Author's notes: Whooo, the longest chapter so far. Apologies for the delay, this would have been up two months ago if I hadn't decided I hated it, rewrote it, hated the rewrite even more, decided that actually there were some really important things in this first version, edited it a bit so I didn't hate it so much and eventually convince myself it wasn't too rubbish to post (something I'm now doubting again). Anyway, again, thank you for your continuous kind reviews, and the time you're sacrificing to read this. I'm going to write the next chapter right now as it should be quite a bit shorter than this one and, I'll be honest, by this point I really want to get on to the actual Games, which will start very, very soon. Promise. :)
Sherlock spent much of the morning reading Species of Beetle in the Mountains Surrounding the Capitol, throwing the book off the balcony once he had finished with it. After doing so, he retreated to his bookcase to find another book, but the only ones remaining were Interviews With Eskimos (WHERE Eskimos existed since Panem was founded Sherlock didn't know) and Caring for Your Snowboard. Sherlock glanced at the cover of the latter for a minute before throwing it aside: after all, snowboarding was something only those in the Capitol had the money or the means to do. However, it did look suitably dangerous and thrilling.
Sherlock threw the books off his balcony and they exploded in a shower of sparks.
Bored, and with two hours to go until lunch, Sherlock looked around his room for something to do. Reasoning that he wouldn't need anything in this room after today, Sherlock decided to spend the two hours stripping the room of everything he wouldn't need for the night and tossing it off the balcony. After all, pretty sparks.
Just as Sherlock was dragging the empty bookcase towards the French window, Molly began knocking on the glass.
"Sherlock, what are you-" she began, but Sherlock only interrupted her.
"Give me a hand, will you, Molly?"
Molly looked puzzled but entered the room, helped Sherlock to lift up the shelves and carried them out of the door.
"Doing a bit of redecorating, Sherlock?"
Sherlock smirked. "I don't need this anymore," Sherlock grunted, propping up the bookcase against the balcony and pressing on the top shelf until it was dangling over the edge.
"Sherlock..." Molly said cautiously, pointing straight down to the balcony a dozen yards or so underneath, from which the head of the enormous blonde boy who had scored 11 had emerged.
Suddenly, the bookcase fell from the edge and plummeted straight towards the blonde boy's head, exploding in a spectacular display of sparks about a foot away from him. The boy retaliated by taking off his shoes and hurling them as hard as he could into the air, only to have those explode in exactly the same location.
"I think we made him angry," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Hey! Moron! It's a pity you're not intelligent enough to read your own books or you could be having as much fun as we are right now!"
"You've got that cheeky thing down all right," Molly said quietly as the boy underneath them exploded.
"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME? I'LL KILL YOU BOTH MYSELF TOMORROW..."
"Eh, he's boring me now," Sherlock said, nonchalantly strolling back into his room. Molly followed, seeing that Sherlock was about to pick up the television he hadn't once switched on since arriving.
"You're not going to throw that?" Molly squeaked.
"Why not? I've no use for it, and perhaps the electronics will make an even better display."
"Are you sure you want to make that guy angry? Bear in mind that in twenty-four hours' time he'll be encouraged to kill us, and I don't particularly want him coming after me," Molly warned.
Sherlock shrugged. "I'll tell him this stunt has nothing to do with you." Molly didn't look reassured, but she didn't stop Sherlock from dragging the plasma screen out to the balcony. After having hoisted the machine up onto the balustrade and pushed it off, Sherlock could tell that he was right - electronic devices did indeed produce better sparks. He set about to verify this theory by hunting down his radio and clock, but before he could throw either of them off the balcony Molly spoke.
"I don't want you to die, Sherlock."
Sherlock was so confused by this statement that he dropped the digital clock on his own bare foot. Molly started, jumping up to check his foot for injuries, and Sherlock stared curiously at her as she crouched down and examined his foot.
"But Molly, that doesn't make any sense. If I don't die, you will have to."
"Your foot looks okay," Molly said quietly. "You might have a slight bruise , but it shouldn't slow you down in the arena too much. You're fast, I've seen you running, even with a small handicap you should be fine. I hope."
"Why do you hope? Surely it would be in your best interest to hope that I'm not, because then it means you'd have a better chance of winning?"
Molly shook her head with a small, sad smile, still looking at Sherlock's foot. "I'm not going to win, Sherlock. If I can't win, it's in my best interest for you to win, so that our district might receive the twelve months of enough food. I want my family to be okay." She looked up at Sherlock's face. "Besides which, you deserve to win."
