A/N: I've always wanted to write a Sherlock/Hunger Games Crossover, so I guess I finally did.
I will try to update as frequently as possible. Please leave a review ~ critiques or compliments are always welcome.

Chapter I: Lady In Pink

He could leave. And he'd probably make it too. He could run. He could run and run and run and run and take his bow and arrows with him, and hunt things to survive, and be on his own, away from tedious people and the horrors of sentiment and emotion and the ever-present constant worry that one day – one day – he, or someone he knew, would be reaped.

He'd tried once. He'd grabbed his old, worn down, green backpack, shoved some bread and cheese into it, stalked out into the woods, snatched up his bow and arrow from its hiding place within the hollow of a fallen tree, and ran. He ran and didn't once look back; he just left – as quickly as a finger snap, he left.

And then he stopped running, fell to his knees and shook his head, disappointed in himself, angry at his stubborn mind, at his thoughts, at his bloody emotions. He didn't want to care, he didn't want to worry, and he didn't want to think. And Sherlock Holmes loved to loved to think about the science behind things, he loved to think about what he observed, what he saw in the people mindlessly roaming his district. He loved to think.

But today, all he could think about was death.

And even Sherlock Holmes, a man – still just a boy, really – who claimed to be void of all emotion, who claimed to detest sentiment, could not help but feel at least an inch of fear at the announcement of the reaping for the 74th Annual Hunger Games.

"Sherlock!" A voice called out enthusiastically from behind him as he walked along a bare trail back to his small home in District 12, where he already knew his mother and brother would be impatiently waiting for him.

Without needing to glance over his shoulder, Sherlock cleared his throat and huffed, "Molly."
He heard her soft footsteps as she quickly jogged up next to him, joining in a steady pace by his side.

On a normal day, Sherlock Holmes would roll his eyes when he saw her rosy cheeks, her, practically, glowing hazel eyes, and her perfectly pulled back, brown ponytail. But today? Today, he could tolerate her. He wanted to tolerate her, because Molly Hooper was the same age as he, and Molly Hooper would be going to the reaping too. And Molly Hooper's name could be drawn and he'd never see her again, besides the occasional glimpse throughout scenes that would flicker seemingly endlessly across a wide screen hologram, entertaining the Capitol. And – little thing like her – he'd probably be watching her die.

"You ready?" Molly asked, her voice hushed as though she were attempting to whisper, but remained unsure of herself.

"Ready to watch some purple-haired, fake eyelash-wearing Capitol slave draw a slip of paper from a glass dome and hope they don't say my name?" Sherlock scoffed, turning to glare at the small girl at his side, hoping she realized just how moronic she was being with such an obvious question.

Molly ducked her head in embarrassment and let out a small chuckle, her cheeks burning far more red than usual as she slowly nodded, "Yeah, neither am I."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat and dropped his eyes to the gravel beneath his feet, kicking a stone with the toe of his ugly, tattered brown boots.
He wasn't sure what to say. If he were to say something now, it would be sentimental. And he couldn't be sentimental. He couldn't. Not when he was about to start preparing for the reaping. He couldn't give in to sentiment now, of all times.

"What if, one day," Molly began, smiling as she gazed blankly up into the sky, "they all stopped watching?"

Sherlock whirled to face her, dark curls bouncing across his forehead as he watched her curiously, skeptically, "What?"

"You know," She shrugged, turning to look back at him, frowning at his confused expression, "what if all the districts just decide to stop watching? If no one watches, they don't have a game, right?"

With an amused and somewhat bitter laugh, Sherlock glanced away from her, observing their surroundings, small homes and dying trees, before answering her with a shake of his head, "That'll never happen."

"Maybe," She continued, grinning now at the blissful thought, a thought so ridiculous it was relatable to the idea of paradise, "But what if it did? What if we never had another reaping again? What if we could grow old, and have kids and not have to worry about sending them off to die?"

Molly smiled further and then peered over at Sherlock, whose expression was unreadable, a mask forcing his true emotion, his desire for such a reality, into secrecy. She stared for a while, before the smile slipped from her face and morphed into a strangely apologetic expression, eyes growing wide as they fixated on Sherlock's own.

"Oh, no. Sorry," She stammered, shaking her head, ponytail flinging in every direction, "I didn't mean we would have kids, I just meant –"

Sherlock Holmes lifted a dismissive hand to shush her, and Molly Hooper instantly froze, moving instead to simply gnaw on her own lip, nerves kicking in as they continued to walk side by side, only a few yards away from Sherlock's house now.

