In the lift on the way up to the fifth floor of the Training Centre, Hope talked non-stop.
"You two both looked positively fabulous in your chariot just now! Molly, you conducted yourself extremely well, but Sherlock, I'm very disappointed in you. I've just spent the day talking you both up to anybody who would listen in the Capitol in an attempt to get you both sponsors and while I'm sure Molly's girlish charms will have won her favour with the Capitol I don't think your stunt will have best endeared you to them, Sherlock. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"I was bored," Sherlock said monotonously.
"In fact, you'll have made me into a laughing stock, I told everybody you were a polite but determined lad with a decent brain and a determined streak. To have you showing insolence and impoliteness now..."
"I don't have 'a decent brain,' I'm a genius. Besides which, I was bored," Sherlock repeated firmly, scowling at Hope as Molly shuffled uncomfortably.
"Hope, in fairness, the Capitol seemed to enjoy his cheek. Why on Earth would you tell anybody Sherlock is polite? He has no concept of anything other than what's logical, and certainly not behaving a certain way because social customs dictate what's polite," Molly said shrewdly. Sherlock looked at her curiously, wondering when and how she had developed an understanding of this when the rest of the world just thought he enjoyed being difficult, and Molly shrunk under his gaze, blushing furiously.
"Yes, well..." Hope said, tailing off as the lift doors opened to reveal a short corridor with one door on either side. She breezed out of the lift, Sherlock and Molly following in her wake, and declared "these will be your rooms!" flinging both of the doors open. Sherlock stepped into the room on the left hand side of the corridor and yet again was amazed by the luxury the tributes were treated to before they were sent off to die.
"I'll just leave you both to get settled in," Hope said, disappearing back into the lift. "Training starts at six o'clock sharp tomorrow morning with your mentors. I'll be along to escort you both to breakfast at five, when you can start discussing tactics with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson." The lift doors closed on Hope and Sherlock and Molly both disappeared into their respective suites.
The first thing Sherlock's eyes were drawn to was a large meal of what looked like chicken with boiled potatoes and green beans with butter, sitting on a table in the middle of the room. Next to the plate was a glass of orange juice and a chocolate dessert, and looking around the room Sherlock also saw a fridge (undoubtedly full of food) next to a worktop with a kettle and a wide selection of hot drinks. Sherlock ignored the meal on the table and made himself a cup of tea with some sugar he found in a cupboard, before opening a door leading off the living room.
Sherlock was immediately confronted by the sight of a large, comfortable looking bed and a giant wardrobe in the corner. "Scrap that," he muttered, turning away from the bed and towards a floor-length glass window with a metal handle on the opposite wall. Sherlock flung the door open and stepped out onto the balcony, inhaling the bracing evening air deeply. He never had been a fan of fresh air but he found the January chill cleared his head, the Capitol altitude reducing the amount of oxygen reaching his brain and therefore slowing it down. It was rather pleasant to be able to think without the perpetual overload.
"There's a party going on," said a quiet voice, and Sherlock looked right to see Molly's small figure sitting by the railings outside her bedroom door, gazing out over the bright lights and loud noises of the Capitol. She was still dressed in her silver jumpsuit but she had taken her LEDs off, unlike Sherlock, whose lights were still flickering on and off every few steps.
"Obviously," Sherlock murmured. "The entertainment of the year has started, and the children who are providing it mean nothing to them. Of course they're partying."
Molly exhaled, her breath forming a cloud of vapour in front of her. "Horrible, isn't it?"
"It certainly demonstrates the depravity of the human state. Personally, I've never had much time for humans," Sherlock responded, leaning on the edge of the balcony and surveying a distant firework display that had just started.
"Don't you ever get lonely?" Molly blurted out suddenly, clapping a hand to her mouth when Sherlock turned to glare at her and she realised what she had said.
"No," Sherlock said coldly and decisively, turning around so he had his back to Molly.
"Okay," she replied weakly, looking back over the Capitol. Eager to change the subject, she stood up, peering down over the edge of the balcony. "Sherlock, what do you think would happen if one were to ruin the games by falling from a balcony before they even started? Would they be able to?"
Sherlock's head snapped towards Molly, a curious expression on his face, and said "no idea. Let's find out!" Molly opened her mouth, as if to protest, but Sherlock only disappeared back into his room and emerged ten seconds later with his plate of food. He curled his fist around a new potato and flung it as hard as he could in the direction of the fireworks in the distance. About six feet away from the balcony, it burst into flames and fell as sparking ashes to the ground.
