Hey, here's chapter 2 of the SherGames! (Or HungerLock). Ha ha. Anyway, I hope to start introducing familiar Sherlock and HG character's soon so stay tuned for new updates.

It was not long after when I was escorted away. I felt the reassuring weight of the scarf in my pocket and forced myself into step with the marching Peacekeepers. We arrived at the train station. The undulating mass of capital reporters and worried citizens shouted out when I approached. Last minute advice and irritatingly personal questions mingled together into a wave of sound.

I was hurried aboard the train and the doors slid shut, drowning out everything and everyone.

The capital had spared no expense. Everything from floor to ceiling glistened like a thousand blinking eyes and the windows and sealed doors were surprisingly sound-proof. Wild-eyed people clawed at the windows despite the Peacekeeper's futile attempts to control them. I wondered where my family were. Hopefully not amongst these deliquents. Perhaps they were at home watching the live feed from the station. Could they see me now? What could they be thinking; that I'd be amongst the first to die or that I was a contender for the crown?

The future was too painful to dwell on at present so I turned away from the window.

But as I did, I was confronted with a montage of paintings. A mutilated face. The golden plated cornucopia. A child impaled by a long spear. Death was everywhere. It took few moments to steady my nerves. Designer Peeta Mellark had obviously redesigned this train. His trademark paintings of The Hunger Games were well known even in the districts.

He'd been in The Games himself. Twice.

I had admired him from a very young age. He would have been my role model if I weren't heinously opposed to making people into heroes...

" Gaah!"

I span around. The noise was akin to that of a strangled cat. It was Molly Hooper. She must have climbed onto the train, unobserved whilst I was disorientated by the crowd. She was staring at the wall. The young child depicted in the painting was dark of skin, petite and young- maybe 12 years of age. The long spear that had impaled her had drawn out a pool of blood. As I watched the pool seemed to grow and grow, until her entire body was drained of life. Molly seemed to experiencing something similar, except responding emotionally rather than rationally.

In my head I recitied;

Caring is not an advantage. Just a means to end. All hearts are broken. All lives end. Some more peacefully than others.

Mine and Molly's probably being of the latter.

Sensing another presence nearby, I set my head on a swivel. I searched around the cabin; there was nobody behind the plush sofas or hiding behind the curtains. I quickly identified the potential hiding places and then systematically dismissed them. Molly was watching me questioningly. I couldn't pinpoint what exactly alerted me to another human being but I had faith in it. Surely, I couldn't be mistaken...

As if on cue...from the shadows, emerged a male figure.

His hands bore the signs of an artist; there were charcoal stains on each finger tip and smudges of it on his face, presumably when the unassuming man had rubbed at his eyes with fatique. it was no big deduction to say that he was infamous Peeta Mellark.

His mouth opened a fraction. A single syllable slipped from his lips; a soft whispered name, " Rue."

I motioned towards the painting Molly and myself were just observing, he nodded. The name sounded familiar. Rue had been the female tribute from district 11 a few years back. She'd died horrifically as was usual in the Games.

" She was so young," said Peeta, " Too young to be plucked from the Earth." He stepped from the shadows, swaying on the balls of his bare feet as if he were drunk,

"You're the new tributes."

"Yes." I replied.

As the simple realisation dawned in his eyes, I saw his body shake. Molly rushed to his side. Just in time, it seemed as Peeta's legs collapsed beneath him.

"No, no, no. Not again. Please not again. I can't mentor you. I can't mentor anyone! You'll die, just like the others. I can't!" He started to twist and writhe, knocking a vase from a table. It shattered. Blood ran freely down the right side of his face, where the shards had cut into him.

" Help me! We need to move him. Please!" Molly stared imploringly at me then down worriedly at our mentally unstable mentor. Wrapping her arms beneath his arms, she attempted to drag him into the next carriage. I stood still for a moment. The physical implications of aiding her were unsettling but so was the blood staining the tiled floor.

" Come on, help me! Don't just stand there!"

I decided to help her. And Peeta. Clamping his flailing legs together with one hand, I hooked my arm beneath them and lifted them from the floor. Molly smiled gratefully but I avoided her eyes. We settled Peeta onto a couch, plucked the shards of glass from his temple and I resisted the urge to vomit. His flesh and blood was warm.

Eventually, we grew tired of his incessant ramblings and Molly found a syringe.

"You were extremely precise with the dosage Molly. Where did you learn that? I hardly remember any medical course available at school."

" Oh that." Molly blushed as if ashamed of her healing niche, " I learnt it from my mother. She was a healer."

The use of the past tense took me slightly aback, I knew starvation was common within district 12 but the victims were always meaningless to me; therefore faceless. Molly lifted her chin high, fighting back tears.

" There's no point in crying I know but I'm scared. Scared for myself. Mother said that no-one ever wins the games, there are just scarred survivors. Those poor kids who survive become 'babes' of the capital. They either get spoiled or go insane."

I looked pointedly at the drugged form of Peeta Mellark asleep on the couch. Molly continued, brushing the hair from her eyes,

" I don't want to die. And I don't want to end up like him. I'm guessing that underneath, deep, deep down that all the mentors have been affected by the Games. I- I don't know what I'll do in the arena... Die, kill, survive? All three sound as impossible as the other..."