Sherlock had to admit that she had a point in that she wasn't going to win, so him winning would be in her family's best interests, but he could not fathom why Molly Hooper would think that he deserved to win. Sherlock reasoned that it was probably best to just say nothing, so he simply picked up the clock, hurled it out of the window and watched the sparks, while Molly retreated to her own room.
Around ninety minutes later there was a knock on Sherlock's door. Answering the door, Sherlock was confronted by Hope Jefferson wearing a very businesslike expression.
"Okay, Sherlock, it's about time I took you to the building where your interview will be taking place. Skye is preparing there." Sherlock shuddered at the thought of having to put the black rubber suit back on. "We'll be heading the ground floor where a car will be waiting for yourself and Miss Hooper. Are you excited?"
"Not really," Sherlock said, following Hope back out into the corridor. Before Hope could shut the door, she glanced into the room.
"What have you done to this room, Mr. Holmes?" she demanded, seeing that the room was completely empty, with the exception of the bed.
"I got bored," Sherlock shrugged. "Are you telling me you don't?"
"No, Mr. Holmes," Hope said through her teeth. "I do not get bored. This is why you were left an assortment of books."
Sherlock scowled as Hope knocked on Molly's door. "I read all of them, except two."
"Well, then, perhaps you ought to have read them again," Hope retorted icily. "Those books were there for a reason, you know."
"To be inordinately dull? Well, they achieved their purpose," Sherlock snapped. "Actually, no, I suppose that's not entirely fair," Sherlock pondered as Molly emerged. "I rather enjoyed the books on bees and beetles."
"Good, that's good," Hope said absently, taking Sherlock and Molly into the lift, which began rapidly descending.
Once the lift had reached the bottom of the shaft, Hope escorted Sherlock and Molly into a car, and the three yet again made their way through the streets of the Capitol.
After ten minutes of dodging pedestrians the car turned into yet another large building, Sherlock and Molly were ushered out of the car and into another lift. This time, the lift went down into a basement complex, where Skye and Eleio eagerly greeted the Tributes.
"Hey there, Sherly! Are you ready to behold my magnificent creation?" Skye asked jovially, as Eleio greeted Molly.
"I don't think I'll ever be ready to put that monstrosity on again," Sherlock grumbled.
"That's the ticket!" Skye said cheerfully, whisking Sherlock away into a dressing room. "Of course, I'm just about to go and eat my lunch."
Sherlock was puzzled by this. "What?"
Skye looked at Sherlock as though he'd grown an extra head. "You need to see your prep team before I can sort you out," she exclaimed, as though it were the most obvious fact in the world. "See you in a bit!" she declared, waving cheerfully as she disappeared.
Five minutes later Sherlock heard excitable chattering through the door and, sure enough, in burst the three merry members of his prep team from the previous week.
"Hi there, honey," the silver-haired Dorix squeaked. "We're here to make you look beautiful!"
Sherlock bit back a retort and resisted the urge to flee from the room, knowing from experience that the ordeal would likely take less time, and be less painful, if he just went with it. Beginning to wonder if he could speed up the painful process even further by charming the team, Sherlock decided to embark on an experiment.
"Pisca, I daresay your ambition is to be a District 4 stylist?"
Pisca stopped plucking at Sherlock's eyebrows and squealed. "Oh my gooooosh, how did you knooooow?"
"Lucky guess," Sherlock deadpanned, eyeing her turquoise theme.
"Lucky indeed! Let's hope you're just as lucky in the arena, darling," Aulid said, brandishing his eyebrow-tinting tool at Sherlock's face. "Although I'm sure you will be."
After the stylists were done, the three left Sherlock standing naked, alone in the room. Skye quickly entered.
"Oh, yes, Dorix did a better job on your eyebrow tint this time," Skye said. You look a perfect weight for your outfit, too! You'll be pleased to know I also modified the batteries so you can't be a naughty boy this time," she finished, wagging her finger at Sherlock. "That was very bad, what you did last time."
At this statement, she withdrew the black rubber costume from the giant bag she was carrying, but Sherlock noticed that something was different this time. Gold wires appeared to be wrapped around the outside of the rubber, and it now had a tight hood with a selection of capacitors on the top. Sherlock reluctantly put the outfit on, lamenting the lack of breathing space which had been made even worse by the fact that the rubber was now held in place by the distinctly non-stretchy gold wire.
