The Boy from District 3

by Irish Wildfire

With a bad leg, John Watson has no chance of winning the 26th annual Hunger Games. Until, that is, he meets Sherlock: the boy from District 3. As the games go on, one question continues to run through John's head. And he is not sure he wants to know the answer. How am I going to be able to kill him?

1. I volunteer as Tribute

At about one o'clock I change into the nicest clothes I own, which really only means a pair of faded black pants and a soot-stained white shirt.

Harriet braids her own hair in front of the mirror. She is wearing one of our mum's old dresses, with green and blue flowers. It looks far too cheerful for this place, and sort of hangs on her like it is several sizes too big, which it is.

I do not expect mum to come to the reaping. She has not since we were fifteen. She has not done much of anything for a very long time.

At one-thirty, I pick up my walking stick and we start towards the square.

The entirety of the district, at least the families, manages to fit into the square. At this point, everyone is an open book. All you have to do is look close enough. And it helps when you know exactly how they are feeling. Terrified beyond belief. Guilty for wishing that it will be someone else instead of you. All the parents who make a sort of circle around the outside are wishing they could take their children's place. The good ones anyway.

Harriet and I split up. She joins the fifteen year-olds and I go to stand with the eighteen year-olds. Nobody speaks. Nobody even looks at each other. Everyone is wondering who will be the one who to disappear forever.

After a good fifteen minute wait later, the district officials file out onto the stage set up in front of the Justice Building. Augustus Flynn steps up to the microphone, looking like strict business. His burgundy suit is buttoned up, and the tie around his neck looks so tight that he might have tried to strangle himself putting it on. His black hair is combed straight back, and turning gray in some places.

"Welcome to the reaping," he says, his voice monotone, his face flat. "for the twenty-seventh annual Hunger Games."

Nobody cheers or applauds. Only silence. Augustus steps back from the microphone, and the mayor steps up. He reads the Treaty of Treason, then steps away. Augustus walks forward again, his expression still unchanged.

"We will now choose one young man and woman, who shall represent District Twelve in this year's games."

He sticks his hand into a clear glass ball, filled to the brim with paper slips. He fishes around for a moment, the produces a slip from the middle. He unfolds it carefully and takes a breath before speaking.

"Harriet Watson."