With a sigh, his small home coming into view, he turned to the small girl of whom had been his rather loquacious walking partner, and stopped walking, shrugging his shoulders her way before grunting, "I'm never having kids."

And that was the honest truth. Sherlock Holmes knew he would never fall in love. He knew he would be a terrible father. He also knew that he surely wouldn't voluntarily put himself into a situation of which held, and relied on, so much…emotion.

Molly's brow furrowed, expression a mix between pity and confusion, "Not ever?"

With a soft quirk of his lips, and a gentle nod of his head in her direction, Sherlock Holmes sauntered over to his door and grabbed hold of the handle, yanking the small house's entrance open with ease, "Goodbye, Molly."

She smiled sadly and watched him slowly disappear into his uncomfortably small home before quickly calling out, "Wait!"

With a slow turn on the back of his heel, Sherlock poked his head out the door, arching a brow in suspicion, curious as to why she was holding him up, "What?"

She glanced down at the ground, then in another direction completely, before gazing directly at him, eyes bright with worry, lips quivering just slightly, "How many times is your name in there?"

Sherlock lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck and sighed, shaking his head; angry with himself as he thought of all the extra rations he'd added to his list. He had painfully decided to do so in order to aid his ill mother. Without what he did, she'd be long dead.

But, Sherlock couldn't help but selfishly think, perhaps now, because of what he did, he'd be the one dying. And who could possibly save him?

Sighing deeply, he turned to Molly Hooper, that small girl he'd known for three good years, and uttered, "Forty two." He watched her expression fall in anguish, her eyes revealing her heartbreak, her mind most likely taunting her with an image of his face in the sky and a canon sounding in the distance. He scoffed, turning away from her, unable to tolerate the sadness in the downward curve of her lips, the pitiful regret in her gaze. Sentiment, he thought irritably.

He ducked inside the confines of his small house, slamming the door behind him, whispering to himself bitterly, "I guess the odds aren't in my favor."

It was Redbeard who greeted him first when he stumbled into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and tossing his tattered backpack onto his uncomfortably small cot. The Irish setter placed his paws on his knees and attempted to climb him like a tree as he struggled to stay balanced. He chuckled and smiled down at his best friend, the only one he had, and kneeled to his level, scratching beneath his chin and behind his ears. He'd found the dog at a young age, skinny and scrawny, bones revealing themselves in places they shouldn't, hungry and weak and a bag of molting fur. He had taken him in, cared for him, much to his family's disapproval, even applying for tesserae a few times to help ensure that the dog would eventually grow stronger, in secret of course. The setter had become family to him and he spent more time in Redbeard's company, than the company of his own kind.

Sometimes Sherlock wished he was a dog, then, at least, he wouldn't have to worry about the stupid games or other hateful people. He could just…be.
With a small smile, he gave the dog a gentle kiss on the nose, chuckling in spite of himself, "Lucky mutt."

The clothes he was given to wear to the reaping were ridiculous. They were itchy, and plain, and painfully dull, and he hated Mycroft for laying them out for him.

Fortunate bastard. He had long since escaped the reaping, turning twenty-four just last month, seven years Sherlock's elder. He'd made it. All those years, a possible participant in the Hunger Games, and not once had his name been called. Sherlock hoped to be just as lucky.

Sherlock leaned downward, reaching for the flannel that would complete his horrid outfit for today's mandatory occasion, dragging the itchy fabric over his lean torso. He wasn't anything nice to look at, or, at least, that's how he saw himself.

He was pale and skinny, and his arms and legs were too long, too lanky. His fingers were thin and spindly, and the dark curls atop his head were messy and a pain to put in place. His eyes were of a freakish nature; green, blue, silver, and gold all mixing to form some strange, brightly contrasting hue. He was different, both mentally and physically, and those around him knew so.

Most loathed him; they hated that he spoke his mind, that he could deduce all their secrets, that he could see what others could not. And he hated them right back. Because he didn't need friends, or companions, or a love interest, for God's sake. No. He didn't need anyone. Not in an era where children had to kill other children, where districts despised one another in an act to please the Capitol and its multicolored mutants.

"Sherlock," His brother's irritable, sharp-toned voice called out from behind his bedroom door, "Are you ready?"