After Sherlock had wrestled his way into the costume, with some help from Skye, she handed him a pair of thin, plimsoll-like shoes with another selection of capacitors on the side and metal soles. Crouching down, Skye plugged a small wire into the shoes, and absolutely nothing happened.
"Great! I'll just need your help for this bit," Skye said, seizing Sherlock's right arm and contorting it behind his back with great difficulty. "I had to work out how to stop you from causing a scene like you did last week, so I came up with the idea of putting three buttons on your back which must all be pressed at once to turn the battery on."
Sherlock winced as he fought his arm into the position indicated by Skye, the tight golden wires putting up a considerable amount of resistance. Once his gloved finger had found its mark, Skye ordered him to stay still for a second, before counting down from three. Sherlock pressed his button on zero, as Skye pressed her two, and Sherlock saw a large bolt of lightning shoot out of one of the wires on his left index finger.
"Whoops, can't have you shooting bolts at Caesar and electrocuting him," Skye said, turning a dial mounted on Sherlock's hood minutely. The crackle of electricity became a bit quieter, and with some effort Sherlock looked down and saw an entire lightning show playing across his torso.
"Wow!" Sherlock breathed, unable to contain the excitement he really didn't intend, or want, to be displaying. "You've done a very good job with the capacitor arrangement here, Skye. I'm impressed, I didn't expect anybody from the Capitol to actually be able to work with electrical components so deftly."
Skye smirked. "I won't tell Mycroft you said that. You'd never live it down."
"You're probably right," Sherlock said, seizing back his composure.
Skye smiled kindly. "Okay, now for your make-up - I was thinking gold dust. Would you be happy with that?
Sherlock shrugged. "I don't think it really matters." A large lightning bolt flew from his right shoulder down to his shoes. "After all, everybody will be watching the lightning."
Skye nodded in agreement. "You're right. No make-up could add to this. Am I a genius or am I a genius?"
Sherlock smirked. "I doubt you're as clever as I am, but you get some points for this."
"Coming from you, I'll take that as the highest compliment," Skye said, smiling. "I've heard all about you.
"Right, then," Skye continued. "The interviews are starting in half an hour and I still need to hand you back to Hope to get you there. Eleio's probably done with Molly, so we can just wait in the corridor. Actually," she said, "I think I'd better give you just a dash of gold dust to make you match your friend."
"Molly isn't my friend," Sherlock said, coldly.
"Really? She seems rather fond of you, from what I've heard," Skye said, dabbing at Sherlock's face with a large brush and then reaching for a gold eyeliner pencil.
"I went to school with her. She wasn't quite completely useless," Sherlock said distantly.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Skye said, painting Sherlock's mouth with tube of golden lipstick. "There. All the girls will want you now. And probably the boys."
Sherlock scoffed, not deigning to even respond. Skye flung the door open to the sight of Eleio standing right outside with Molly, who was looking extremely nervous in her lightning suit. Sherlock wondered if he looked as good as Molly did, he saw that Eleio had somehow even managed to make Molly's mouth look a normal size.
Molly's mouth dropped open when she saw Sherlock. "Is that how I look?" Molly asked Eleio, who nodded. "Sherlock, you look spectacular."
"The outfits are rather something, aren't they, Molly?" Sherlock asked. "I daresay you know how they work?"
Molly stood to attention and immediately rattled off an explanation about how the capacitors stored up charge and then discharged it towards the earth in the form of lightning bolts. Sherlock nodded.
"Yes, you're not completely useless, are you, Molly?" he said, almost kindly. Molly looked slightly dismayed, but gave Sherlock an uncertain smile. And so she should, thought Sherlock. I have just paid her a compliment. Of course, I still shan't be telling her that she actually looks nice. It doesn't matter and she doesn't need to hear it.
At that moment, Hope appeared at the end of the corridor and ran down to the group. "Excellent, you're done?" she asked, already seizing Sherlock and Molly's shoulders and pushing them down the corridor. Molly turned around and gave Eleio a swift "thank you!" and Sherlock simply raised his left arm in acknowledgement, knowing that Skye would be watching their backs.
"Right, the pair of you will be waiting in this room for your interviews," Hope said briskly. "I will come down and call you when it's your turn. When you're not on stage you will be able to watch the broadcast on this television," she said, punching a button on the bottom of the indicated plasma screen. The programme's about to start, so I'm going to go and make sure everything's running smoothly, and then I will be down for Molly in a bit. Okay?"
