Author's note: Just to clarify- for settings/details etc, I'm going by the Hunger Games book canon, not the film. And I'm just going to stop apologising for the word count now; these things get longer with each update!

Thank you so much to anybody who reviews/adds this to their favourites/alerts. You're amazing people.

"This is your number. You'll wear it throughout training," the man explained. "It's just a nice little bit of District pride."

District Six. Specialisation: transport. Size: very large. Main exports: trains, hovercrafts, and Morphling addiction. Greg had to wonder exactly where pride entered into things. All the same, he patiently let the man pin the number to his t-shirt, glancing around at the other tributes. There weren't many; he and Sherry were among the first to arrive.

There were countless different stations scattered around, but nobody was trying anything out yet. The few that were gathered stood awkwardly, like they weren't quite sure what they were doing. Greg could empathise. He was a little taken aback when he saw that the male tributes from Ten and Four were actually speaking, enthusing about the food in the Capitol. Was he expected to talk to these people? To get to know them, knowing that they would all die? No, don't think like that.

They were both young, though, the boys from Ten and Four. There were usually a lot of seventeen and eighteen year olds in the Games, so maybe the younger ones always tended to stick together. It was never really showed on screen, but behind the scenes footage rarely was. Greg remained where he was and was grateful when the other districts began to trail in, tagging along behind their escorts.

But there was no denying that people were… chatting. At first it was sparse and forced, but by the time the final District arrived a few people were even laughing, like they were only here to make friends and have fun. Greg frowned. Making friends was not one of his strong points, and he was relatively certain there wouldn't be a stall devoted to it.

"Enjoy training," Glamor told John and Molly listlessly. "Try something new."

"Like what?" Molly asked.

"I didn't mean you," he dismissed. "Stick to pretty camouflage or something, we don't want you to break." John tried not to scowl as his mentor turned to him.

"You, you're not quite so… brittle. Look around the different stations. Maybe hand-to-hand combat." John nodded once to indicate that he understood.

"Have fun," Glamor grunted, already walking away.

"Lovely as always," John muttered under his breath. He was starting to grow sick of Glamor. This is the man in charge of keeping me alive, he thought to himself. John wouldn't trust him to take care of a goldfish.

"Are we early?" Molly whispered as they walked in. There were only four tributes with numbers pinned to their backs, with about four more waiting to be labelled.

"Looks like it."

"Glamor must have been eager."

John snorted. Eagerness was not a trait John could easily attribute to his escort.

"What if we get hurt?" Molly asked, taking in some of the stations- knife-work, shooting, archery.

"We know how to heal," John reminded her."Besides, you'll be fine, I promise. Let's just go and get numbered." Molly followed him over to the man over at the front, but they were waved away.

"There's a queue, for God's sake. Go talk to the others and wait your turn." Molly flushed rosy pink and babbled her apologies. John hesitated. He didn't want to think about the others- even the small crowd seemed intimidating. He wondered if he should stay with Molly, or talk to somebody else, or remain solitary and try to hang on to any iota of mystery he still held.

He forced himself to quickly run his eyes over the people gathered, but stopped dead when he found an intense pair already staring at him. He didn't have to look at the number to know that this was the man (yes, definitely man) from District Eight. John smiled uneasily and nodded a half-greeting, opting to stand a few feet away from him and the other tributes.

"Six or Twelve?" The tribute's voice was deep and smooth, and John jolted at the sudden question. He hadn't really thought anybody would pay him any attention. He responded in a mature and intelligent manner by blinking repeatedly.

"Excuse me?" he asked, turning around to face his questioner.

"Are you from District Six or Twelve?" Stupidly, John reached up to feel his back. No, he hadn't imagined it. The man in charge of numbering them was still busy, and John remained unlabelled.

"Twelve," John said cautiously. The man nodded.

"I suspected so."

"You're Eight, right?"

"How could you tell?" he asked curiously. John gave an awkward laugh.

"I remembered you from the reapings."

"Oh," the man said, unimpressed.

"What?" John frowned. "Isn't that how you knew me?"

"I didn't watch the reapings."

"The opening ceremony, then."

"I didn't even look up from the chariot."

"Well, you must have. That's the only way you could remember my district number."

"I didn't remember. It was obvious."

"What?" John asked incredulously. "That's… you're insane. We've never met before."

"So?"

"I don't even know your name!" John had no idea quite why he was letting this tribute get under his skin so much. He also had no idea why he waited patiently for the man to weigh things up and deliver his reply.

