John was, above anything else, resigned to his fate. His family had been towing the line of starvation since he was born and the moment he turned 12 and applied for a tessara, he'd accepted the fact his name would be in that bowl more times than his toes and fingers combined. It was a vicious cycle, having the grain and oil to look forward to and when it ran out and his family goes hungry, it would be so easy to just go back the next month and apply again, the reaping seemed so far away back then. The day had started off sunny, but it was bitingly cold outside and the younger of the children grouped together in their roped off sections, as if maybe standing a little closer would provide heat and safety. John hated the waiting part, watching everyone file in and then the suspense of watching their representative reach into the bowls for names.
There was always a hush that fell over the crowd after a name had been read off, a kind of district wide moment of grieving before the mentioned child was brought forward. So when his name was called, he felt that silence well up inside his chest and come to an anticlimactic rush of expected surprise. He watched the peace keepers come forward to escort him up to the podium and to what would undoubtedly be the beginning of his end.
Standing as tall and confident as possible he took his place next to the female tribute, 15 year old Brittany Lane. She, like him, looked small, but his body -from working in the lumber yards- had packed on some muscle and he felt a pain in his chest knowing that together they would face this looming darkness with not a bit of training in the world. Sure, he could swing an ax, lift some heavy stuff, but where was that going to get him? The pit in his stomach slowly turned into a black hole, consuming all his nerves and anxieties to leave him a numb shell. There was no way of backing out now. They're lead off stage moments later and John has a few seconds to himself inside the building to compose his feelings. His restraint is only then put to the test when his family comes in, Harry crying and looking distraught.
"John!"
She pulled him into a tight hug and it took all he had not to break down with her.
"I'll be okay Harry."
Looking at his parents he can see it in his mother's eyes, that passing look of hopefulness and the despair of watching her child be sent into a war zone. The Watson's huddled round as if in mourning for him, and John felt his chances getting smaller and smaller as he realized that leaving home and leaving his family would weigh heavier on his heart than any load of lumber he had to carry. It struck him even harder the moment his father pulled him just away from his mother and sister and pulled something from his pocket. John bit back a protest when he saw just what his father was holding. Resting in the middle of his hand was a small round piece of wood. Engraved on it were the names of their family and on the back the number of their district. He'd seen his father worry over it between his fingers when thinking, the wood worn smooth and the names faded.
"Da-"
"John," he stopped at the sound of his father's stern tone, "take this, as your token."
The effort he had to put into reaching out and taking the piece was astronomical and when it was safely in his own pocket the door opened. With a final goodbye he left the building and left behind the only life he had known. Time seemed to blur and images melted into one another as he was lead to the train with Brittany, when they ate dinner he barely tasted the food and when he watched the children of the other districts being reaped, grief and realization mingled into one large lump in his throat and he excused himself. He breezed through his assigned room, making for the bed and on top of which curled into a fetal position and worried the token between his fingers until sleep came.
His arrival to the Capitol was by no means a happy affair and the transition from forest to bleak city was jarring to say the least. The people were the strangest of all, a mash of colors and odd appearances didn't settle well in his stomach and he could only imagine what it would be like to finally meet his stylists.
If one could have an out of body experience and remember every little detail later on, John would prescribe to the validity of that theory. The other tributes varied in size and of course, class. Spotting the careers was easy enough as he stood next to his district partner. No one talked or made it obvious they were sizing the competition up, like some kind of pregame ritual that stealth and cunning were the weapons of choice. John had to wrap his mind around it finally, thinking of how strange it was that the person who could possible kill him in the arena was standing in the line with him, or that in pursuit of his survival, he would have to take the life of someone's child.
The ceremonies were a quick affair and after meeting his stylists and eating dinner, John felt the bleakness of his situation stir again the moment he'd stepped out of the elevator and onto the floor for district 7 and entered his room. What were his parents doing? Were they weeping for him, even his father? Was his district even proud that he was going to represent them? So many questions buzzed in his mind that he barely slept a wink before the official training began the next day. There was no victor to give them direction and the one sent from the Capitol seemed flippant at best when offering advice. So he continued to move along as planned, letting himself be taken this way and that throughout the days of preparation until the games begun.
