A/N: Here's chapter two! Thank you for the reviews! 3
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Chapter II: Numb


Three minutes was an enormous amount of time for Sherlock Holmes.

In three minutes, he could decipher just whom the thief was that kept stealing the bread from the bakery tucked away near the district's center.
In three minutes, he could lull Redbeard to sleep with a couple scratches behind the ear and a few strokes across his eyes and cheeks.
In three minutes, he could sing his favorite song.
In three minutes, he could sneak his way out of the district's borders and into the woods.
In three minutes, Sherlock Holmes could do a lot of things.

What he couldn't do, however, is say goodbye to the only family he had left.

His mother had entered first, of course. She had hobbled towards him as fast as she could, throwing her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair, and kissing his forehead, all while fat tears rolled down both of her red, swollen cheeks, staining Sherlock's skin with salt and devastation. It had been hard to reassure her, to tell her he would try to win, try to make it home so he could see her again.

Usually, he had quite the skill for lying, and this was no exception.

And his mother had seemed relieved for a moment, nodding her head, telling him he had just as equal a chance as any of the other competitors. He knew he didn't. District One and Two had participants who volunteered because they wanted to, because they had trained their entire life for the Games, because they craved the thrill of victory, the praise that comes with being in charge of each and every act of murder they commit.

Sure, maybe Sherlock had more intellect than the whole of them combined, but without physical strength, he was a dead man. Sure, he could shoot an arrow, and his aim was near perfect, but his skinny arms and legs would only take him so far before he would ultimately be gunned down, or pummeled into the ground.

His mother had her head in the clouds, he had decided.

And when the Peacekeeper had told her that her time was up, his mother had nodded solemnly, touched his hand, and given him a kiss on the cheek, whispering into his ear that she loved him with all her heart, and that no matter what happened, he would forever be her hero.

Didn't she get it?

Even if he won the games, he'd never be a hero, or a winner, or a fucking victor.
What was it they always say? No one ever really wins the games?

After she left, a knock at the door saved him from the insufferable silence of the small room he was waiting in, all on his own, locked in a metaphoric box with his mind and his imagination, an imagination of which was suddenly filled with images of his death, of him dying, over and over and over again.

"Three minutes," was uttered by one of the Peacekeepers, and when Sherlock glanced upwards toward the entrance, he saw his brother standing by the door, face blank and brows furrowed, still dressed in his classy, mandatory clothing as though prepared and ready for another reaping.

He thought about the idea of never seeing the man before him again – his sibling – and so, within an instant, Sherlock was cataloguing the dark shade of his eyes, the wrinkles on his forehead, the thin shape of his lips, and the plump form of his nose. This was the man he'd grown up with, beside, next to; this was the man who taught him about the dangers of sentiment after their father died, and the man that told him love was simply a disadvantage to those who held onto it. And this was the man who was approaching him with no hints emotion revealed in the depths of his expression, his eyes sharp and concentrated, the corners of his mouth curved downward.

"Redbeard?" Sherlock murmured questioningly.

Mycroft shook his head, "He's not allowed in."

Sherlock nodded and looked down.

"I take it Mummy was a sappy mess," Mycroft stated, so very nonchalantly, as though her sobbing all over Sherlock's cheeks and shoulders was ridiculous and utterly unnecessary.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded and stood awkwardly before his brother, fingers sliding over the face of the bee pin in his pocket, just as they had before, "Then again she had every right to be."

Mycroft turned and stared at him then, and for a moment Sherlock was sure he saw something in that lifeless gaze. Something kind, something determined, and something furious. But then his older brother glanced downward, glaring intricately at the floor as though it had wronged him in some way, and Sherlock was left questioning the emotions he'd just seen flicker across his older sibling's features.

They were silent for what felt like ages, and he loathed it – he loathed that they were spending the three minutes they had blankly staring off into space.
But before he could strike up a conversation, Mycroft cleared his throat and met his eyes.

"I expect you to win," His brother uttered, entire expression serious, stoic and unmoving.

Sherlock couldn't help but scoff, the sound that escaped him bitter and harsh, but he didn't care. He had thought more of Mycroft; he had thought him smart, a right genius, perhaps even smarter than he, but here he was thinking up fantasies and expecting the impossible.

"You've got to be joking," Sherlock pressed, brows raised in disbelief, but when his brother shook his head, they lowered in disappointment, "Honestly, Mycroft, you of all people should know better."