"I know you lost both of your parents at a fairly young age. I also know that you're training to be a healer, alongside the female tribute you came with. I know that you've got a sister who you're concerned about, but you won't mention her in any interviews- possibly because she's an alcoholic; more likely because you're ashamed of her. And I know that your mentor thinks you have issues with repressed anger which may enable you to win these Games- quite correctly, I suspect. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and yes, District Eight."

There was an insane, upside-down moment in which every other person in the room vanished. John stared.

"How… could you possibly know that?"

"I didn't know- I saw. Lack of body fat and short height says one of the poorer districts. The conversation as you entered the room said trained in healing. Obvious. Your familiarity with the girl and the use of 'we' said trained together. You aren't tanned, so that rules out outdoors centred districts like Eleven. The fact that you require knowledge of healing states you work somewhere with a significant frequency of accidents or injuries. Poorer district, no work in the sunshine, frequent accidents- Twelve or Six."

John swallowed. "You said I was angry."

"You're an orphan, picked for the Games from the poorest District in Panem; of course you're angry. But you clench your fists when you come across something you don't like, like your escort's brush-off or the rudeness when it came to numbering. Or when I spoke, for that matter. That says anger. You bite your lip or mutter instead of displaying that aggression further, which says repression. Your escort advised you attempt hand-to-hand combat- that's not something you suggest of somebody with no drive or ferocity. He's fully aware of it."

The man took only the briefest of breaths before continuing. "Then there's your family. Lack of dependence on your escort suggests no parents, lack of obvious anger or rejection indicates you've gotten used to it. Orphaned young, then. Your token can't have been given to you by your parents and most men wouldn't own patterned material like that. A girlfriend would have given something more personal and a friend something less. Your alcoholic sister is the most likely explanation."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. The rips in the material like that indicate lack of care- don't look at me like that, I've spent my life dealing with fabric. Nail marks - every night, she takes it out to go to bed but she's too drunk to untie it properly. She could just be careless, but she's poor- she wouldn't treat her few possessions like that. Not sober, at least. You're wearing it pushed up under your sleeve because you don't want people asking about it because you don't want to talk about her- but if that was the only factor here, you wouldn't wear it at all. No, you're feeling guilty- why? Because you're ashamed of her, and you're ashamed of that shame. And you were right."

"I was right? About what?"

"I'm almost certainly not entirely sane."

The final tributes had arrived, but John still wasn't paying any attention.

"That was… amazing," he said slowly.

"You think so?" he asked.

"It was… extraordinary. Quite extraordinary," John breathed.

"That's not what people normally say,"

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'," the man said. He looked at John and smiled, and John decided to go ahead and like Sherlock Holmes.

"I think," Sherlock muttered, "we have a shadow."

John looked up from the knot he was attempting to tie, and Sherlock pointed to the girl lurking at the edge of the station. She blushed and grabbed a length of rope, focusing all of her attention on it.

"Oh, that's just Molly. I know her from home."

"Interesting," Sherlock said, turning back to the rope.

"What's interesting?"

"You call your district 'home'."

"Well, don't you?"

"Not even slightly."

"I- you can come over if you want, Molly," John said, turning towards her. She had spent the length of their conversation staring at Sherlock, a look in her eyes that John had never seen before.

"H-hi," she stammered at Sherlock, offering a hopeful smile. "My name's Molly."

"Your knot is awful, Molly," he greeted her. "Your opponent will escape that in less than two seconds, and have a spear lodged through your eye socket within three."

"Um… thank you?" Molly looked dazed. Sherlock pushed past and left her behind.

"What the hell was that?" John asked, trotting after him.

"Bored. Let's try archery."

"Sherlock, you were horrible to Molly."

"Was I?" Sherlock asked, not sounding overly concerned as he selected a bow.

"Yes! You should apologise."

"So I'm to say sorry and prepare to shoot her through the heart in a few days? It all seems rather backwards to me, so forgive me if I'm not following the usual social protocol at present."

The sensible thing, John decided, would be to back the hell away. He would move on to a separate station alone, and avoid whatever torture Sherlock would doubtlessly bring on himself. John would just say something like 'I don't like archery, I'll see you later' and walk away. Yes, that would work. But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a sigh of "definitely not entirely sane". Sherlock smiled again, almost approvingly. John had to try very hard to ignore the flush of pride that brought.

