"Come on, boys. You know we've got to get there at 2:00 sharp." Violet Holmes patted Sherlock's back and looked at Mycroft meaningfully. Mycroft had, of course, been ready to leave for a while.

Sherlock's small, sharp-boned face looked even more pale than usual against the dark leather of his hand-me-down jacket. He bunched his hands in the pockets and ignored his older brother's disgustingly worried expression. Mother's upset, of course. Why should Mycroft be upset? The odds are low and I didn't sign up for tessara because our food supply is perfectly steady, and Mother has a steady job.

Mycroft held the door for Sherlock and their mother. Sherlock turned up his collar against the wind. He spotted a girl he knew from school hurrying along with her sister, their parents close behind. Mycroft gave him a small shove forward, making the thirteen-year-old boy stumble a bit on his way into the street. "Mycroft, honestly," Mother said.

"Sorry, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't respond, he just wanted to get everything over with so he could go back to his experiments simmering in his room.

Sherlock was standing rigidly in the group of twelve-to-thirteen year olds, arms crossed across his chest as the speakers boomed, greeting the children and spectators of the District 3 reaping. As usual, the bizarre man with purple hair was being far too happy about being in charge of District 3 during the reapings. Finally finishing his feet-numbingly long speech, he waltzed over to the ball that contained the girl's names.

As the ball spun, Sherlock could just see the various names of girls he knew from school, reputation or his mother's friends. He would've tried to guess, but it was pure chance. Of course, the LeMarre family had been on tense terms with the Capitol people as of late...

The man caught ahold of a slip of paper. Sherlock could practically hear the intake of breath from the people around him as he brought it up to his eyes and read aloud, "Genette LeMarre!" Sherlock sighed through his nose. Of course.

Genette emerged from the crowd and walked up the platform, taking small steps as a tear rolled down her cheek. Sherlock could see her father's face crumpling at the edge of the crowd. He could barely hold back an eye roll. It was strange, how much the families of the people who'd been reaped cared about them. Sherlock had never been upset when Mycroft's name was entered in the ball for six years straight. The only real concern was that without his older brother, life would be a bit harder.

I guess it is a little scary. My odds of being drawn are low. But so are everybody elses'. Ah, speak of the devil. I wonder where Mother picked up that saying, sounds old.

The purple-haired man had caught hold of a name. And he was just now reading it. Sherlock's stomach suddenly contracted. He was never able to figure out why, but he always remembered that he knew for certain what the man was going to say.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock swallowed and pushed his way to the front of the group of twelves and thirteens. The audience was sort of mumbling to itself. It struck him that they thought it was unfair that a thirteen-year-old was chosen, which was ridiculous, of course. The whole cursed business was unfair. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft and his mother. Mycroft was stone-faced and his mother was quietly weeping into his older brother's shoulder. Despite his usual thoughts, Sherlock felt a pang in his chest.

He loved his mother, as much as he could. He didn't want his death to hurt her.

Sherlock made it to the podium and shook hands with Genette, who had tears visibly rolling down her cheeks now. Sherlock allowed the expression of disdain to show on his face. The cameras would love it.

"Well, Sherlock, what has impressed you about the Capitol so far?" Caesar Flickerman asked.

"The amount of secrets it holds." Sherlock tilted his head as the audience tittered. He wasn't aware he'd said anything funny. His mentor, a man in his 30s named Beetee, had warned him about this. Beetee had said that what he said in this 3-minute interview would help him in the Games. As the male tribute from District 3, he'd only had to sit through the idiotic Careers and Genette's disaster of an interview before being allowed to come on stage. Only one person before him had stood out. It was a fifteen-year-old boy from District 2, who was remarkably short and quiet for a Career.

Caesar laughed. "Secrets, eh? What made you notice the secrets?"

Sherlock snorted. "I always notice the secrets."

"Really? How do you mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt his mouth creep up into a smile. "Why don't I show you?" At a nod from Caesar, Sherlock sat back in his chair, steepling his hands underneath his chin, staring intently at a woman in the front row of the audience. She blushed slightly under his gaze. "Come up onto the stage." The woman hesitantly rose and climbed the stairs, standing awkwardly next to Sherlock's chair. "Tell me, ma'am, how is your ascension on the political ladder going?"

The woman blushed and stammered out, "F-fine, thank you for asking."

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Why not?"

"You have two children, neither of which are particularly fond of you but are no doubt receiving a lot of pleasure from seeing you on TV. Your husband, a morphling addict-" the woman gasped, "-oh, was that a secret? It was exceedingly obvious from the spots on your cuffs that clearly come from a splash of vomit, which normally would be from drinking, but you don't smell of alcohol in the slightest, so morphling it is. If it were one of your children you wouldn't have come to the interviews today, seeing as you feel considerably more sentiment for them than they do for you. If it was a one time experience, again, you'd be home as opposed to showing up for a live and required viewing experience." Sherlock stopped, noticing the expressions of Caesar and the woman's.

The woman slunk back to her seat as the audience murmured. Sherlock turned to Caesar. "Not good?"

Caesar laughed. "That was amazing!" Sherlock blinked. That's unusual. "So, we've only got about a minute left. How d'you think you're going to do in the Games, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed. "Do you really want to know, Caesar? I think I'm going to die. But I do know one thing. I don't particularly feel like dying. And the other tributes are idiots."

"Including your district partner?" Caesar said, raising a magenta eyebrow.

"Including her. Don't be offended, everybody is."

"Sherlock, a lot of tributes wouldn't try to antagonize themselves so early in the Games."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. "I am not 'a lot of tributes,' Caesar. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to propel myself into surviving as long as possible." He smiled. "You know, this is beginning to sound rather fun. Because if I get outwitted by anybody, that would be losing. And I don't lose."

"What happens if you do lose?"

"Well, that would defeat the entire purpose of my existence, wouldn't it?"