"No, Sherlock," His brother started and suddenly there was a hand on the collar of Sherlock's shirt, yanking him forward, roughly and forcefully, "I, of all people, believe that you have a chance. You just need to get your bloody head out of your arse."

And with that, Mycroft shoved him backwards, glowering his way as he stumbled to reclaim his balance.

Sherlock swallowed and glared, appalled, taken aback by his brother's actions and words. He watched, scowling, as his older sibling sighed and shook his head once more, glancing off somewhere unknown, most likely retreating into his mind for something else to say.

Sherlock decided he didn't want to listen anymore.

"I'm a bloody seventeen year old from District Twelve, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, staring intently at the floor, acknowledging each and every detail, each crack in the wood panels, each lonely crevice where they met, "I can shoot a rabbit with a bow and arrow, sure. I can build traps, I can track, I can climb a tree. Good, yeah, great. That'll all really help me win." His words were dripping with sarcasm as he frowned, furious with himself and his abilities.

Mycroft lifted his head and sighed, "Humans are no different from animals. If you can shoot a rabbit, surely you can shoot a tribute."

Sherlock chuckled bitterly, "Yeah, I probably could. But that's not the point, is it? I won't be quick enough to dodge the other's attack. They'll kill me before I even pull back the arrow."

"Have more confidence in yourself, Sherlock. For God's sake," Mycroft snapped, eyes burning as the entirety of his expression sat uncomfortably on the edge of rage.

"Why? Why should I?" Sherlock growled back, taking a step closer to his brother, eager to prove his point, to prove that he didn't have a chance. He just wanted someone else to admit it already – he didn't want to be brave, he didn't want to think that he could win because then that would mean he would have to try. And what if he tried, what if he really tried, and then he failed? What if he killed dozens of tributes and then died with only one more left? They were stupid thoughts, but he couldn't stop thinking them.

"Because, William," His brother uttered, and suddenly, within a mere instant, he had all of Sherlock's attention, every last bit, "The Games aren't just about physical strength." Mycroft let out a deep breath and shut his eyes momentarily, "With a mind like yours, you have the ability to outsmart everyone. And I expect you to."

The door to the small room they stood in flew open and the white, familiar figure, poked his head inside, moving to face them, "Time."

Mycroft blinked, swallowed, and nodded his head, turning his back to his little brother as he took a few steps forward, sauntering toward the exit. Before he disappeared behind the door the Peacekeeper was impatiently holding open, Mycroft glanced over his shoulder and murmured, "Remember what I told you earlier." And then his eyes dropped once to the hand Sherlock had tucked away in his pocket, bronze bee held tight within his fist, before he was ushered out the door by the man in white.

Sherlock swallowed as he watched the last of his family leave him.

A reminder that you are human, and so are they.


The next time Sherlock Holmes saw Molly Hooper they were sitting on a train together. A fancy one at that, with chandeliers and glass tables and regal chairs. Everything was a different color; everything was dark, and touched by mahogany and expensive décor. Everything was so abnormal, so different, so unusual to him. He hated it. He hated that he had to sit down, next to Molly bloody Hooper, the sweetest, kindest girl in District Twelve, and listen to the lady in pink, of whom he had learned was named Effie Trinket, blab on and on about how wonderful they would be treated and how much they had to enjoy on their trip to the Capitol and how fast the train was going.

Two hundred miles per hour and you can barely feel a thing.

He hated it all. And he kept repeating that little fact to himself while Molly glanced at him on occasion, studying him carefully, worry in her eyes as Effie stood up and declared she was off to find their mentor. It was silent in the rather overtly large train car, and Sherlock gazed out the window, glaring at the trees and shrubs and land as it whooshed by like lightning on a stormy night.

His heart ached.
He missed Redbeard.
Sentiment. Attachment. Love.

Fuck it all. It didn't matter anymore.
Not after the next few days.
Not after the Games.

"Sherlock?" Molly's timid voice sounded from beside him, but he remained cold and still, his face turned away from her line of sight, his eyes fixated on the square shape of the train window.

He didn't want to talk. He didn't feel like talking. He wouldn't talk. Not yet.
Why should he? Why should he do anything anymore?
For God's sake, he just sounds like a stubborn, insubordinate, pesky teenager.

"Look, I know you're upset, but–"

"Upset?" He snapped, "I'm not upset."

Molly froze and narrowed her eyes, "You're not?"

"No," Sherlock muttered.

"Then what are you?"