"Fascinating," Sherlock said under his breath. "Would you like a go, Molly?"
"Sherlock, that's your food, I really think you ought to be eating that..." Molly said doubtfully.
"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "Besides which, if you don't throw it, I will." He picked up a chicken leg in between his thumb and index finger and offered it to Molly. Molly took it reluctantly and dropped it over the balcony. There was a faint 'ping' and after a couple of seconds it bounced right back onto the balcony.
"Ohhh! That's interesting," Sherlock exclaimed, clapping his hands together in fervent excitement. "The field fries potatoes but not chicken. Presumably it's some sort of scare tactic then, they know people are going to get ideas, throw objects over the side, watch them burn and then think 'actually, I'd rather take my chances in the arena.' It's another subtle way for the Capitol to wield their power over tributes. Of course, there would be a few who wouldn't be put off by the fried objects, so the field is clever enough to bounce flesh right back up to their balcony. That's why the chicken wasn't frazzled. It's really very clever! Of course, the experiment would need to be repeated to ensure reliability... would you do the honours, Molly?" he asked, grinning and holding out his plate to Molly, who smiled.
"Mycroft's not going to be very pleased with you if you don't eat this, Sherlock..." Molly teased.
"Stuff Mycroft, I don't need to eat," Sherlock said petulantly.
"Well, if you're sure," Molly said, taking a handful of beans and hurling them towards the field. Like the potato, they ignited in a cluster of sparks and the ash floated back towards the ground.
Once Sherlock's plate was empty and the balcony was strewn with pieces of shredded chicken, Sherlock bid Molly good night and retreated back into his room. He wasn't tired, but there was nothing interesting to do so Sherlock ripped off his LEDs, flopped down on his sofa in his jumpsuit and fell asleep.
Six hours later Sherlock was awoken to Hope towering over him, wittering something about breakfast. Sherlock ignored Hope, walked over into his bedroom and pointedly shut the door in the woman's face.
"All right, Sherlock, just walk through the lift and on the other side there's a dining room. We'll all be there waiting for you but hurry up, we've got a lot to discuss. The lift won't move without me there, though, so don't try to run away!"
Sherlock didn't respond, instead throwing his wardrobe open and selecting a pair of trousers and a deep purple shirt. He changed in a hurry, aware of how Mycroft would respond if he were late, and as he walked out of his suite he was greeted by Hope and Molly emerging from Molly's door.
"Morning, Sherlock," Molly yawned. "I bet you're hungry after what you did to your meal last night."
Hope raised an eyebrow but said nothing, ushering Sherlock and Molly through the lift and into the dining room on the other side she had mentioned. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson were already sitting at a table.
"What's this I hear about flying chickens, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked disapprovingly. Sherlock gave his brother a grin wide enough to show all of his teeth, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I did hear about how the Capitol have been test-flying the aeroplanes District Six sent over," Sherlock quipped, noting Hope's scandalised expression.
"Well really!" she said indignantly, recognising the jibe and leaving the group to sit at her own table.
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's enough, Sherlock. Hope is being very helpful and if you say things like that in front of the cameras later on you'll certainly get no sponsors. We're going to be doing quite a bit of work on your image before your interview with Caesar Flickerman but for the moment we need to be thinking about your physical training."
"That's right, dearies," Mrs. Hudson piped up, putting down her bread roll. "So, we're going to start coaching you today, alongside the training you will both receive with the other tributes."
"Is this absolutely necessary?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised. "I thought we had already established that we are both going to die."
Molly emitted a shocked gasp and Mrs. Hudson patted Molly on the shoulder. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Are you giving up, Sherlock? Don't make me have to be the one to tell mummy you jumped off a balcony before the Games began just because you were too determined to end your life on your own terms," he gently scolded, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Sherlock widened his, hoping that his features were arranged in something resembling an innocent expression: apparently Mycroft had worked out the business with the chicken.
Sherlock didn't respond, knowing full well Mycroft would use anything he said against him. Indeed, soon enough Mycroft was talking again. "Now, the first thing we need to establish is whether your training with us will be together or individually."
"Ooh, I really don't mind, do you, Sherlock?" Molly said, going pink around the ears. Sherlock noticed Mycroft looking expectantly at him, and knew that if he didn't give the right response now he would never hear the last of it.
