Thanks to you lovelies who reviewed – I'm so sorry it took me so long to get the next chapter out... Real Life interfered. I've got the whole story planned in my head, so I'll finish it, I swear. Expect the rest to come in a far more orderly fashion. The next one might even be out tomorrow.

As always, I own no characters here/I don't own the HG Universe either, so if you were for some reason under the impression that I did, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

Sherlock is mildly aware that they've been on the train for approximately one hour, fifty-three minutes, and forty-seven seconds (he's been counting) before Ms. Hudson knocks on the door of his room.

He doesn't respond – he knows she'll come in anyway, and in that Ms. Hudson does not fail to disappoint him. She quietly steps up to the bed on which Sherlock is sitting, arms wrapped around knees.

"We're about to watch the other lotteries," she spoke tenderly, "The others could really use a bit of your help here, dear."

Sherlock presses his lips together, eyes closed in understanding. Of course Ms. Hudson wants him to take a look at the reapings – it's a wise tactical move, and Sherlock's strength in this case would only enhance the chances of Molly or John's potential survival, which is the main reason he's supposedly here anyway.

He nods once, carefully, in agreement, and slowly releases his legs and moves to get up, following Ms. Hudson out through the automatic door and eventually two more train cars until they reach the lounge, where the heads of the two tributes immediately turn to see who's there. John doesn't seem to be aware that he's drumming his fingers against his knee, while Molly is anxiously fidgeting with the hem of her dress, but Sherlock thinks them extremely well composed considering their situation. The three children stare at each other, each waiting for the next to say something first.

Sherlock is the one to bite the proverbial bullet.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

He knows what it feels like to be in that chair, and right now he's blessing Ms. Hudson for having the courage to do this year after year, watching child after child die, and knowing that she's almost entirely powerless in this situation.

Almost.

Sherlock almost grins to himself, but catches himself just in time, remembering what he's just said. He continues, "You both, however, have the potential to do extremely well in this situation."

At that, Molly flushes a little (interesting response – surely the result of a rising heart rate upon being complemented, or something else?), while the Watson boy raises his eyebrows as if to challenge that statement (definitely self-deprecating, Sherlock thinks to himself. Need to work on that).

"Don't give me that. Molly – you're obviously more intelligent than most. I've seen you in classes. What's more, you're particularly modest about it, and a relatively short girl from Three, so you can get away with using it as a surprise factor. Most other tributes, particularly the Careers, will underestimate you. That's got a lot of potential. John – aside from the obvious advantage of age and physical strength, I'm willing to bet that you have a particularly large range of medical knowledge stemming from your apprenticeship with the surgeon, which will not only come in handy if you find yourself injured, but will also be useful when foraging for food in the arena. Plant knowledge is nothing to underestimate. What's more, from the state of your family, your sister in particular, it's apparent that you react well under pressure and are used to dealing with hostile environments. Now, I would very much appreciate it if you put aside your feelings of insignificance and pretended that you at least felt capable of surviving the first day long enough for us to watch the other reapings and gather all the information we can about your opponents."

With that, Sherlock bit his tongue, knowing he'd gone a bit far and waiting for the irate retort that was surely to follow from the older boy. John, however, merely blinked at him, a bewildered look on his face.

"Blimey. No wonder you won – that was amazing."

It was now Sherlock who appeared thoroughly confused. Not the reaction he'd been expecting. Best to move ahead, he supposed, and reflect on his minor miscalculation later (the Hooper girl had, as expected, blushed at his praise).

"Thank you, I suppose, if that was a complement…? Let's get to business – it's time to see what you're up against."

With that statement and a nod from the young mentor, Ms. Hudson turned on the screen.

"…This year's lotteries have pulled tributes with serious potential…"

"Oh, Ms. Hudson – skip that waffle. Fast forward to the reapings."

"Lotteries, Sherlock!"

The boy shook his head, waving his hand to indicate he could care less about the proper use of the official (and somewhat sugarcoated) term. "Yes, thank you, whatever. Forward, please."

"…And now, the female tribute from District 1…. Please welcome… Royal!"

The others watched as the dark-haired boy stared silently at the screen.

Sherlock, however, was too busy paying attention to the dark haired daughter of the mayor (Obviously – her reaping dress was incredibly ornate, even for District One.) and her sly grin at the female mentor (Definitely career. Most likely trained by the mentor herself – Oooh. In more than just fighting and survival skills, apparently, judging from the wink she received back. Ms. Adler was dallying with District royalty, apparently. Scandalous).

While the girl climbed the stairs onto the platform, Sherlock was too wrapped up in deductions to actually remember to share them with Ms. Hudson and the others (Well nourished all her life, presumably. Confident in her own abilities, judging from her posture. Strong shoulders – specialty in thrown weapons, I presume. Must be good enough, to have won the slot at fifteen). It wasn't until John cleared his throat that Sherlock refocused on the room around him and shared what he'd been thinking.

Having finished his evaluation of Royal's fighting potential, Sherlock had just gotten to the bit about her blatant affair with Irene Adler, the mentor, before Ms. Hudson spluttered indignantly and told him that was "quite enough on that one, thank you." The boy looked around, gauging the others' reactions. Molly had, as expected, blushed, while John cracked a smile for the first time since…well, really since Sherlock had properly seen him.

Twenty-one tributes later, Sherlock had separated the threats from those Molly and John would not need to bother with, elaborated on each and every weakness he could glimpse (moreso in the case of the stronger ones), and had given them explicit instructions on who they really ought to not have notice them right away (Irene's girl from One – Royal – and both of Morans' tributes from Two – Kitty and Rich). He paused, for a moment, before adding, "Do you want to watch yours? It might be advisable – that way you have the advantage of knowing how the audience experienced it."

John shrugged, before murmuring, "I suppose."

The young mentor turned to Molly, who also nodded, although she looked a bit close to tears again. Sherlock would have to speak with Ms. Hudson about it. Hopefully the girl would have a good cry tonight and then be able to pull herself together for the rest of the trip. Self pity wasn't a marketable trait, but then again, Sherlock was forced to admit to himself, unless something took out John, Molly's survival wasn't likely.

For some reason foreign to him, Sherlock had not wanted to evaluate his own two tributes against each other the same way he'd considered how they'd match up against the others, but for practicality's sake, pretending they'd both come home wasn't an option.

The injustice of it all was stifling.

Either John Watson or Molly Hooper was going to die horribly in front of everyone who ever knew them, and although he didn't want to admit it, there was definite chance that they both would.

Sherlock didn't want to do this.

No matter what happened in the arena, the blood of Molly, John, or both would stain his hands for the rest of his existence. As the newest mentor, the cold shoulders of his District after he'd emerged victorious (if one could even call it victory) would be nothing to the venomous treatment he'd get if they both died.

He had to get at least one of them through this. Then, maybe, his life would start to be better again, right? It wouldn't be so bad, anymore, with someone who he could relate to and actually talk to without getting scowled at.

Just then, Stamford walks in to announce dinner, and Sherlock wants to punch him because he planned on escaping back to his solitude so Ms. Hudson wouldn't be able to corner him in front of everybody and he'd not have to sit through dinner listening to Stamford blather on about useless crap or even eating, really.

Sherlock wasn't really in the mood to eat. Digestion interfered with his thinking process, or so he told himself, and he'd already eaten once today and look where that got him.

He turned to Ms. Hudson, as if to begin his excuse, and she tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, challenging him to try her. Foiled, Sherlock glared a bit (pointless, although the impulse to express his frustration was too strong to ignore) and followed Stamford and the others towards the dining car, Ms. Hudson at the rear.