Molly had tailed them around most of the hall for the rest of the morning. The three of them were the last out of the training hall at lunchtime: John and Sherlock too engrossed in the shooting station (and Molly too engrossed in Sherlock) to notice the others leaving. It was unusual to see guns in the Hunger Games- it was felt that they removed the passion from things. Death by gunfire was too mechanical and removed for most audiences to really enjoy.

"Are tributes supposed to bond during training?" John asked as they took their places in the queue. He had assumed that most would be sat alone, but nearly everybody had clumped off into twos and threes. It wasn't according to district, either- throughout the hall, tributes who had never met before were getting to know each other.

"It seems unlikely," Sherlock answered. "Why?"

"A lot of people are sat together, that's all."

"I suppose some people prefer that- although I can't begin to imagine why." That was something of a conversation killer, and they didn't speak again. John went to take a seat in the corner, but met Sherlock's eyes and stopped mid-step for some inexplicable reason.

"Sit here," Sherlock said- and whilst it wasn't a question, it almost felt like one.

"I thought you didn't like to sit with people."

"You aren't people," Sherlock stated. "Sit." And John was sure that that was an insult, but it didn't feel that way. So he sat down, and whilst they remained in silence, it was a comfortable one.

Sherlock put a lot of thought into what John had said about the tributes over the next few days. It really was most unusual. During training, the children circled the stations in groups, offering each other tips and advice, and giggling together when they got it wrong. It was true that a few stuck alone, but so many did not that the trainers actually seemed uneasy about it. Sherlock saw one completely stop what he was doing to stare when one girl mastered a particularly difficult throw in hand-to-hand and her 'opponent' hugged her in celebration.

Whilst the training was never televised, it had always been clear to Sherlock that there was no companionship or affection between the tributes. It made sense, after all- friendships with people you were planning to kill did not. Sherlock had intended to avoid them at all costs.

It was the third day of training- the day they had their private sessions with the Gamemakers. At lunchtime, a pretty, smiling girl named Sarah asked John to sit with her and John agreed straight away. Sherlock declined before John had even finished asking. It proved pointless anyway- the usual quiet conversation was completely absent, and the room was silent except for the rhythmic clink of forks and knives on plates. He sat alone, glanced over at John every few minutes, and wondered why the girl from District 12 wouldn't stop staring at him.

One by one, the tributes were called for their sessions, and nobody came back afterwards. Sherlock could tell what most of the tributes were planning to do based on the stations they had (and hadn't) spent their time at, but he couldn't guess the scores they would receive- he knew vague figures, but it was all too subjective to be definite.

"Kate Long," a voice commanded, and the slightly trembling District Seven girl rose. Sherlock hadn't really put much thought into what to do in his own session. He wasn't worried. He had been keeping Mycroft's words alive in his memory; feeding them and watching them grow. He had come to realise that he didn't even have to wait until he was in the arena- they had already done the worst they could. He was free now.

He almost pitied the twenty-three nervous wrecks he'd be up against- not because he was stronger or more likely to win, but because there wasn't a single part of him that was concerned about his score. If he walked out of that room with a one, or a zero- or hell, in handcuffs- then it wouldn't make a single ounce of difference. He knew the truth. He knew that he could do anything he wanted; his final destination fixed and inevitable.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock didn't rush. He locked eyes with John seconds before he disappeared into the gymnasium, just in time to see him mouth the words 'good luck'. The small act of kindness threw Sherlock more than he cared to admit.

The Gamemakers sat in front of him, ceremonious as tombs. He had been watching them on and off throughout the training period, and now he took them in fully. He turned his back and felt their stares cut into him as he walked slowly around the room, examining the various weapons and equipment laid out. Boring, requires more experience, dull, conventional, boring, dull, tedious.

"You may begin," one of the women declared after a few minutes, as though to prompt him. He scowled. He did not appreciate being rushed, or interrupted. He turned back to the weapons, hyper-aware of the tittering behind him. He had narrowed it down to five or so possibilities, and began to reach for a knife before pulling his hand back. No, that's not quite right.

"In your own time," the Head Gamemaker finally drawled. The rest of them laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd heard all year. Sherlock had never been very good at coping with being mocked, and the tumultuous combination of shame and anger and just not giving a fuck made something click inside of him. He looked at the Gamemaker on the far right, and his lips curved upwards in a way best described as 'dangerous'.

"Your wife knows you're having an affair," he offered casually. The man spat his wine across the table. A few people giggled nervously, but they were soon silenced by the others.

"Please begin your session, tribute," the Head Gamemaker said forcefully. Sherlock ignored him, still fixed on the man at the end.