/
Within the Capitol the sadness and despair that most of the tributes were feeling was lost on them and was replaced by overwhelming levels of excitement. Everyone wanted to know who the tributes were before placing their initial bets and wagering on the lives of children. At least, everyone except for one who found the games to be exceedingly tiresome and the same run around kill each other plot as any other show on TV.
Sitting, rather morosely, on the couch of his brother's lavish home, Sherlock Holmes watched with disinterest as the interviews of the tributes began. He'd been under house arrest for three days now after pestering the peacekeeper headquarters one too many times on how they could be more efficient- they didn't take too kindly to 16 year old telling them what to do. This, to his annoyance meant being bombarded by the world of the Hunger Games, his brother and the man only being 20, held a place in the government related to the games and their inner workings. He sat, knees drawn up to his chest and tapped his fingers to a silent tune as Caesar Flickerman chatted with interest, dyed a deep crimson and looking all the more like a preserved doll.
The last tribute of district 6 was walking away from the stage when out of the corner of his eye Sherlock spotted movement and watched pointedly as Mycroft entered the room, a stack of papers in his hands and he seated himself down on the couch. None to discreetly Sherlock slid to the other side and continued to tap out rhythms.
"Sherlock, must you be so childish?"
"How's the diet?"
Mycroft didn't reply and continued to leaf through the papers. Satisfied with the silence Sherlock turned back to the TV, and mere seconds after Mycroft's attention cause the sound of his brother's incessant drumming come to a complete halt. Looking up to the screen he saw the blonde haired blue eyed tribute of district 7 smiling as Caesar Flickerman introduced him to the Capitol. He wore a simple tux and was, compared to the other male tributes, much shorter than them. It was then he heard Sherlock muttering to himself and he caught the telltale look that his brother was deducing and observing the young man rather intently.
Sherlock watched as the tribute, introduced as John Watson, talked about his family with a hint of sadness to his voice. He looked strong and even under the tuxedo Sherlock could easily tell the years of lumber work had made him into a formidable force in hand to hand combat. The interview ended as quickly as it started and Mycroft heard the tapping start up again. How interesting, his younger brother was intrigued by the tribute of district 7.
"Stop thinking, it's annoying," Sherlock growled.
"Sher-"
Mycroft didn't get to finish as the young boy swept away from the couch and disappeared into the house.
/
John could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, it was time, and he stood in the tube ready to be sent to his death. The minute it started to rise and the paneling above opened cold wind flooded in. The big jacket and insulated pants should have tipped him off but he wasn't entirely ready for the sight stretched out before him when the platform stopped.
Wasteland was the first word that came to mind when he looked around. Not a tree or decent shelter in sight, just rocks and snow swirling in the wind and John felt an ominous gloom sweep over the group of tributes. Visibility low, chill factor high and he could just make out the glinting cornucopia and the dark pile of items stacked at its base. He was sorely tempted to head straight for them, but the massacres of previous games deterred him. Those who watched the games knew all too well the way 24 could easily drop to half when too many tributes hustled into one area. The countdown drifted on the wind, coming in and out of earshot so he stopped straining for the numbers and concentrated on trying to hear the gong.
The second it rang out he turned on the spot and sprinted away, the cold air bit into his lungs like daggers and he could hear the screams rise above the wind behind him. The slap of his shoes on the ground was dulled by the hard-packed earth and stopped completely when something snatched around his ankles. His chin took a beating when he fell suddenly, and throbbed accordingly as his teeth clicked together painfully. None of it registered though as the worst case scenarios ran through his mind lightening quick. Whipping around he scrambled to untangle himself from whatever wanted to do him harm, except his eyes zeroed in on the backpack straps tangled around his feet and relief flooded his system like a drug. A little calmer this time he kept his eyes peeled as he tugged the bag off and onto his back.
