money and so none of the publicity, it's harder for us to make an impression. And we must make an impression. Otherwise, you may as well be in the arena without a weapon. So creating the right image for you is vital."
"And you know how to make an impression with these people, then?" Sherlock asked, his voice tinged with condescension.
Irene smiled. "I know what they like. You're going to be a harder sell, I can tell you that much."
Sherlock seemed to prickle slightly at her words. "A harder sell?"
"You're not very likeable, Mr. Holmes. I know you both think I've spent my years since my Games in a drugged haze, but I listen, and I know what people think about you. They're about as fond of you as they are of your half-brother." Mycroft rolled his eyes at her. "You're cold and superior, and that sort of attitude won't win you any sponsors. Take John for example. He's a healer who volunteered to save his sister. He's warm and friendly. The public will love him. You don't smile, you barely even speak, and most of your District thinks you've sold them out at one point or another. And I have to find a way to make you as likeable as John."
Sherlock shrugged. "Only one person can win anyway, so what does it matter? You said so yourself that we're statistically unlikely."
"Try and keep that attitude under wraps in the Capitol during the interviews. No one will like it." Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. "It's my job to try and make them like you. If you want to be the first one dead in the arena, then that's your business." She paused, looking him over, considering. "Maybe we can find a way to play up the intelligence angle. It's sexy, when you're not insulting someone. I'll see what I can come up with. Just try not to alienate anyone in the time being."
"And me?"
Irene turned to John. "Just act like you normally would. Smile, wave, talk to people. Play the game."
. . .
John slept fitfully that night, despite being on the most comfortable bed he'd ever known inside the darkest, calmest bedroom ever built. Even the slight motion from the train couldn't lull him into a restful sleep. He just lay awake staring into the dark, thinking about how less than a day ago, he'd been sitting at home with Harry, eating their meager dinner and planning the next hunt.
He had repeated Irene's words in his head over and over. Play the game, play the game. Be a proper piece in it, and maybe you stand a chance. John wasn't optimistic.
He heard the faint sound of footsteps from somewhere farther down the train. Sherlock, no doubt, up pacing. The man seemed uncomfortable whenever he was forced to be still. John wondered if he was too nerve-wracked to sleep as well. Of course, that would have been a normal response, and there was nothing normal about Sherlock. John thought that might just help him in the arena, along with his detachment.
And the more John thought about it, the less likely he found it that, if faced with the opportunity, he would be able to kill him.