*** As those of you who don't lower the IQ of the whole street know, I do not own any of these characters. I also don't own the universe they happen to live in. Rating is M for later chapters. Will post warnings as needed. ***
The mid-morning sun beat down on that scuffed-up metal platform stage upon which several thousand pairs of eyes were focused. If one listened closely, they'd hear varied arrhythmic breath patterns among the crowd members – unfortunately, or so Sherlock thought, nobody else was.
The last several weeks' worth of life was etched upon his face – the barely-covered-up bruises and dark, sullied rings around his eyes were so visible that even the twelve-year-olds in the front section noticed that all was not well with the prodigy.
It was only a fleeting moment, the silence and breathing, before a simpering man who appeared to be doused in malachite, judging by the shockingly green tone of his facial surfaces and clothing, not to mention the various neon streaks in his hair, pranced onto the harshly constructed stage and pursed his lips to begin the opening comments.
"Welcome, welcome, everybody!"
While Stamford prattled on about the Capitol and just how happy he was to be back again, Sherlock grimaced and braced himself for what was next.
"Please join me in welcoming your well-loved (Sherlock actually cracked a grin at that fabulous piece of bullshit) victors, who are lucky enough to mentor your tributes during this year's games!"
Various murmurs rise from among the crowd at the mention of victors, the surprise factor being that there would be multiple mentors this year. None of them, Sherlock notes, sound hopeful, and he's surprised to notice he actually cares.
"Ms. Martha Hudson!"
The crowd quickly moves into a well-organized applause. It's obviously rehearsed and slightly fake – although who would blame them? – but still respectful, nonetheless, and Sherlock can't decide whether to be thankful or terrified for what's coming next.
"And, for the first time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!"
All the gangly sixteen-year-old can hear as he begins to make his way to the stage are the echoes of his shoes on the resounding metal steps and the sympathetic inhale of the old lady already seated in her folding chair before she begins delayed motions for applause. The damage is done, though, and Sherlock tries to shake off the utter loneliness threatening to invade his thoughts as he attempts to focus on the rest of Stamford's blandishments and the propaganda they're forced to watch every year.
It is not as if he expects the others to treat him like one of them. Hell, after everything, he isn't really surprised they don't treat him like he's human. Despite this understanding and his tendency to accept the consequences of logical conclusions, Sherlock remains disappointed. He was already picked on enough by the others as was for his relatively untimely displays of deductive reasoning.
As the movie drew to a close, Stamford reclaimed the microphone with more gusto, Sherlock thought, than the entire audience would have been able to muster up if forced at gunpoint, though that really wasn't saying much since they practically were already.
"It is now time to select two lucky individuals for the honor of representing District Three in this year's Hunger Games! Ladies…"
In an attempt to distract himself from various resurfacing memories he'd rather not deal with in public, Sherlock decides to count the length of Stamford's obscenely long pauses. It was approximately seven and a fifth seconds before Stamford managed to position his hand appropriately in the bowl, another ten point three of shuffling paper slips around before finally coming to a decision, and five exactly before he managed to reveal the name of the doomed corpse.
"Molly Hooper!"
Sherlock snapped his eyes open and began to scour the crowd of sixteen-year-olds for the brunette. Relatively short, daughter of a factory worker, highly intelligent for a girl her age (he'd had classes with her when they were younger), secretly interested in analytical science (though she'd never admit to it), and, like the rest, far too skinny to be healthy. It was a bit of a pity, he thought, that she was the one forced to make the walk of shame onto the platform with him. Molly was kind to most everyone, particularly Sherlock himself, who didn't deserve it. Actually, at this point, she was probably the only person his age who'd risk their parents' reprimand to smile at him when their paths crossed, as if he was some sort of friend of hers.
She stands there, in her presumably off-white (it's hard to tell with all the dust) cotton dress patterned with rosebuds, twiddling her fingers while Stamford fishes around for the name of her unlucky companion. Sherlock could tell she was holding back tears from the way the muscles of her face clenched in determination, and for some unknown reason he finds it upsetting.
It later hits him – out of all the people who could have been chosen to die, Molly Hooper didn't deserve it.
"John Watson!"
There is a murmur among the eighteens, and Sherlock finds himself bewilderingly encouraged. He's not familiar with the Watson boy, although he's run into the addicted mess of a daughter once too often for his taste, and eighteen is an encouraging number. The winners are most often, if not always, the older ones, and an eighteen male from Three usually causes a stir for good reason.
The masses part around a rather composed-looking blonde, and Sherlock's mind kicks into gear at once.
Physically capable. Father was a peacekeeper, killed (most likely in an outlier district uprising). Struggling to cope – malnourished and dressed in what are most likely his father's old reaping-wear. Likely possesses significant (and highly useful) background of medical knowledge. Emotionally drained from caring for alcoholic mother and drug-addled sister. Appears to be glad it isn't someone with more to lose – possibly self-deprecating (disadvantage). Must look into that.
Sherlock would have continued deducing if not for the sudden wave of nausea that sinks deep into his stomach as his mind rolls down onto other, far more forbidden tracks… the last time he sought to deduce strengths and weaknesses…
He can't think about that now – not unless he wants to break down and vomit all over the scuffed up metal beneath his feet. He shouldn't have eaten breakfast this morning. He wouldn't have, had it not been for Mycroft and his ridiculous insistence on interfering in business that is not his own.
Sherlock tries to ignore everything but the Watson boy.
John Watson has now taken the stage. John Watson just shook hands with Molly Hooper. John Watson is now being shepherded off into the cog-shaped structure known as Town Hall.
Sherlock knows he's supposed to follow, but stays frozen where he is until Ms. Hudson nudges him politely and offers her hand. He takes it and exits the stage with her, doors closing behind them, sealing them in an atrium adorned with hideous scrap-metal vases and sculptures.
"Mentors – fifteen minutes until departure," Stamford notes, leaning on an impressively ugly metal structure that Sherlock believes was supposed to be an umbrella stand. "I'm going to head over to the tribute rooms. You ought to use the loo before we head over to the station."
Sherlock nods and waits until both he and Ms. Hudson are gone to throw up in one of the vases.