His breath formed into large clouds and streamed back into his face as the wind continued to whip around him. If there was one thing he was going to do, he was going to damn well live past the cornucopia. The clouds overhead made it hard to tell the time of day, but if this game was anything like the others, midday to afternoon would be his guess. The snow continued to bombard him, the flakes melting on contact and flying into his face, stinging his skin repetitively.
John was fairly sure no one had followed him from the cornucopia, enough so that he chanced a quick look in the bag. Inside the main pocket he found matches but no tinder, a thermal blanket, a flashlight and something wrapped in plastic he hoped was food. In the front pocket was a coil of rope and with that brief inspection he slung it back on, trying to put as much distance between him and the other tributes.
/
The beginning of the Hunger Games, as the Capitol witnessed it, was lackluster at best, snow flurried in front of the cameras making the initial bloodbath of the cornucopia hard to see. Mycroft hovered near the back of the room where the magic happened. Rows of circular desks surrounded a large pedestal in the middle of the room and projecting up from it was a 3D layout of the arena. On the projection each of the tributes had a tag and with it their information. The Hunger Games board was not the happiest at the moment; they set off the cannons as ten of the mini tribute figures faded into grey and watched as the cameras could barely focus through the snow on the bodies.
"This is great, best shots in the world," someone down the table grumbled flipping through the already recorded scenes on the screen before him.
"The storm should blow over soon, and then we'll get what we want."
Mycroft paid them no mind, the cornucopia was always a highlight of the games, where wages and bets would be put to the test and the fodder would be cleared away to show the tributes who were either lucky or skilled enough to get away. The board was busy trying to put some of the more interesting shots together when Mycroft felt his phone vibrate, pulling it out he felt mildly amused at what it said.
Who's dead? That footage is horrendous.
SH
He swiftly typed a reply, if he even tried to give Sherlock the run around about details and security he knew he'd only be fooling himself. His younger brother wasn't one to go about flaunting that a relative of his was on the board for the Hunger Games, and he certainly wouldn't brag about knowing scores before anyone else.
D12 both, D11 boy, D10 both,
D7 girl, D6 both, D5 boy, D4 girl
M
Sherlock read the text the second it came to his phone, his heart did a weird sink and jump when he saw D7 then read 'girl' and his eyes flashed up to the screen. The Capitol was getting close up shots of the career group, the first few districts had huddled under an awning of rocks and were going through their supplies. At least he knew for a fact John was at lucky enough to make it out alive, he waited impatiently for the views to change.
Silently Sherlock steepled his hands, staring intently at the screen as he considered quickly what he was going to doing for the boy from District 7. There was the little detail that in the beginning ceremonies he hadn't even thought about sponsoring a tribute, it had never really occurred to him, except he when he saw John and John was more than a handsome face on the screen. He had the tired eyes of a boy grown into a man within years and yet the fire that burned behind them looked to be thriving. He knew for a fact Mycroft wouldn't dare deny him the interest he was rapidly gaining in the older boy, becoming his sponsor would be as easy as pressing send.
I will be the sponsor for D7's
boy, deny gifts from anyone else.
SH
Mycroft barely batted an eye when the text message popped up, in fact, he'd been expecting it from the moment his younger brother's interest sparked. Oh what would mummy think? Sherlock taking on such an important role as sponsor, he very well held John Watson's life in the palms of his hands, and who knew what that meant for the both of them.
/
John stood before the maw of a cave, he wasn't sure if his luck was looking up, or if he was heading to his death by entering. Looking around he swallowed his anxieties and headed in, aside from his curiosity, he just wanted to get out of the storm for a few hours. Digging the flashlight out he flicked it on and immediately felt the press of darkness around him and the small shaft of light. The wind howled along the entrance and he only dared to venture far enough to sit in the shadows, hidden from the opening. Sitting on the ground John took a moment to rest and look through his bag, moving things around and extricating the wrapped package at the bottom. Opening it up he found that it was some kind of bread, pressed tight and dotted with grains.
