A little message to any pre-existing readers...

I have made the decision to rewrite this story and changing the style from third to first person. I am most comfortable writing this way and I'm beginning to realise that is the best way to write this particular story. Therefore I have taken down the three chapters and am replacing them with new writing. There is new content so you're not reading the same writing, and personally I think it's so much more improved.

Thank you to those that have followed, favourited and reviewed. You're all appreciated so much! Now, let's begin with the story...

Sherlock

Reaping day. I never looked forward to this, it was such a tedious waste of my time. I had other things to be occupied with, things of more importance, such as trying to find out who had been involved in the latest spread of rumours against my family.

I lay on my bed, eyes closed and focusing on my deductions. Someone had suggested that my family were being given special treatments by the Capitol, and I was determined to find out who it could be. There was a woman in the market that I had seen a few days prior to the rumour. She had looked at me with distaste, though in hindsight I realised this may have been because my white cotton shirt had specks of blood on it from a time-consuming fight. It couldn't have been her. That did lead me to another speculation of whether it was the boy who fought me. He had mentioned words of my brother and Anthea, our district's escort for the tributes chosen. I was never one to defend Mycroft, but this particular occasion caught me in a bad mood. I won the fight.

"Come back to Panem, Sherlock."

I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling above me. "Kyle Smith."

"What?"

I turned my head to see my older sibling standing in the doorway. He was leaning on a cane that he had been given as a gift from Anthea, his face scrutinizing my appearance. In return I copied his behaviour, noticing how he also wore a new tie and suit. His black shoes were freshly polished, his hair combed back upon his head neatly. Mycroft always wanted to look presentable, but today was different. I raised one corner of my mouth into a small smile.

"Are you planning on seeing your favourite escort today?"

Mycroft tilted his head dangerously, eyes widening as a warning for me to end my comments. "Must you be so irritating?"

"I learned from the best, brother dear."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "We need to be at the square in ten minutes, get your jacket on."

I stood up and walked over to the jacket that hung on the end of my bed. "Kyle Smith is the boy that spread the rumours."

At the revelation, Mycroft straightened his stance and said nothing. He considered my words and nodded before turning and exiting my room.

I put on my jacket and straightened it up before walking out of the room, adapting my new personality almost immediately. I had learned that radiating confidence intimidated people and it became a trait I so frequently portrayed. It stopped people thinking it necessary to talk to me, so I could deduce from afar.

In the front room of our house, my mother and father stood waiting. Mycroft was beside them, though he was clearly feeling impatient with his want to 'speak' with the boy who spread rumours.

My mother stared at me, taking in the sight. The reaping day always made her tense and overprotective of me, though I saw no need for those emotions. My father at her side had a hint of sadness to his face but a comforting arm around his wife.

"You look so smart," mother informed me with an upset smile.

"I am smart," I responded.

"You are intelligent," she said, walking to me and straightening the collar of the jacket I wore. "If you were smart, you would take care to fix your clothing so you look even more formal."

"I like the collar up," I frowned.

She smiled again and stepped back, her eyes not moving away from me. I drew my eyebrows together in confusion.

"I'm not going to be picked," I assured. "Somebody will volunteer as they always do here."

My mother nodded her head, then tore her gaze away to the door. "We should be going."

I internally groaned, following my parents to the door while Mycroft walked behind.

It was a short walk to the main square that the reaping took place. There were small sections of grass alongside the square, defining its shape in a way molded to appear aesthetically pleasing. I thought it looked hideously unnatural with a colour only slightly resembling the shade I had seen in green emeralds sold in the markets but mainly distributed to the Capitol.

As we reached the lottery draw, parents parted ways from their children and so did I. My mother planted a small kiss on the top of my brown, curly hair and walked away in silence with my father. Mycroft hung back with me for a few short seconds.

"There's no need to be scared, Sherlock."

"I'm not scared," I shot back. "I won't be picked."

"One shouldn't bury their emotions for the sake of reputation," Mycroft told me.

I pulled a face. "My so called 'reputation' hasn't contributed to my lack of anxiety."

"Hm," my older brother muttered before turning away and walking to my parents. "I will see you after the reaping, little brother."

I narrowed my eyes, glaring at Mycroft behind his back. He had been free of the reaping for three years while this was my fifth year enduring the raffle. While I wished I didn't have to spend time on attending the event as a possible contestant, I knew that I would still have to witness it as an onlooker when I reached adulthood.

I approached the queue of teenagers from my district, noticing how I blended in beneath the crowds. I wasn't short, but many of the older boys from the district looked as if they had been genetically altered to be more muscular and taller. I knew it wasn't a case of genes for the physical power they held over the younger people and many other districts, but simply that they had been trained for longer. I, on the other hand, relied on my brain to hold power. My brain had a higher functioning than everyone in the queue and the crowds, which was more important to me than any fighting skills.

The man sat at the small desk asked my name.

"Sherlock Holmes," I said.

He found my name and took my blood, printing it upon the page. I was then allowed to become another hidden face in the crowd of many, waiting in boredom to find out who would be chosen for the games.

A tapping on the stage hushed the talking crowd a few minutes later. Upon the raised platform, Anthea strutted across to the centre where a microphone stood.

"Happy Hunger Games," she grinned, her voice clear and elevated into a happy tone.

There were a few cheers from around the audience. Ridiculous.

The film that was shown annually played on a big screen, all eyes watching attentively except my own. Afterwards, Anthea spoke cheerfully as she went to pick the name for the female tribute. She faked her mood for the reaping every year. I knew she hated doing it, particularly in our district, but she only stayed in the job for fear of what could happen if she decided to quit. That wasn't really an option for the Capitol, she had implied.

"The female tribute for District One is," she began, unfolding the paper slip in her hand. "Kate Adams."

"I volunteer as tribute," a voice in the girl's audience said, sounding confident and calm.

A girl with light skin and her brown hair tied back into a smooth bun made her way onto the stage. She told her name to Anthea who looked almost overwhelmed with happiness.

"Irene Adler, everybody!"

People applauded. I narrowed my eyes in curiosity. Her reason for volunteering was clearly not pride and self confidence. I could see from the way her eyes found a face in the female audience that it was more than that.

The boys name was chosen next, the same procedure coming from Anthea.

"And our District One male is," she hesitated. "Sherlock Holmes."

I stared ahead, brain slowly processing what had been announced. I blinked quickly for a few seconds.

"Well?" Anthea didn't sound as excited as she had before, but still attempted to appear thrilled. "Come on up, Sherlock. Unless we have any volunteers?"

Nobody volunteered.

I stepped out of the crowd and made my way up onto the stage, soon back under my shelter of confidence. I stood beside the tribute that seemed older than me, feeling her eyes study my face briefly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Anthea gestured to us. "The District One tributes."

I scanned the crowd. Male tributes were exchanging glances and words among themselves, perhaps discussing why they didn't volunteer themselves this year. I knew it was because of the opinions people had of my family, and I apparently didn't help myself when I insulted people. That's what Mycroft said.

My eyes fell on my family. My mother looked broken, my father shocked, and my brother disappointed.

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