District 3 Reaping
A horde of small, pale, dark haired men and women with rather nondescript features. They were silent in their monochromatic gray suites, ranging in states of decay.
The spokesperson, a lanky slow moving man pulled stepped forward to the front of the stage.
"Why don't we get started with the ladies, hmm?" he smirked as he fished his hand around the bowl.
"Molly Hooper!"
A lone wail rose from the crowd as a small, red headed girl was lead to the stage. The wail slowly died out as she stood silent and alone on the stage, tears running down her face.
The man, Mr. Anderson, patted the girls back with cheery smile, "Congratulations." he added with a condescending smirk. "Now for our young men!"
He turned to the second bowl and, once again, dipped his hand in with a flourish. He pulled the next slip of paper out slowly. "Which of you strapping young men will the honor of the 68th game fall on to, I wonder?" he mussed mockingly as his cold eyes scanned the lifeless, dank youths before him.
"John Watson!" he cried in exclamation.
The crowd grew quieter still, a small mousey headed young man climbed the steps of the podium with a straight back and face, but there was pain in his eyes. No one wailed.
"Well isn't this pleasant?" Anderson continued with in harsh voice, "Any volunteers? No? Shocki-"
"Wait!" a sharp voice called, from the horde of unremarkable boys came someone quite extraordinary. He was tall, thin dark hair and an androgynous face; the stunning quality did not come from the fact over the others or his high, sharp cheekbones that gave his face an other-worldly feel. The thing that caught the breath in you throat was his eyes, pale and hard, like metal. "I'll take his place."
"Oh, really?" the elder man drawled impiously as the boy quickly mounted the stage. The young man's, John's eyes were locked on the other boy as pain seeped from his eyes to his face, he took up a silent mantra of 'no-no-no...' as the other approached him. The tall boy ignored Anderson and made a bee-line for John.
As the two met John whimpered and the taller placed his hands on either side of his companion's face, pressing their foreheads together. They murmured to each other, too low for the microphones to catch.
"Now don't leave us hanging." the gawky spokesperson called flatly, obviously perturbed by such touchy feelings happening in close proximity to his person.
The two ignored him in favor of each other once again, something obviously upsetting the smaller of the two. He was shaking his head vigorously, tears now pouring from his eyes.
"Sherlock, no! You ca-" he was cut off by the other boy's lips crashing into his own. As Sherlock was much taller than John he was slightly hunched to kiss the young man, after a moment he simply picked the other up flush to his body. John kept his hands on Sherlock's face or in his hair, constantly in motion as if he was trying touch as much of the other as he could.
"Ehm." Anderson impatiently tapped the microphone on the back Sherlock's curly head.
The boy whipped around and fixed the man with a hard stare, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I will be the second tribute of District 3 in the 68th Hunger Game." his voice was just as cold as his eyes in that moment, the shorter man still nestled in his arms and sobbing into his neck.
"Well then I'll have to ask you friend to leave the podium, it's for tributes only. Of course, if to dispu-" Sherlock once again the pompous man this time he had fire in his voice that promised pain to all who dared defy him. The fire was in his eyes too.
"John," he continued in a softer voice, the murmurs caught this time by the microphone practically resting on Sherlock's cheek, "love, you need to go back now."
"No!" cried the other as he buried deeper into Sherlock's shoulder.
"Shh, shh, go tend to Harry, she'll be needing you; and tell Mycroft if he doesn't mind you two, I'll make his life hellish when I get back." as he finished he gently placed John's feet back on the floor.
"Promise?" John still clung to Sherlock's neck.
"Promise what, dear?"
"That you'll come back?" John prompted hopefully; one hand on Sherlock the other wiping furiously at his tears.
The dark haired boy threw his head back in laughter, drawing the other into his chest, "Of course, I am Sherlock Holmes after all." With a final kiss, he slowly lead John to the steps of the stage,
They never broke eye contact. Not when John climbed the steps. Not when Sherlock returned to the center of the stage.
Or when a girl around barreled into John crying 'Brother!'.
Or when the steady wail began once again from Mrs. Hooper.
Or when Anderson placed an arm around both Molly and Sherlock.
Or when he called out for all to hear 'Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes, District 3's tributes for the the 68th Hunger Game!'.
Or when it finally hit John, his wost nightmare had just come true.