He chewed in silence, staring out at the entrance. Just the bread wouldn't last more than a few meals before...it dawned on him that he truly was out of his element, how was he going to find food? Was there even game out in the harsh wilderness? Swallowing thickly John put the bread away, packed up and left the cave to scout around. Carefully climbing down a near slope John stopped the second a scream ripped through the wind. Pure dread trickled into his veins and he froze, looking in the direction of the scream. Slowly he continued on, using the low shrubs and thin trees for what little cover they provided. The prospect of picking up whatever the fallen tribute had been carrying tempted him through the woods a little quicker. Now, John knew he was walking on a knife's edge, he had no idea if the killer was still around, but if he could get in close and surprise them, he might just tip things in his favor.
Ducking low he crouched behind some bushes when he heard the telltale engines of the ship that carried the bodies away. He cursed quietly and jumped from cover, taking his chances and praying to his lucky stars as he crashed through the snow covered underbrush and tried to beat the craft as it headed toward him. He was making a racket loud enough to scare any game away, but he could care less as he jumped over a rock and came face to face with the crime scene.
Blood.
The first thing he saw was blood and the body of the boy from District 8. There was a spear lodged into the boy's chest and if John had, had any sense right then and there he would've turned and run when he saw the girl District 8 notice his presence. A million thoughts flooded his mind, what to do next, where to go, and they all meant nothing when the girl locked eyes with him and the blood on her hands looked garishly out of place. In the second it took him to push off from the rock the girl had wrapped a hand around the spear and was tugging it from the corpse.
He slammed into her with enough force to skid them both away from the body and snow flurried into the air, the carrier ship was hovering over them with its engines kicking up the loose dirt. The girl below him screamed, a blood curdling kill or be killed scream that he reciprocated with a growl as they grappled. Their hands tangled over the spear and John had to put all his inhibitions about hitting a girl aside. Thrusting down he head butted her, their skulls thudding painfully and in those dazed moments he wrenched the spear away, flipped it deadly end down and struck her through the chest. She coughed and gagged for a few seconds before falling limp and another cannon went off, the ship was still hovering nearby, having already taken up the boy's body. Not wasting anytime he retrieved the spear, grabbed the backpacks the girl had left and made room for the ship to go about its business.
Standing where he had come into the clearing John watched as the lifeless body was hauled into the air and the ship disappeared, nothing but the bloodstains on the ground to indicate anyone had even been there. Without a word he turned from the scene and trudged through the brush and snow, he couldn't chance being there in case the commotion had attracted unwanted attention.
John took the time to clean his hands and the spear after dropping the packs inside the cave, leaving a pink patch in the surrounding snow. The spoils of his ordeal produced another sleeping bag, another thermal blanket, dried fruits, a knife and miscellaneous other little things. He was safe for now, but he knew he would have to wise up to hunting fast if he truly meant to survive this.
Except his luck ran out and one day, that was how long John had been allowed to stay in the cave. The snow had continued without stopping, John was rolling his bedding up on day 3 of the hunger games when he heard the dull roar of something coming from the back of the cave. Confusion writ on his face and then shock when he saw the wall of water rushing toward him, he didn't even get the chance to scream as it hit him hard. The water swept him under and carried him and his belongings out of the cave. He landed a good fifty yards away from the cave, his backpack, spear and sleeping bag scattered about. Instantly he started shivering, the cold air attacked his body and sapped what body heat he had saved up during the night. Stiffly he got up, retrieved the backpack and spear and moved on lest another wave come crashing out at him again. Leaving the sleep bag-for he had another in his pack-he wrapped his arms around his upper body and tried to keep his teeth from chattering.
Another shelter was what he needed, somewhere to get rid of his sopping clothing and huddle inside his sleeping bag, and a fire and maybe some more food. Gods he was out of his element. So he trudged on, searching and trying to keep the blood flowing to his limbs.