Why was everyone asking him that today? Who, in their right mind, would ever be ready for a single reaping?

Rolling his eyes, he reached for the handle and yanked open the door, revealing his tall, blank-faced older brother, of whom stood just in front of him. His stance was as straight as a rod; back curved for proper posture, nose pointed upward, dark eyes fixated on his little brother's bored expression. With a groan, Sherlock pushed past him, unwilling to listen to any of his lectures – lectures he was sure he would have to suffer through during the entirety of their walk to the district's center, where the reaping would be taking place. He made his way through the corridor toward his home's exit, the soft thump of both his brother's and his mother's footsteps following just behind him.

And if footsteps could sound sad, he was sure they would sound like that.

Just before ducking out the door, Sherlock passed Redbeard, sleeping soundly on a sheet of fabric, something he'd traded a squirrel for in the black market. Allowing a final smile to grace his lips, Sherlock approached the dog, stroked his ears, and kissed the soft fur just beneath his closed eye. When he pulled back, the hound was gazing curiously at him, his tail wagging as Sherlock whispered softly, "Goodbye, Redbeard."

It wasn't the first time he'd gone through a tearful farewell with the setter. He did it just before every reaping. Because he never knew which one would be his last. Sighing, Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, swallowed stiffly, and turned away from his best friend, dashing past his family members and back down the hall towards the exit.

He trudged through the open door and into the outdoor world, of which was a sad, dreary setting, everything gray and brown. His mother and brother pursued him onto the trail he'd been walking along only an hour before, beside Molly and her ridiculous thoughts, theories, fantasies.

Sometimes the dusty path to the district square would be warmed by the summer sun.
Sometimes it would be covered in icy snow, cold and threatening, a wasteland of sickness and shivers.

It was so hard to believe, when the sun was shining over its poor homes and people, just how dangerous District 12 became in the wintertime. He remembered tugging his jacket tighter around himself as he hiked back home after a discretely unsuccessful trip to the woods, a dreadfully cold wind caressing his cheeks and hugging tightly to his weak bones. He remembered thinking he wouldn't be strong enough to make it back, back to his mother, back to Mycroft, no matter how much he hated him, or back to Redbeard. But somehow he did, and his mother yelled at him for ten minutes straight, threw an orange blanket at him, and made him some soup with the few herbs and vegetables they had left.

He had felt guilty – putting his mother through so much worry, eating up what little food they had.
He had cried that night with Redbeard's head in his lap.

But he never told anyone. And he never would.
Because Sherlock Holmes didn't show emotions.
Because Sherlock Holmes didn't feel.

"Sherlock," His brother's voice beckoned for his attention, and Sherlock sighed as he felt his sibling's presence beside him – an unwanted, unnerving, unsettling presence.

"What could you possibly have to say to me right now, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped at the man, eyes burning in frustration, his desire to growl and scream all at once not going unnoticed by the being next to him.

"I'm not entirely sure," Mycroft uttered with a sigh, eyes dropping to his feet, expression bleak.

"Do shut up then," Sherlock snapped and stared straight ahead, his surroundings falling more familiar as they grew closer and closer to the Hall of Justice.

Silence hung between the two of them, besides the ever-present chirping of nearby birds, the chatter of people resounding from the district's center square, and the sniffles emanating from their mother sauntering patiently behind them.

"Do you have it?" Mycroft mumbled softly, loud enough for only Sherlock to hear.

The younger brother swallowed, hand reaching into the pocket of his trousers and fingering the gold surface of his father's pin, something he kept close to him each and every day, a memory of who he was – of why he couldn't give up.

"I always have it," He whispered back, eyes shutting for a mere moment as he turned his face from Mycroft's line of sight, desperately eager to keep his brother from seeing the pain and fear marring his expression.

"Good," His older sibling nodded, gazing off ahead of him toward the center square, now completely in view, children and teenagers basically stumbling into one another as they slowly got into place for the reaping.

Sherlock scoffed, "Good?" He shook his head, annoyed with himself, "It's sentiment."

Mycroft grabbed his arm, whirling his entire body to face him, his eyes sharp and serious, beating into Sherlock's shocked gaze. "It isn't meant to symbolize sentiment, Sherlock," His older brother told him, his features falling to form a look of utter rage and fury, "It's to pose as a reminder."

