"Come on, Harry! If we're late this morning, Mum'll kill us!"
He heard a groan from behind the closed door. Of course she'd choose today of all days to sleep in. He tried pounding once more, knowing the effect it would have.
"All right, all right. I'm coming!" his sister yelled, words slightly slurred. He grinned, despite his nervousness. She'd been out drinking last night. And now she was paying for it.
A hangover plus the Reaping. Maybe karma did exist.
He waited, listening to the slight shuffling sounding through the wood. It was coupled with a few moans and coughs. His smirk widened.
Finally the door was wrenched open before him, and a disgruntled-looking Harriet Watson stepped through. Her hair was tangled but in order, and she was wearing her nicest clothes: a fairly-clean white blouse with a knee-length denim skirt. If it weren't for the color in her cheeks and angry glint in her eyes, she would have appeared to be a normal eighteen year old.
She gave him a once over and smiled. It almost reached her eyes. "Little brother, looking all grown up," she muttered, reaching up to tousle his neatly combed hair. He failed to bite back the soft smile in return. She knew he hated her underage drinking, and he took it to heart that she at least tried to spare him the sight.
"Did you even try to fix your hair?" he grumbled, halfheartedly trying to neaten his own.
She laughed. "Nope. Clara likes it messy. Says it reminds her of my after-sex hair." She waggled her brows.
John made a face. "Ugh. Too much information. Come on, then. There's breakfast waiting." Her eyes lit up, and she followed him to the kitchen. It could be their last meal together.
After clearing the small dishes from the dirty table, John went to his mother to say goodbye. Harry was waiting by the door.
The woman before him looked much too tired to be the lively one of the week before. Sad eyes looked up at him from beneath her graying locks. He smiled gently and pulled her into a hug. He felt the dampness of silent tears on his shoulder.
"Now, now, don't worry," he soothed, pulling back. "We haven't got that many in."
She smiled gloomily. "You've got twenty this year, John."
He shrugged. "There are people with more. I'll be fine. And Harry's only got seven. Just relax."
She nodded solemnly. "I don't think that's possible. But I'll try. For you." She glanced at the entryway, where her daughter leaned lazily in the door frame. "I think it's best you two get a move on. It starts in ten minutes."
John inclined his head and kissed her cheek. "Yes, ma'am." He grabbed a jacket and walked to meet his sister. With a final look back at his mother, John Watson left his home.
They gave their blood and moved to stand in their sections. John stood amongst the other boys his age, finding comfort beside his friend, Mike Stamford.
"Hey, cheer up, Johnny boy," he chuckled nervously. "Look at everyone here. Odds are we won't even know the tributes this year."
John nodded seriously. "Yeah. Yeah," he whispered, trying to convince himself. He couldn't shake off the feeling of despair he'd held since he walked through his door. The feeling that he wouldn't be back.
He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He couldn't afford to think like that. Odds may not be completely in his favor, but they weren't completely against him, either.
He had to hold onto that thought. Without it, he'd be doomed no matter the outcome.
And then he was lifted from his thoughts as the voice of their mayor boomed across the center. He introduced and explained what the Hunger Games were for. John's stomach knotted.
Then he shuffled off the stage, only to be replaced by their escort. Mrs. Hudson. Always Mrs. - nobody knew her first name.
She was a well-liked, kind old woman. Unlike many representatives, she had no desire to be moved to another district. She was fine staying in 11.
That was probably why everyone liked her so well. She didn't belittle them.
And yet that meant nothing as soon as she began announcing.
"Happy Hunger Games!" she encouraged, though her eyes denied it being so. They were sad, almost piteous in their knowledge. She knew that she very well might never see two of the children in the crowd ever again. "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
John almost snorted. Twenty slips? Yeah, right.
At least her Capitol accent wasn't as strong as the rest of the escorts.
She continued to preach to the crowd about how she loved her district, and what an honor this all was. John yawned.
He once again was fully alert as she announced, "Ladies first!" He held his breath as her hand wavered above the slips before diving gracefully to retrieve one piece of paper. She presented it briefly and cleared her throat.