/
Sherlock was livid. Or at least inside he was, on the outside the corner of his mouth turned down and he clutched at his phone. The games had been somewhat uneventful the past few days, so of course the Gamemakers focused on John, showing his sudden departure from the cave and his inevitable demise. They focused on his face and upper body, showing the obvious signs of someone ripe for frostbite and hypothermia. The other tributes were spread out across the map and far between each other, no deaths and nothing interesting meant restless watchers.
Observing with narrowed eyes Sherlock was already weighing the pros and cons of sending John a gift, or waiting to see if he could pull himself together in time. Though, by the look of his lips and fingers, whenever the screen switched back to his wanderings, it wouldn't be long till he succumbed to hypothermia. A commercial break popped onto the screen and almost immediately his phone chimed with a message.
Hypothermia is not long off.
M
Sneering at the message he wanted to remark with every little detail on John that made that obvious. He replied quickly.
What gifts are available?
SH
Only three days into the event and he had to save John from his own idiocy. Had he ever seen a previous game? Never, ever, stay in one place for too long. Lest the Gamemakers or a tribute find it easy to pick you off. Another chime;
Food, simple weapons, thermal tent, infrared glasses
M
Thermal tent
SH
The other items were of no consequence, early on they were basic and commonly found in the backpacks, as the game progressed the items became more specific and if things became too tense on the battlefield, a feast was called. No reply from Mycroft came but he knew for a fact his gift would be sent with swiftness. The final melody of an advertisement faded and the screen switched to the sight of a lone male, District 4 if he wasn't mistaken. He looked worse than John and was wandering with no items, obviously lost as he stumbled through the low lying brush, no doubt he wouldn't last the night like that. Whoever had wagered on the boy would be disappointed.
Finally, the cameras turned from the doomed male to another that was sitting at the base of a tree, knees drawn up and arms drawn close to his chest. John had wrapped a thermal blanket around himself for the sake of keeping some warmth in. Slowly the camera panned up to show the glint of a box and the outline of parachute, switch to John's face and he saw the exact moment those beautiful blue eyes caught sight of the gift.
Wide and surprised, the cold forgotten in that instance and Sherlock resisted leaning closer to memorize the moment. Thermal blanket still clutched around himself John reached up as if in worship and gingerly caught the package before sweeping it down to his body to open it. Upon revealing what the gift was Sherlock held his breath when the camera did a close up of John's face as he looked to the sky, eyes searching fruitlessly.
"Thank you!"
Something lurched inside Sherlock and he vaguely registered he was gripping the edge of the sofa. John was magnificent, with his reddened nose and ears, with his shivering body-were those tears? He looked so grateful before the screen switched again and Sherlock almost threw a pillow at the TV when the Capitol was shown the career group. Peeling his hands from the couch Sherlock continued to sit in anticipation.
/
John was busy pulling down the branches he could reach before dragging them to a patch of bushes, he was going to make sure that tonight he wouldn't be found. Setting up the tent, moving branches and situating the brush, John had worked up a sweat even under all his damp clothing. His clothes felt stiff and clammy against his skin and the prospect of not freezing inside of them like a cocoon spurred him on. Inside he zipped the entrance closed, the wind only a dull roar now as he stripped the clothes off and made quick work of getting the spare sleeping bag and thermal blanket out. There wasn't enough room for him to stretch out, just enough that if he pulled his knees to his chest he could lay his clothing over the backpack and fit like a sardine.
Fishing through the pocket of his pants John pulled the one thing he needed desperately at that moment out. His body continued to shiver, but the temperature steadily rose and even though his stomach growled for food, he ignored it in favor of sleeping. Eyes closed he mentally went through counting the remaining tributes left. He'd heard 10 cannon shots at the cornucopia leaving 14 tributes. Then there was the boy and girl from district 8, leaving 12- a crashing boom sounded over head- make that 11. Grimacing he ducked his head lower and hugged the small token to his chest, 10 other tributes and him, how was this ever going to survive?