Sherlock arched a brow, attempting to tug his arm from Mycroft's grip, but failing, "A reminder of what exactly?"

"A reminder that you are human," Mycroft leaned back and dropped his arm, glancing away from Sherlock's confused expression, and turning instead to glare at the boys and girls crowding together before the Hall of Justice, "And so are they."

With that he took off in the direction of the rest of the families, calling his mother along with him, of whom sent Sherlock a tearful nod, her features wet and salty with liquid heartbreak. She cried every time. Sherlock was used to it at this point.

And then, within a mere moment, Sherlock was alone.

Gulping nervously, he joined the line of participants, observing each of them separately, noticing how the older one's simply looked bored as they went through the usual routine, and how the younger one's lifted their hands hesitantly, allowing the Peacekeepers to draw blood with a quick prick to the finger, the small being's trembling and shivering as they watched with horror. Sherlock followed, wincing as at the sharp needle jabbed into the delicate skin, all while staring into the dark mask of the Peacekeeper before him, the white being like some sort of machine in the eyes of the people.

"Next," The man snapped at him, and Sherlock glared whilst stepping forwards, slowly finding his place in the line up of children and teenagers.

He gazed blankly, emotionlessly at the bare stage before him, at the two domes that would ultimately decide his fate, at the number of 12 to 18-year-olds surrounding him.

She still wets the bed, his mother just died from the flu, her brother was killed in the mines, she's terrified because her name is in there far too many times than she's comfortable with. Everyone, everywhere, in white and grey. Innocence, fear, outrage. Too much, too much, too much.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and slowly ran his hand down into his pocket, pulling out the small pin he held so dear to his heart. Mycroft had given it to him when he had turned twelve, telling him to never lose it, to never give it away, to never show it to anyone because it was his and his alone. It was bronze, lacking in shine because of age, bearing the engraving of a bumblebee atop it, its wings outstretched, every detail of its tiny body easily seen to a keen eye.

Mycroft had told him that it was his father's a long time ago, before he had died in a tragic mining accident when Sherlock was just six years old. His older brother also told him that the bumblebee represents personal power. He informed Sherlock that so long as he held the little pendant close to him he would always find a way out of anything; he would always have the power to overcome his fears, his hardships, no matter the circumstances.

And so, Sherlock had never let it out of his sight, keeping it near wherever he went, whenever he went.
It was the only thing that kept him from giving up, that reminded him that he could, in fact, defeat what terrified him.

A sound from the from of the Hall of Justice dragged Sherlock back to reality, and he quickly turned to watch a small woman, her hair a light, unidentifiable shade of lilac and pink, her magenta outfit far too bright and cheerful for such a dark occasion, clip-clop across the stage toward a microphone that sat, awaiting her. With a smile, her strawberry-shaded lips stretching outwards joyfully, she cleared her throat and gazed out among the crowd of gray and white, each and every being giving her their full attention.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome," She began merrily, her eyes bright, but not at all comforting, "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

Sherlock scoffed inwardly and rolled his eyes, all too familiar with the introduction. He gripped the bee pendant tighter in his fist, his knuckles surely white, and the metal most likely leaving marks across his palm.

"Now, before we begin, we have a very special film, brought to you all the way from the Capitol," The woman grinned, her white teeth shining in the dreary light of the sun. A picture was projected across a white screen, and dramatic music filled the unnerving silence as all eyes turned to watch.

War, terrible war, Sherlock recited quietly, sighing to himself, as the images flickering before him made the Capitol out to be some sacred paradise, all announced through the voice of President Snow, the devil himself.

Soon, but not soon enough, the film came to an end, and the pink-haired lady's voice rose up over the quiet that followed.
"I just love that," She smiled happily, before inhaling sharply, expression falling just slightly, and Sherlock instantly braced himself.

"Now, the time has come for us to select one courageous young man and woman," She paused, glancing at the entirety of the crowd, "for the honor of representing District 12 for the 74th annual Hunger Games."

She lifted her hand over the dome on Sherlock's right, and smiled casually, "As usual, ladies first."

Slowly, her painted fingernails dropped into the glass ball, reaching down, ruffling through the small, white, pristinely folded slips of paper, before yanking out the unlucky name. She lifted it slowly into the air for the crowd to see, before approaching the microphone once more, the cheerful smile still lining her features. Sherlock shut his eyes and listened.

"Abigail Hooper."

Fuck.

