This is written in Mycroft Holmes' POV because I've not seen a Sherlock-Hunger Games crossover yet with him in... so yeah. Any ideas for later chapters are welcome. Hope you enjoy ^v^
I'd lived my life carefully, skillfully with the precision of a chess master trying to preserve a certain piece. I'd avoided tessera- even if it meant lean meals in winter and what did I get in return? A one-way ticket to the capital and a 23 in 24 chance of returning home in a body bag. But the name choosen was mine. Mine alone.
This year, my luck had deserted me. As I stepped onto the podium, I was painfully aware of all the precautions I took to avoid being reaped falling into redunancy. The crowd below me was silent. I let my face become one of indifference; knowing no amount of emotion would change my fate. The camera's were trained on me and my family. My brother, Sherlock, stared stonily up at me. He ignored the camera lens that was almost pressed against his cheekbones, as he watched me mount the stairs. A gleeful capital woman awaited me. The badly applied makeup, garish assortment of accessories and frilly dress nausiated me beyond anything I had ever experienced. My parents also maintained satisfactory composure until the forced applause faded away.
"There we are dear." Trilled the capital woman as she positioned me uncomfortably close to the female tribute, Molly Hooper. " The tributes of district 12."
Again, there was a pitiful amount of applause. Only those who'd grown too old for The Games, with no children of their own to worry about, clapped. The captial woman pursed her lips until they disappeared into her rose tinted skin. A masked Peacekeeper lead us away. But I had only eyes for my family as I entered the Justice Building. The infamous chains of the Hunger Games enveloped me as the doors slammed shut.
The snivelling slip of a girl, Molly Hooper, walked ahead. Her ponytail swung back and forth like a pendilum but I couldn't distinguish whether it was auburn or brown. The capital woman strutted alongside me. She was trying her hardest to catch my eye and seduce me into small talk, but I ignored every attempt at conversation. Her unnecessarily high heels clicked irritatingly in the silence until we reached a door. The door swung open and Molly was ushered inside. I was paraded further down the corridor to an identical door, then pushed inside.
It was eleven minutes later when there was a sharp rap on the door. I had just gotten to my feet when my mother flung herself at me. Baring in mind the circumstances, I tried to 'hug' her back. The physical contact was nothing short of repulsive but I complimented myself: as the duration had been neither impolite or rude. The tears in her eyes were the same when the third Holmes brother had been reaped... full of despair and indescribable terror. When she withdrew I could see Sherlock and my father stood in the door frame. The latter approached,
" Mycroft. I don't need to tell you to be brave. Just find water. Think survival and don't form enemies too quickly. Especially before going into the arena because then they'll single you out-"
"Yes father." I nodded stiffly as to save him the pain of rambling on. We shook hands. His hands held firm within mine, and the absence of tremblings told me he'd put up a resistance to the emotional trauma. Good. It wouldn't end well for dear Sherlock if both our parents succumbed to mindless terror.
Father and mother gave watery smiles as I turned expectantly to Sherlock. He was leaning against the white washed wall with a look of both thoughfulness and annoyance.
" Brother mine. Have you nothing to say?" I asked. Sherlock hitched his collar up ridiculously high and rounded on me. His eyes were the most startling shade of green as they were heavy with unshed tears. Not tears of sadness, no. Tears of frustration perhaps. Other people may have mistaken this as a display of brotherly affection but I knew better.
He'd wanted to volunteer. Nothing in district 12 could satisfy his desire for death and mystery, not even the annual airing of The Hunger Games. Alas, he was but one year too young for The Games.
" Mycroft, you're the smart one- you always have been. Although you're not skilled with any weapon besides your own tongue you have a chance. The tributes are likely to be bludgering fools incapeable of any clever thought; you'll have the high ground."
" And yet, this is a fight to the death. Does no-one realise what problems this will bring? I've got to kill people, I've got to defend myself and survive in the arena. Fortunately the latter is no trouble for me, but the former will be problematic in the very least."
" Mycroft-"
" Look quickly, if you've got anything important to tell me. Say it now. Peacekeepers are coming."
Sure enough, the marching footsteps were growing louder and louder. Sherlock ruffled his hair and whispered urgently into my ear,
" You're allowed a token- something to remind you of home whilst your fighting. An item to motivate you to kill for the sole reason of bring honour to your district. I tried to bring your umbrella but the Peacekeeper's wouldn't let me. So I brought you this instead."
Reaching into the depths of his long black coat he produced a scarf. It was soft to the touch and of the darkest, midnight blue that it might be mistaken as black. I'd seen this around Sherlock's neck more times than I cared to remember, whether he was playing pirate or detective. I shook my head,
" They'll never let me keep this. It'll be advantageous if the arena is a frozen wasteland but if they confiscate it... you'll not get it back."
" That's a risk I'm willing to take Mycroft."
The Peacekeeper's had arrived. He quickly shoved the scarf into my hands as the uniformed men dragged him away. I stowed it deep into my pocket and watched the receeding mop of curly hair amidst the helmets. My family was gone. I was alone.