"I think separate would be more prudent," Sherlock said, watching Mycroft for any sign of the irritating smugness that would no doubt arise should he say the wrong thing. "We don't want to form an alliance in the arena because if by some miracle we both made it to the final two we would have to fight each other using the same tactics, knowing each other's strengths and weaknesses, and that would be dull for the Capitol." During his monologue, Sherlock had noted Mycroft's eyes growing wider and his head inclining down into a nod, but at the end Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Close, but you fail at the final hurdle. We wouldn't want you or Molly to have to kill each other, after all, you're old friends."
"I don't have friends," Sherlock spat, glaring at his brother. Silence descended on the table as Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson looked worriedly at Sherlock.
Molly was the one to break the silence. "You'd kill me, Sherlock?"
Sherlock frowned. "I would have reservations," he conceded. The distinct lack of a 'yes' or a 'no' rang out loudly.
"Okay," Molly said meekly, turning to Mycroft. "It's probably best if we train individually, then."
"You can train with me first then, Molly dear," Mrs. Hudson said kindly. "I think Sherlock needs some extra time with his brother." She stood up and indicated, breakfast tray in hand, for Molly to follow her.
"If you leave me alone with Mycroft..." Sherlock began, a dangerous glint in his eye.
"You'll do what, throw your breakfast off a balcony in a childish fit of rage and starve?" Mycroft asked, bored.
Sherlock seethed silently as Molly and Mrs. Hudson left the room, leaving him alone with Mycroft. And Hope, he supposed, if the woman sitting pointedly across the room from them counted.
"Right," Mycroft began, a businesslike tone creeping into his voice. "What's your plan?"
"You mean be slaughtered immediately by a bloodthirsty Goliath from District Four with a mace?" Sherlock intoned, staring up at the ceiling and attempting to discern as quickly as possible whether the number of tiles was divisible by four. Sherlock felt Mycroft's hand pressing on the top of his head, forcing his gaze down onto his brother's face. "Fine. assuming I am not immediately killed and somehow manage to escape the initial bloodbath, logic dictates that I form an alliance with somebody useful, find a good hiding place and keep out of everybody's way until they've all done away with each other, sending my ally out for food in the hopes that he'll eventually be killed when hardly anybody remains."
"Good," Mycroft said. "Although, I wouldn't recommend you find an ally. You remember what I said, you don't want to be in a position where you have to kill them later on. Whatever you say, I know you form attachments more easily than you claim to."
Sherlock scowled. "Wouldn't it be better to manipulate somebody into doing your bidding, to save your own resources?"
"Got anyone in mind?" Mycroft asked sardonically.
Sherlock remembered the boy from District Two, who had been so upset when his friend was reaped and yet came across as so brave for the opening ceremony. Quickly deciding not to mention him to Mycroft, on the grounds that the boy was District Two and therefore likely a Career tribute, Sherlock just shrugged.
"No."
Mycroft narrowed his eyes again and Sherlock felt as though his brother were scrutinising his very mind. "If you're sure," Mycroft eventually said, quietly.
"Quite," Sherlock promptly responded, mentally screaming at Mycroft.
"Very well, then," Mycroft responded. "I know you're clever enough to work out the best tactics for training in the gym yourself..."
"Learn survival skills, not just playing with weapons, not showing my hand before I have to, not fraternising with the other tributes," Sherlock interrupted.
"Yes," Mycroft said, patiently. "And I know you're not completely useless at sparring, so I shall use this time with you working on a completely different, but equally important skill which will come in useful before and during the Games."
"If you're talking about taking the other tributes down a peg or two, I've got that sorted," Sherlock said. "May I leave now?"
Mycroft exhaled exasperatedly. "It was your image to which I was referring." Sherlock froze. "If you want to last longer than the bloodbath you will need to learn how to be charming."
"So, what you're saying is that you're going to turn me into a different person to appeal to the freaks?" Sherlock asked warily.
"Not quite," Mycroft replied, setting aside his largely ignored breakfast and leaning forwards. "We want you to be yourself."
"How does that work, then?" Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair away from Mycroft. "You're the one who's always going on at me for being rude and childish."
"I've been speaking to Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft responded promptly. "We have decided that your childishness could be seen as charming and that you simply have no concept of the boundary between honesty and rudeness. So, we're going to teach you how to be a bit less honest to make you come across as more likeable."
"Whatever," Sherlock said, attempting to give the impression of not being bothered when in reality he was starting to realise that Mycroft might just be right after all.