When he opened his eyes, Sherlock saw the small thirteen year old making her way out of the crowd, walking the straight, bare pathway toward the woman on the stage, her light brown hair swaying, braided neatly for the occasion, and her cheeks white, blanched in fear. Sherlock had only spoken to her a handful of times. Sometimes she joined Molly on their walks to Sherlock's house, always asking him stupid questions and pointing out little details about the weather or the trees or the birds, things Sherlock found incredibly useless. But she was nice, and kind, and far too young to die.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

He knew it was her before he even turned around to witness her lithe figure approaching the stage at high speed, her expression twisted in agony, her voice desperate to be heard. Sentiment, he told himself as he gazed in disbelief, watching her take her sister's place, all while her younger sibling screamed her name as she was dragged off by Peacekeeper's of whom were most likely taking her to her mother somewhere in the crowd.

Sherlock cringed, because seeing Molly adorn that stage, so small and skinny and utterly fragile wasn't right. She looked so innocent, too innocent, and meek and kind, and Sherlock didn't even want to look at her anymore – because, standing here now, he realized he'd gotten attached.

He shut his eyes once more and shook his head, staring into the black abyss and simply listening.

"District Twelve's very first volunteer," The woman in pink marveled, grinning at Molly, whose face was simply frozen in both shock at her own actions and utter disbelief, "What's your name?"

Molly swallowed, staring motionlessly out at the crowd of silent onlookers, all somewhat heartbroken as they watched her utter, softly, "Molly Hooper."

"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Let's have a big hand for our very first volunteer, Molly Hooper."

His eyes still closed, Sherlock merely heard the shuffling of arms lifting quietly, and he instantly knew what they were doing.
They were saluting her, wishing her luck, raising their fingers in recognition.

Sherlock kept his hands at his sides.

"And now, for the boys."

His heart skipped a beat, thumping loudly in his ears as he listened, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, eagerly wishing he could block out every noise, every breath. He bit the side of his cheek, and swallowed, hearing the woman's hand drop into the glass dome for the final time today, hearing her fingers shuffling through every slip of paper, hearing her finally choose one specifically as everyone and everything fell still.

His fist clenched around the bronze bee.

Forty-two times. Personal power. Forty-two times. Personal power.
Forty-two, forty-two, forty-two. Redbeard. Personal Power.
District Twelve in the wintertime. Forty-two. Molly. Forty-two.

Bees.

Forty-two.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

His blood ran cold the second he opened his eyes, the cold color of his irises gazing out at the many faces watching his every move. As though in a trance, his body moved forwards, his too-big, button-up flannel swaying just slightly in the warm breeze, as he made his way toward the stage, every single step he took simply forgotten to his mind, to his emotions. He hiked the stairs one by one, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as he gnawed on his bottom lip, some kind of nervous tick he'd suddenly just developed. Soon, he was face to face with the small pink lady who put a gentle hand on his shoulder, guiding him into place on the stage, and turning him so that he could gaze out at the crowd before him.

Even though most despised him, District Twelve's civilians seemed to be watching his every move with expressions of grief, of sympathy, of anguish.

Somehow, he found Mycroft's eyes in the back of the crowd, glaring at him blankly, not a single emotion betraying his ever-present mask.

He wouldn't get a salute; in fact, he probably wouldn't get much of anything, besides an overwhelming amount of pity.
But that's what everyone gets when they are forced to take part in the games.

Just pity.

"There we are," The woman next to him announced blissfully, "Our tributes from District Twelve."

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, his features blank, motionless.

"Well, go on you two," The pink lady encouraged, "shake hands."

Sherlock glanced to the side, glimpsing at Molly's sorrowful and somber expression, watching as she took a few steps towards him, hand outstretched, awaiting the comfort of his own. He blinked, turned and placed his palm on hers, unable to keep his fingers from trembling, or his face from paling. Hooper quirked a small smile, of which was meant to console his empty features as she dropped his hand, and took a step back, returning to her original place beside the lady in pink.

"Happy Hunger Games!" The Capitol woman exclaimed once again, "And may the odds be ever in your favor."

And then Sherlock was being rushed through the main doors of the Hall of Justice, Molly beside him, pushed by Peacekeepers, his entire being moving like a zombie, unaware, too overcome by shock and despair and anger.

And then it dawned on him.

Obvious, he supposed.

He'd never had much luck with anything anyway.