"Okay!" Molly said, and Sherlock gave a non-committal grunt. Hope disappeared from the room just as the Panem national anthem began blaring out of the television.
Sherlock and Molly watched as Irene Adler, who was first on, flirted relentlessly with Flickerman, and then the boy from the same district, who went by Seb Wilkes, snootily declared that his family and friends were stumping up the required money to sponsor him. Sherlock instinctively hated him, despite his own comparatively privileged upbringing as the son of a mayor.
Next up were the small girl from District 2 and the fascinating blonde boy, whom Sherlock noticed were called Harriet and John Watson. Of course, they were siblings, that explained why John had barely left the girl's side. Sherlock almost kicked himself, he ought to have been able to tell that they were siblings: they even looked something alike.
Of course, the pair had been interviewed together. Caesar asked John about Harriet, and the boy vowed to protect his little sister to the best of his ability in the arena. Harriet gave her brother a hug right there on the stage, and the entire crowd cooed.
Next up were the businesslike girl with dark hair, whom Sherlock didn't pay much attention to, and the tall boy with a face like a weasel's. After that came the forgettable brunette girl, and then the blonde giant. As the boy introduced himself to Caesar as Sebastian Moran (so that was why he objected to being called "moron!"), Hope reappeared in the door and called for Molly and Sherlock. Hope escorted the pair to the back of the stage, waited for Moran to exit in the other side and then ushered Molly in as she was introduced.
The crowd immediately oohed and ahhed over Molly's outfit, and applause burst out whenever a lightning bolt streaked across her torso and down to the ground.
Caesar whistled. "Nice outfit, Molly! Does it do anything else?"
Molly gave a slight blush, making the gold powder on her cheeks stand out even more. "Only this," she said, jumping once on the spot. When she gently hit the floor, thunderbolts shot out of every wire towards the ground, and her shoes sparked.
The crowd went wild, and Sherlock turned to Hope in annoyance. "Why didn't Skye put that feature in mine?" he muttered.
"I daresay she didn't trust you after the incident with the last costume," Hope responded, applauding politely with the crowd.
"So, Molly," Caesar began, his voice booming out over the audience. "You scored a seven in your assessment the other day. Are you pleased with that?"
Molly shuffled her feet anxiously as she prepared her response. "It's better than I was expecting, I suppose."
Caesar smiled at the girl kindly. "Seven's a decent score, I'd be happy if I were you. Then again, I'm getting on a bit, so I doubt I'd even manage a seven!" Molly grinned obligingly as the crowd erupted into laughter. "Tell me, Molly," Caesar continued. "Do the extraordinarily high scored achieved by some of the other Tributes this year make you nervous?"
"I think I had already reached the nervous-ceiling before I even got on the train to come here," Molly admitted, staring at her feet.
"There, now," Caesar said reassuringly. "There's no need to be nervous, you're so sweet, everybody already loves you!"
With that statement, the crowd erupted into cheers and Molly just said quietly "it's nice to think so."
"Now, tell us, Molly," Caesar said jovially, smiling at the girl. "When we went to your parents' place to get an interview about you, they showed us a doll you made. I don't know why, I just found it interesting. Was it supposed to be anybody in particular?"
Molly's blush intensified. "Actually, it was Sherlock."
Backstage, Sherlock furrowed his brow in bewilderment. Where was she going with this?
"I see!" Caesar declared. "Are you in love with Sherlock, Molly?" Sherlock's eyes widened in astonishment
Molly stared at the floor and her blush deepened even further. "No. He's just a friend of mine. Well, not really, but he thinks I'm not completely useless, if that counts as a friend," she stammered.
Caesar laughed kindly. "Would you say that Sherlock is aloof, but that you're possibly the closest friend to each other you both have?"
Molly nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, that's exactly it. I think. I don't really know that much about him, to be honest. He doesn't talk about himself.
"What I do know," Molly continued, "is that Sherlock is one of the greatest minds Panem has seen in many, many years, and that his death would be a tragedy that would set back the country for years to come."
Before Caesar could even register his surprise, Molly ploughed on. "Therefore, Panem, I urge you: please sponsor Sherlock. Don't let him die. If any of you were intending to send me anything, I formally request that you send it to Sherlock instead. Put your resources, and your hope, in him. The future of Panem's power, and therefore future, depends on it."