"Sarah Sawyer!"
He let out a breath, immensely relieved. Harry would be safe.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to Stamford, who gave him a sad smile. "I know you liked her, John," he said sorrowfully, patting his friend's shoulder. He smiled in appreciation.
That wasn't entirely true – the guys had invented the jibe to embarrass him, more than anything. She attended their school, and he'd talked to her on occasion. She was his friend, but not close. However, the sadness replaced the relief on his face almost naturally. But it still wasn't his sister.
And all comfort vanished as she declared it to be the boys' turn.
He felt his chest hitch as her satin-gloved hand ghosted over the papers. He felt as though the slips with his name were sirens within the bowl. Twenty of them proclaimed John to be the victor.
Her hand dipped.
His blood ran cold, and he knew it before the words left her lips. He was deaf to the world as she read the name.
He watched numbly as her mouth formed the words John Watson.
He felt Stamford's gasp as he turned toward his friend. Similarly, he saw the boys surrounding him, felt their gazes as they accused him of his leaving.
And the sound returned. Everything came in a rush. The hushed whispers of disbelief around him. The cries of his sister from somewhere in the girls' side. The repetition of his name across the center.
"John Watson." Mrs. Hudson repeated. There was a twinge of dismay to her voice. She knew him. Almost everyone did here.
But nobody would be taking his place. That didn't happen here. That only happened in stories of the past games. It was a fairy-tale.
He stepped forward on unfeeling legs.
He was determined not to cry. He wouldn't let his shock show. Any weakness would count against him. Here was not the place to slip up. There would be plenty of time for that later.
He continued through the crowd that automatically parted before him. The boys hung back, resolutely refusing to touch, to comfort. It was as if that through contact, they believed they would receive the same fate. They would be condemned alongside him.
It was a victory in itself that he didn't let that thought reflect across his face.
He became aware of his surroundings once more when he was faced with the long steps leading to the stage. He inhaled deeply and began the climb. It felt like a mountain.
His breath came in sharp pants as he reached the top, though it was not from the work. He felt panic descending, and he steadily pushed it back. Not here.
He shook Sarah's hand with fingers that felt disconnected from his body. She mouthed the words "good luck." He felt himself nod in return.
Then they were being moved forward to stand before the crowd.
He swallowed hard as his eyes found Harry, who was struggling uselessly against two huge Peacekeepers. Their faces were expressionless.
He forced himself to look away, to watch the crowd, to play it all up. He gave a grim smile, and made frozen joints raise a hand.
Instead of waving, he presented an action seldom used in his community. He touched the first three fingers of his left hand to his lips and raised them in a silent salute above the crowd.
He saw Harry's struggling cease slowly as she mirrored his actions. Her tear-stained blue eyes were locked on him.
He noticed movement, and scanned the group until he found Mike, his thick hand raised in the same gesture.
Then there was Sam, his buddy from school. And Monica, the girl he'd dated a few years back. Hands and hearts went out to meet him in a unanimous symbol of mourning.
In that moment, John suddenly felt a dangerous surge of hope. None of them approved. Perhaps they could end this.
But his eyes once more found the Peacekeepers and their hard eyes.
No. He wouldn't be shown any mercy.
As soon as it had appeared, the hope vanished, and he was suddenly struggling to bite back tears once more. He took a shaky breath and gave them all a final nod goodbye.
It may well be his last chance.
"John? Are you listening?" Mrs. Hudson's motherly tones snapped him out of his reverie.
"Huh? Sorry, I was..." He trailed off, realizing that there really was no reason for him to be apologizing.
She nodded in understanding. "That's all right, dear. I was just saying, you'll both have ten minutes per visitor, and there will be an hour of visiting for you both. When it's up, we'll be off." She gave a sympathetic look. "We've tried to raise the time limit, but the Capitol is strict on this one. So, John, you'll have the room on the left, and Sarah, you're on the right. There will be seats in each." With that, she left, and John turned and opened his door.