"She also knows that it's with a man," Sherlock elaborated. "The man sitting next to you, I should add, for anybody currently unaware-"

"I said, begin your session!"

"- although I'm not sure how you could be. That particular man drunk two cups of hot chocolate and ate a bread roll from the Capitol for breakfast this morning, unlike the woman two seats over who hasn't eaten since yesterday lunchtime. The man at the other end- yes, you- is new, and he's not all that sure he likes what's going on. Just a bit of a warning for the rest of you." The Head Gamemaker had stopped trying to interrupt Sherlock, who was now in full flow. Several people were sat with their mouths actually open, and the proposed traitor was frantically denying everything.

"Out of all of you, not one of you slept alone last night. As a group, you were probably most impressed by the male from District 2, but the second woman on the left was more impressed by somebody even earlier on- District 1, then, and I'm relatively sure it was the woman. The twelve year old from Four almost certainly cried halfway through. He tried to demonstrate knot tying, but it didn't go well. Poor lamb," Sherlock screwed his face up in mock sympathy, before scowling and moving on. "Not that you cared." One man fell into a punchbowl.

"The girl in here before me didn't really impress- I'm assuming you'll score her around a five, because whilst she tried archery she was something of an amateur. I think you probably said some witty comment as she walked out- you still seem pleased with yourself," Sherlock directed at the head Gamemaker. "Your favourite was the woman from One too, but mostly because she makes you wish she wasn't a dirty little district girl because of what you want to do to her," Sherlock spat. He took a few step backwards and threw his arms up as if in celebration, heart racing.

"None of you had particularly high hopes for me, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't care. Still don't. And now, if you don't mind, it's getting late and I don't like any of you."

The chaos that began as Sherlock turned around and walked out was music to his ears.

Molly was putting a lot of effort into sitting still and not twitching or laughing or crying. She had (for some reason) taken Glamor's advice, and avoided the more strength based stations. The problem lay in that she had not found her talent hiding in any of the others.

She could tie a decent knot and throw a knife a fair distance, but nothing outstanding. Nothing worth remembering. Look on the bright side, she told herself. A low score means that nobody will come after you, because they won't think you're worth taking on. The thought, whilst a little morbid, had a soothing effect. Good, she praised herself. Now focus on something else.

Instead of her own upcoming session, she decided to focus on everybody else's. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, cursing herself for not paying attention to the six names already called. She frantically scribbled down those she remembered.

District 1
? Anderson ?
Irene Adler

District 2
?
Shelley ?

District 3
Raymond Hertz
Jenna Hetch

She added to her list as names were called, sneaking looks at the tributes as they stood up. If nothing else, it would be nice to put names to faces. It served as a good distraction.

"District Four, Carl Powers," a voice called, and Molly noted it down neatly. She remembered him- tiny, blonde, only twelve years old.

"District Four, Sarah Sawyer." Oh, that's the girl sat with John.

"District Five, Jupiter Sparks." Red haired and built like a giant.

"District Five, Niamh Bird." Auburn too, but slender.

"District Six, Gregory Lestrade." Blonde and not bad looking- oh, but he looks terrified.

"District Six, Sherry Queensborough." Pale skin, brown hair- a bit plain.

"District Seven, Ferris Limber." Tall, brunette- doesn't really seem afraid.

"District Seven, Kate Long." Another blonde, quite pretty.

"District Eight, Sherlock Holmes." Pale skinned, raven haired- and Molly really couldn't think of a better adjective than 'beautiful'.

"District Eight, Serra Marsh." Same colour hair, slightly darker skin.

"District Nine, Bud Peters." Tanned and lean.

"District Nine, Rose Carmel." Almost identical to Bud.

"District Ten, Henry Knight." Young- dark hair, very anxious.

"District Ten, Lorena Fawn." Tanned, small but seems toned.

"District Eleven, Jonathan Skater." Dark skin, cropped black hair.

"District Eleven, Sally Donovan." Dark skin- oh, she looks angry. A little scary, actually. Look away!

"District Twelve, John Watson." John.

Her session was last, and after a weak smile from John she found herself alone, with nothing left to take her mind off things. This was it, then. She'd have to do some kind of camouflage, or maybe something to do with edible plants. She started to laugh softly at the sheer absurdity of it. Who won the Games with edible plants?

Looking down at her list, she saddened. Despite the kind, reassuring things she continued to whisper mentally, she couldn't really forget the fact that she had no real chance here. She scrawled her name across the bottom of the page as they called it out, knowing even as she did so that she was in no way a contender.