As usual, I sadly own neither Sherlock nor The Hunger Games, which is a major bummer. Also, briefly, I want to apologize for my unexpected hiatus, particularly because I was going to be more regular about posting and such. I couldn't do much of anything due to several particularly painful family emergencies that involved rather a lot of my time, but as long as the universe has finished being troublesome for the time being, I should be able to get quite far in this story over the next month. Enjoy the chapter! The next goes into details on Sherlock's own experience in the games (and SHOULD be out tomorrow come hell or high water), which I think you'll find rather enlightening...

"How's this going to work then?" mumbled John. "The coherence of his words was almost miraculous," Sherlock thought, "given the fact that his mouth is currently full of potatoes. Judging by the slowing movement of the other teenagers' forks, dinner was approximately two-thirds finished. He'd been spending most of the time staring sullenly at his plate and being politely but sternly passed dishes of food by his co-mentor.

"What exactly do you mean, dear?" responded Ms. Hudson.

John swallowed. "Sorry. I meant the training."

There was a brief cough, and the dining people turned their eyes to the far corner of the table, where the dark haired boy was sitting with interlaced hands and a rather pained expression.

"If you are referring to the arena training provided by the Capitol instructors over the course of the week before you enter the games, it takes place over three days and requires you to make choices between improving various combat and survival techniques, but, obviously, will also serve as an opportunity for you to present yourself to the other tributes, gamemakers, and sponsors in the most advantageous light, which will depend on your own personal strategy."

"However," Sherlock continued, "If you are referring to the distribution of Ms. Hudson's and my mentoring time between you and Ms. Hooper, that is something that we ought to discuss eventually. More preferably, tomorrow. Ms. Hudson, may I be excused?"

The old woman's eyebrows crinkled with concern. "You've barely touched your food, Sherlock."

"Forgive me if I don't particularly feel like eating at the moment," huffed Sherlock, before standing up and walking out.

He'd been in his room nearly half an hour, curled into a ball on top of his covers, before Sherlock heard the soft, tentative footsteps of the older mentor enter the hallway.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. "Can I come in for a moment?"

Sherlock groaned half-heartedly.

"It's not going to help, you know," he murmured. "Your reassurance that this situation is going to be all right will not make me feel better about any of this, most likely because you know that I know that we both know that such a statement is glaringly untrue."

Ms. Hudson walked in and sat at the foot of the bed. "I know, dear. But you're not alone in this, and I know you'll do well. You're a smart cookie, Sherlock. And the two other children stand a fair chance – you said so yourself."

She received a small non-committal groan for that.

"It's all right to be upset, you know," Ms. Hudson continued, placing a comforting hand on his back.

At that, the boy began to blink furiously, attempting in vain to keep his treacherous eyes from watering. "You're wrong. It's weak. And childish."

The old lady furrowed her brow. "Who told you that?"

Sherlock mumbled something partially inaudible that may have been "Mycroft."

Tutting, Ms. Hudson replied, "Your brother tests the limits of my patience sometimes."

Unable to hold back a slightly tearful laugh at that, the boy retorted, "Careful there, Ms. Hudson, you're speaking about an esteemed Capitol employee."

She smiled at that. "That was, perhaps, my more sugarcoated opinion."

"I thought so." Sherlock continued, at that. "He's a right pompous git most of the time–"

"Sherlock!"

"—He's my brother! I'm allowed to think he's a git – particularly after everything that happened. But he's right." The boy sniffled. "Being emotional is detrimental. 'S not like it has any advantages in this particular set of situations. It just impedes my ability to be rational. And, you know, sleep."

He coughed, before continuing, meekly, "How do you do it?"

Struck a little by that, Ms. Hudson found herself staring pitifully at the boy (who immediately attempted to compose himself to no avail at that). It had been quite a long time since her games – the wound was not nearly as raw as she guessed Sherlock's was – and had mentored countless children through the years (an act which, although most always heartbreaking, and bittersweet if not, did get slightly easier over time). "I'm not entirely sure myself, dear." She pored through the somewhat faded strands of the once fabric of her memories, grasping for anything, some piece of advice to give, a way to reassure the child in front of her, but found it difficult to put together a coherent argument. Wishing she could do more, the old woman offered, "Getting some rest might help. Do you think you can sleep?"

No, Sherlock thought. Sleep was not going to help much, because sleep usually meant having to deal with the bizarre psychology of dreaming, and recently his dreams were plagued by flashbacks that were not at all pleasant or helpful. Besides, even if sleep would have been helpful, Sherlock could tell it would be something he wouldn't be doing much of tonight.

Sherlock was wrong.

The crowd softly rumbles with concerned murmurings like one of the many machines that was always churning in the factories the boy, like his peers, is familiar with.

He's dressed in a pair of his brother's old pressed black trousers (more grey, actually, from the dust) and a crisp white shirt, hair slightly less unruly than was custom (though untamable completely), and his name has just echoed through the dirty, heat-baked plaza he finds himself standing in.

Children shuffle back, the path through the other twelve-year-olds becomes clear, and Sherlock knows he has to move, to walk up calmly to the platform with a façade of determination, but once he reaches the top of the metal steps, he cannot stop his head turning in a panic to the eighteens, the far left of the section, where Mycroft stands and stares back at him with a cool nonchalance – nothing else.

That – it's illogical, he must know that. Mycroft has to know, he's going to do something, he must – Sherlock may be smarter than the others but they both know that Mycroft is a foot and a bit taller and not nearly as skinny and eighteen and almost as smart as Sherlock so he's going to stand aside and shout so Sherlock can get off this podium and away from the man adorned in tacky green accents who's got his hand on Sherlock's back-

-but Mycroft does nothing, shows nothing, betrays no emotion whatsoever and stays exactly where he is, and the twelve-year-old's briefly fearful eyes stay locked with his brother's uncaring ones, but now burn with hate and betrayal.

It's over, and Sherlock is led away with some other boring girl, deaf to everything but the horrifying silence of his older brother.

The reaping is adjourned by the toll of the factory bell.

Time marches on.