The room was cold, unwelcoming. The walls and furniture were white. It was the cleanest room he'd seen.
As the entrance shut behind him, he pretended not to hear Sarah crying as she did the same.
Minutes later, Harry and his mother burst through the door. Harriet looked fierce, his mother desperate. Tears ran, unhindered, down their faces.
"This is – they can't..." Harry huffed and threw a punch at the too-clean couch. It expressed what her words could not. Everyone knew that once selected as tribute, a person is stuck until the end. Even John, Harry Watson's little brother.
Instead of attempting coherent sentences, she engulfed him in a crushing hug, burying her face in his shoulder. He started, then gently wrapped his arms around her shaking frame. He felt the dampness of his shirt and ignored it, instead opting to press his cheek in his sister's hair.
A long moment later, she released him and moved to the doorway, waiting for their mother to have her turn. She scrubbed at her eyes with a hard fist.
She moved silently towards him and carefully held his face in her hands. She gave him a soft smile. "So like your father..." A tear fell. She wiped it away with her thumb. She held him in her arms for several minutes that were much too short. He heard the buzzer, signaling the end of their time. John only gripped tighter.
At hearing one of the Peacekeepers open the door impatiently, she sighed and brought his head down to kiss his hair. His shoulders shook, but he held back his sobs.
"I love you," he whispered, not trusting his voice.
"I know, sweetie," she promised. "I love you, too. Now keep that head up. You're a Watson." Her lips turned up. It didn't touch her eyes. "I'll see you in a couple months."
He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. It felt more fake than Caesar Flickerman's hair color.
He sat silently in the plush chair, watching the screen with no expression.
The others occupied a long orange sofa. The bright color assaulted his eyes.
They'd finished dinner, and despite having no appetite, John had scarfed down two platefuls – he'd never eaten food so rich. They were now gathered in front of an intimidatingly large television. Apparently, it was mandatory even for the tributes to watch their own selection. John had internally deemed it as an opportunity to scout out his competition.
It was quiet until suddenly, there was the Capitol's seal, and the theme bounced off the walls of the compartment.
John's eyes were suddenly riveted to the screen.
The announcers began to talk briefly, but he tuned their voices out. He imagined it to be the same dribble they were forced to listen to every year.
Then it switched from live footage to the recordings of the Reaping. His breath hitched.
As always, it began with District One. Luxury.
The crowd was as rowdy as it was every year. The career districts always held a disturbing sense of enjoyment throughout the games.
The recording began with the same speech and video that John had been forced to watch back home. He swallowed back the sting that came even with that small memory. Instead, he focused his attention, as though the repetition was the most fascinating thing he'd ever watched.
As soon as the girl's name was called out – Mary Morstan – another volunteered in her place. The camera focused on a dark-skinned girl as she strode to the stage and mounted it confidently. She had brown eyes that promised mischief. Despite her arrogant exterior, John didn't think he'd have a problem taking her down. She presented herself to be Sally Donovan. He took an immediate dislike to her.
Then a boy was called – Anderson – and his exultant look refrained others from taking his place.
The pair grinned at each other and John grimaced. It was like they were having sex with their eyes.
The screen jumped from that location to District Two. This time they skipped the introduction and cut directly to the selections.
A reptilian-looking man in a Westwood suit pulled a slip from the bowl, and a devilish grin crossed his features.
"Victoria Reinardy," he called.
The crowd parted to reveal a brown-haired girl with clever green eyes.
They then erupted into applause and laughter as the man – Moriarty, John suddenly recalled, Jim Moriarty – began to sing to her.
"Victoria Marie," he trilled, taking her hand to lead her up the steps. John rolled his eyes. He had forgotten when a ham this escort was.
"A princess just for me." She reached the top of the stage.
"As pretty as can be." This line was accompanied by whistles and cheers. The girl gave a charming blush.
"Victoria Marie!" He ended by wrapping a fatherly arm about her shoulders. She beamed as the crowd once more yelled and applauded. John thought it had more to do with the man than the – admittedly beautiful – tribute.