"I –" He stopped, because he didn't know. He didn't know if he was angry, or sad, or nervous. He didn't know. He didn't know anything because this – this – was about emotion. And Sherlock Holmes didn't understand emotion, or, at least, he assumed he didn't. He hated not knowing.

"I'm," He paused and glanced down at his hands, of which rested in his lap, intertwined and utterly still, "numb."

Before Molly could comment, much to his own gratitude, the entrance to their particular train car opened and a rather ragged, rough looking man entered, his long blonde hair greasy and his stubble uncared for. His white shirt, of which hid beneath a gray vest, was untucked, and his matching gray trousers were old, and baggy. He looked, in Sherlock's opinion, like he didn't have enough stamina to care for himself.

Laziness, Sherlock concluded.

Or – oh. Of course. Obvious. Alcohol.

The first thing the man did was approach the decanter, fill his empty class, and then take a rather large sip, as though he'd be desperate to quench his thirst. The second thing he did was turn to face the two of them, his tributes, his students, the two teenagers he would have to teach his ways and then watch helplessly as they died on the battlefield. Sherlock couldn't even imagine how they looked – surely, not promising at all. He was slouched downwards in the soft cushion of one of the train's sofa chairs, his white button-up shirt now wrinkled, his black slacks covering the whole of his long legs, of which were spread out in front of him. His fancy dress shoes were getting to be rather uncomfortable, and his curls had fallen from their perfectly smooth-backed form, falling atop his forehead rather messily. He looked unforgivable; he wasn't sure what Haymitch – their mentor – could possibly think of him. Molly didn't really look like a victor, but at least she was sitting upwards, a bright smile on her face, posture ramrod straight.

"Hi, I'm Molly. Molly Hooper," She began, so enthusiastically it made Sherlock's stomach hurt.
She extended a hand toward the blonde man, but he simply glared at it and took a quick sip of his drink.

"I know who you are," He uttered, sighing as if she were boring him, or, merely, annoying.

"Right," Her smile falter – just a little, "So, when do we start?"

"Whoa," He scoffed, shaking his head and gripping his drink tighter, knuckles turning white, "So eager. Most of you aren't in such a hurry."

Molly blinked, swallowed, glanced at Sherlock, turned back to Haymitch, and then shrugged, "But you're our mentor, aren't you supposed to teach us, about sponsors, and strategies and the like?"

"Fine," He responded, sneaking in a sip of his drink before continuing, "Embrace the probability of your imminent death. And know, in your heart, that there's nothing I can do to save you."

Sherlock almost laughed at his words, but kept his amusement to a minimum – judging by the terrified look on Molly's face, now would not be a good time to giggle. So instead, Sherlock glanced away from the exchange and back out the window, figuring that if Haymitch wouldn't be of any help, what was the point of paying attention any longer?

"So, why are you here then?" Molly squeaked from beside him.

"The refreshments," Haymitch replied, and, as if on cue, took a sip of whatever the hell it was that he was drinking.

Sherlock continued to listen even as the door to the train car opened yet again, high-heeled shoes clip-clopping across the linoleum signifying Effie's presence among them.

"There you are," She declared, something like aggravation hidden in the tone of her voice, "Have you all met?"

Sherlock quirked a smile but let it drop within an instant, turning his head back toward Molly and Haymitch, the two of them sitting in their chairs, across from one another, Molly appearing somewhat bewildered, whilst Haymitch was staring straight at Sherlock specifically, eyes narrowed as though he were curious, or skeptical. Sherlock stared back, observing, deducing.

An alcoholic; hasn't been sober since his victory in the games – a little over twenty-four years ago. Had a family once – dead now. Was in love once – dead too. Drinks in order to forget – all of it.

"More or less," Their mentor muttered, gazing sharply at Sherlock before lifting his eyes and standing from his seated position, gripping his drink close to his swaying figure, before sighing and indicating toward the car exit with a bob of his head, "I think I'm going to finish this in my room."
And with that, he was striding away, leaving behind a stunned Molly Hooper and an exasperated Effie Trinket.

"Well," Effie sighed, "Should I show you to your rooms?"

Molly nodded and stood, smiling wearily at Effie's friendly expression. Sherlock simply stood as well, following silently as Effie led them from the fancy room, passing the rows of cakes and different snacks and the chandeliers and the glass and gold tables.

Sherlock shook his head softly, pondering how just earlier that day he had been sitting in the woods, dreading the reaping, and now he was tribute, a possible victor, awaiting either his death, a ruthless end, or his triumph, a victorious champion of District Twelve.

In his own mind, he was fucked either way.