The crowd was completely silent. After a few seconds, there was a smattering of applause, which quickly petered out as Sherlock registered that something unprecedented had just happened.
"And on that bombshell, I think it's time to see what Sherlock himself has to say!" Caesar boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Molly Hooper, Tribute for District 5!" And with that, the crowd burst into hesitant applause.
Molly stumbled back off the stage to where Sherlock and Hope were standing. "Well, that was risky," Hope said disapprovingly. "You'd best hope President Snow doesn't decide to personally veto any sponsors you receive."
"I hope he doesn't," Molly said quietly. "Good luck, Sherlock," she added, averting her gaze from the tall boy who was pointedly ignoring her.
At the mention of his name being shouted out to an entire stadium, Sherlock made his way out onto the stage, shook Caesar's proffered hand and sat down in the chair. Sherlock heard the crowd making appreciative noises, just as they had done for Molly, and he found a twinge of hope rising inside him. Perhaps Molly's words hadn't actually condemned the pair of them...
"So, Sherlock!" Caesar began, after exhaling loudly. "What do you have to say about Molly's statements?"
Sherlock almost felt the tension in the crowd as they eagerly awaited his response. "It makes no difference to me," Sherlock said, coldly. "Certain Tributes have already promised me that they intend to kill me as soon as possible, so I doubt I will make it past tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock heard the crowd gasp, and realised that they weren't picking up on his apathy: instead, they were choosing to see him as the persecuted victim. Well, if they want to woobify me, I may as well give them some ammunition. Manipulating the sheep is probably the most fun I'm going to have for the inevitably short remainder of my life.
"After all," Sherlock continued, his mind made up, "how are sponsors going to help me if the other Tributes are all going to gang up on me from the very beginning?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders pointedly, as the crowd shifted and emitted gentle 'oooh's. This is ridiculous, Sherlock thought. They don't even register my utter contempt for them. It's almost pitiable how stupid they are.
"Poor Sherlock," Caesar said sympathetically. As Sherlock struggled to keep himself from laughing, the interviewer continued. "Now, there are a couple of things I'd like to discuss with you tonight. Firstly, your brother." Sherlock's expression clouded over as Mycroft was brought up.
"Yes, what do you want to know about him?"
Caesar shrugged. "Would you say that being mentored by your brother, who won just four years ago, has been an advantage or a disadvantage?"
Resisting the urge to make disparaging remarks, Sherlock shrugged himself. "Mycroft knows what he's talking about, after all, he won himself. On the other hand, at least when he bosses me around at home I'm not obliged to listen to him." Sherlock smiled as the crowd burst into giggles. Evidently, sibling wars were pretty much universal, even in the Capitol. Caesar himself emitted an hearty chuckle.
"How do you think your parents feel about having a second child sent off to participate in the Games?" he asked, smiling encouragingly.
"A bit not good, I imagine," Sherlock responded. Caesar widened his eyes, obviously hoping for elaboration, but Sherlock refused to oblige. Eventually, Caesar sighed and moved on.
"Now, on to the subject everybody wants to hear about. Your score." Sherlock rolled his eyes as subtly as he possibly could. "Sherlock, you are the first person in Panem's history to have ever scored a zero. How did that happen?"
Sherlock smirked. "I do not believe I'm at liberty to say, Mr. Flickerman," the boy said.
"Come on, Sherlock," Caesar wheedled, shifting in his chair. "Tell us something interesting. Panem wants to know!"
"There's not really much to tell," Sherlock said. "I went into the room, I demonstrated my, ah, particular talents, and the Gamemakers weren't too impressed for some inexplicable reason. That's it."
Caesar smiled uncertainly. "Well, if you have a plan, I don't want to be the one who spoils it. I just hope it works out for you. Ladies and gentlemen, Sherlock Holmes!" he declared, wringing Sherlock's arm again and ushering him off the stage before he could say another word, as the crowd burst into applause.
"Well, that could have gone worse," Hope said, as Sherlock rejoined her and Molly. "At least the audience didn't seem to be hostile."
At that moment, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson joined the party, both smiling.
"What are you grinning about, Mycroft? They hated me," Sherlock demanded. However, this outburst only served to make Mycroft's smile bigger. However, it was Mrs. Hudson who responded.
"Don't worry, dear, I'm sure all is not lost."
Despite Sherlock's insistence, the mentors remained tight-lipped, instead leading the two Tributes back downstairs where they might continue to watch the evening's interviews on a screen.