He tried to ignore the cheering and focus on his competition. Despite her innocent appearance, he noted that her lean frame was covered with wiry muscles. Her tan was natural – she'd obviously acquired it outside during illegal training. He frowned. Definitely dangerous. More so than either of the tributes from District One.
Jim released her long enough to retrieve a boy tribute. His face lit up. "Sebastian Moran," he announced in a sing-song voice. A few girls squealed, and the boys whooped as a giant of a boy climbed the stairs. His blonde hair waved over his forehead, shading his alert brown eyes. John grimaced as he saw how truly tall the man – boy – was. At least a head taller than himself.
He reached the other two and Jim didn't even attempt to put an arm around him. "Sebby," he purred, delighted. "How nice of you to join us."
The girl only offered a tight smile. Scared.
He was beginning to have trouble breathing. These opponents were much more formidable than the last.
The scene shifted again to display a grey-haired man with his hand poised over a bowl full of papers. He looked like he didn't want to be there almost as badly as the tributes. John thought he looked familiar, but could only recall his last name as being Lestrade.
He drew the first name and winced guiltily. "Molly Hooper." There was a distant sound of a mother's sobs, and a mousy young girl squeezed through. She had tracks of several silent tears running down her cheeks, but did not tremble. He admired her courage, but wasn't able to avoid pitying her. She was as good as dead.
The man gave her a final sad look before moving to the other slips. He retrieved one and made a slight face before recovering quickly. He cleared his throat.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Grumbles ran through the crowd as they parted. It was a displeased, almost hateful sound. John's curiosity piqued.
The camera quickly panned to the stairs, as if unaware than the tribute had crept there. It focused on a tall boy – ridiculously thin – who was mounting the steps with a considerable amount of grace for someone so lanky. His face appeared in the screen as it zoomed in, and John got a close look.
The pale face held no emotion.
This was his initial impression. John's eyes scanned the high cheekbones, the full lips, looking for a tell on the features. He found none.
He was attempting to continue his analysis on the boy's posture when he was halted by his eyes.
They were a piercing, stormy grey, demanding attention. Despite his apparent ennui, they were bright and alert. Behind them was an intelligence so vast that, despite his professional, superior appearance, could not be alluded to.
They were the eyes of a victor.
John swallowed hard. He suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, and realized that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a gust, surprised to find everyone in the compartment staring at him. His heart beat fast, but he waved away their concern. They returned their gazes to the screen, amusement on a couple features.
He groaned internally. That made three big competitors in the first three districts. Not a good sign.
The Reapings continued, one after another. Dimmock and Cherisse form District Four. Justin and Veronica from Five. Noah and Stephanie. Jacob and Faith. Sean and Kailee. Terrance and Emily. Dakota and Rebecca. Sarah.
None made a very lasting impression following the boy. What had his name been? He mentally cursed himself for forgetting. It was something different, as unique as his appearance had been (which, unsurprisingly, still held firm in his mind).
Either way, that was still three main challenges. In addition, Cherisse looked tough for a girl. Justin was towering, with strong arms. Noah had the build of a runner. Sean was small, but solid muscle.
And then it was John on the screen, taking their places. He caught what nobody else appeared to. How his hair was still messy from Harry mussing it. The drying tear-spots on his sleeve. The stillness in his hands. The trembling in his shoulders. The way his eyes wandered aimlessly, convinced it was a dream. The unconscious mantra of "No, God, no," repeating from his lips.
He shut his eyes tight, not wanting to relive it all. Soon enough, the foreign sounds of District Twelve filled the cabin, and he watched once more. A red-headed boy, Chase. A tiny blonde girl, Jill. They'd be gone fast.
And then the announcer appeared again, and John once more tuned him out. With a final "Happy Hunger Games!" the screen went dark. He sat there for a moment before rising and returning to his room.
Tomorrow would be hell.
A/N: Phew! Finally got around to posting the first chapter of this. Thoughts? Anyway, I've got the rest typed up, so I just need to edit. Hopefully, I can have it up soon. Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated!