As they neared the Capitol the next morning, Sherlock watched John stare out at the skyline. John was trying to not be enthusiastic, but Sherlock could see how impressed he was. Sherlock sat sulking in one of the easy chairs, wishing the train ride would last longer. He wasn't looking forward to the crowds that would be waiting for them at the station, the crowds that would instantly decide which tribute from District 12 they were going to root for. Sherlock knew Adler was right, but he couldn't just turn himself into someone else to suit the masses.
He wondered how much contact he would have to have with John between now and the start of the Games. John had tried to initiate conversations with him on the long ride into the Capitol, and Sherlock had been his usual difficult self, not doing a thing to keep the conversation going. He just didn't see the point in making friends with someone when they were both probably going to be dead in a matter of weeks anyway.
Sherlock had been thinking over the possible outcomes of the Games. The most likely one was that they would both die, and relatively soon. But he wondered what would happen if it came down to the two of them, or even if they happened across each other in the arena. Would John be able to kill him? Would John really be able to kill anyone? He was a healer after all. Of course, Sherlock knew what people were capable of when it came down to life or death. The bigger question on his mind was would he be able to kill the healer if it came to that? Sherlock, while forbidding, had never killed anyone, and wasn't keen on starting. But he supposed he would do what he had to do to survive, just like anyone else.
The train pulled to a stop at the station, and John stood at the window, watching the people outside cheer for them. Sherlock stood and walked up behind him, looking over his shoulder at all the Capitol residents in their ridiculous outfits, getting so excited about meeting the people they were going to have killed. It was too morbid even for him.
Sherlock picked at the edges of the gown the prep team had left him in. After navigating the mobs of Capitol imbeciles, he and John had been ushered away to their respective teams for what they called a "full work up." Blessedly, it didn't take much. Sherlock had always been fastidious, even under the constant cloud of dust that seemed to blanket District 12. But now he was getting bored and jittery. He'd been sitting alone in this room for what felt like hours, wishing this stylist would hurry up already. Sherlock had seen Mycroft earlier that day, and he had seemed excited about the stylist, saying he'd had some say in who it was and that he was quite pleased with her. This made Sherlock instantly suspicious. Mycroft had a very specific type of person he liked, and it almost always clashed with the type that appealed to Sherlock.
Finally the door opened and in walked a tall woman with dark wavy hair and very high heels that clicked on the floor. She had some electronic gadget in her hand, and seemed very attached to it. She was dressed similarly to how Mycroft usually looked, a bit toned down for the Capitol, but with very over-the-top jewelry. She looked up from her little gadget and shook her hair out of her face.
"My name is Anthea. I'm your stylist."
"Anthea what?"
"Just Anthea."
Anthea. These Capitol types always had such ridiculous names. Sherlock could see the Mycroft influence. They were probably old friends. The woman ran her eyes over him. "I've been talking with John's stylist, and we have a nice angle to work for you two for the Tribute's Parade. But outside of that, you will be delightfully easy to dress. I know exactly what to do with you." She gave him a pursed-lip smile and, electronics still in hand, said, "Let's get started."
... ... ...
John stared at the old woman who entered the room. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but she certainly wasn't it. She was small with light, wispy hair and a soft look in her eyes. She wore a skirt and a a fitted jacket with puffed shoulders, both colored a deep plum. She smiled kindly. Her Capitol accent wasn't quite as strong as most, and she had a homey sort of comforting quality about her. She walked up to him. "Hello, John, dear. I'm Martha Hudson. I'll be your stylist this year. How are you?" John couldn't recall anyone sincerely asking him how he was until then.
"Honestly? Not good."
"It's trying, isn't it? Every year when they bring you all in, it makes my heart ache seeing how tired and scared some of you are." John was surprised. He had never heard a Capitol resident talk that way before. "But we do what we can to make it a little easier."
"You and the other stylist design what we wear in the Parade, right?"
"Yes, and anything else where you appear in public. I've been talking to Anthea, the other stylist, and your mentor. We know what direction we want to take. Miss Adler told us to make sure we made good use of your pleasant personality. She said to make you feel like home. We won't be making you flashy. Except for at the Parade. We will be making a strong impression there, if we do our jobs right." She grinned a little.
"Coal miners?"
"No, dear. It wouldn't be fair to you two if we did that. Neither of you have the hearts of coal miners, do you?"
"I suppose not. So what are we planning on?"
"You'll see."
John and Sherlock stood backstage with Irene, Mycroft, and the stylists. Irene gazed longingly at a passing tray of drinks. She had finally forced herself to get dressed in real clothes and was wearing an oddly textured black dress and heels so sharp that John thought they could be used as weapons in the arena. She had on the deepest shade of red lipstick he'd ever seen and had her hair piled high up on her head. She looked like she was going to be the one paraded in front of thousands.
John stared at Sherlock, who stood a few feet away, looking bored. His clothes were alarmingly simple and understated. He was dressed in dark colors from head to toe, the crown jewel of the outfit a dark gray coat that billowed around him when he moved. It drew attention away from the basic blazer and dress clothes underneath, overtaking his lithe figure completely. John himself was dressed in shades of gold and deep reds. He wished he was allowed colors as subdued as Sherlock's, not liking how much it made him stand out. But he was sure they had chosen their clothes for a reason.
... ... ...
Sherlock looked around at the other tributes and their teams as they prepared for the Parade. One pair caught his eye. The tributes from District 8, textiles. One was a large man with glasses, older than John it looked like, dressed in classic formal wear, an elegant blue brocade suit. The other tribute was a woman, and a small one at that. She had a scared look in her eyes like a little girl would. She was wearing a pink ball gown, one made of seemingly endless thin layers of shimmery sheer material. The end result made her look like a princess from a fairy tale. She had a lot of light brown hair that was left hanging straight down her back. Her stylists must have been working the sweet innocence look.
Sherlock locked eyes with the young woman for a minute, and turned away when she smiled at him. That was the last thing he needed.
He looked to the other side of the room where the Careers were hovering. The tributes from District 1 were as flashy as ever. Since their fare was luxury items, they always felt the need to show off much more than was necessary at the Parade, and this year they had certainly gone over the top. The woman was a redheaded creature with a sort of judging yet empty expression. Her male counterpart was a wiry looking man with black hair and a smile that belonged on a reptile. They were both decked out liked a king and queen. The man looked especially comfortable in his elegant robes, fingers covered in rings, and precious stones covering as much empty space as possible. He even had a crown, which he had tilted at an angle. Each of them had their own scepters. Sherlock hadn't thought it was possible for him to be any more disdainful of the Career districts, and yet here he was, finding himself thinking less of them by the minute.
The man caught him staring and flashed him a smile. It was one Sherlock had seen on tributes in the past. It was not a stable smile. Sherlock was beginning to feel a little uneasy under the man's stare, and he breathed a small sigh of relief when the woman reclaimed his attention.
"There's always that one District that thinks they're god's gift to the universe." Sherlock looked down and saw John standing beside him. He smirked a bit before he could stop himself.
"Yes, and nearly one hundred percent of the time, they're wrong."
Mrs. Hudson and Anthea walked up to the two of them, and the old woman said, "We've coordinated this. You two don't worry about a thing. Just don't be alarmed. No matter what happens, remember that you're safe and that everything you'll be seeing is just for show, okay?" John and Sherlock exchanged a confused glance with each other. "Trust me." The woman gave them each a quick hug and led them to their chariot.
"I wonder what they're keeping from us," John said.
"We're about to find out." The first chariot pulled away, and the Parade began.
... ... ...
John was nearly deafened by the cheers. The stadium was filled to the brim with Capitol citizens, all hollering and screaming as the tributes made their way through. John could see the tributes from District 8 a few chariots ahead of them. As they emerged into the stadium, they both waved to all the Capitol citizens, and the man wrapped his arm around the woman protectively like an older brother would. They would no doubt be fan favorites.
The two of them felt the lurch as their own chariot moved forward, and as they entered the stadium, they both heard a whooshing noise surround them. The stylists had set off the rest of their costumes. John stared as plumes of smoke and coal dust began to swirl around Sherlock, flying off the coat as the wind tore at it. And then he saw the fire crackling around him, emanating from him. It wasn't a deadly sort of fire, more like what one would find in a fireplace late in the night where the flames were reduced to coal and embers, just as the smoke and ash coming from Sherlock was not threatening. They looked like home. He looked over his shoulder and could see the black smoke and trail of fire start to twist and turn into a trail of pyrotechnics behind them.
Smoke and fire weren't always agents of destruction. They had been turned comforting instead.
John listened to the cheers erupt from the spectators, smiling and waving at them. The stylists had put together an amazing display. Even Sherlock seemed mildly impressed. John locked eyes with the man, who had been staring at the trail of glowing fire following John. And underneath the awe, John could see the smallest hint of fear. It felt so much more final now that they were here in front of the world. John watched as Sherlock corrected himself, faced forward, and wiped all trace of expression from his face.
John continued to wave to the crowds, and said through his teeth, "Smile, Sherlock."
"Why?"
"So that you look enthusiastic."
"But I'm not." John reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock half-turned, looking at John's hand in confusion. "What are you doing?"
"Smile. I don't care if you don't want to. Just do it." Sherlock raised a gloved hand to push John's hand away, but stopped when John spoke again. "Listen to me. We are going to put up a united front. We will make them like us. If either of us are going to make it out of this alive, that's what we have to do. I don't want a part of this any more than you do, but until the Games are over, we have to do whatever we can to make this work out to the best of our abilities. Now, at least pretend to give a damn." Sherlock stared hard at him, and finally nodded. John loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and held his hand out, Sherlock taking it after a pause. John turned to the crowds and raised their hands, and another cheer went up from the spectators. Sherlock forced himself to smile and wave. People had called him a sociopath when he was younger. And sociopaths were well known for superficial charm.
Maybe they'd been right.
... ... ...
The chariots came to a stop at the end of the stadium, and John finally lowered and released Sherlock's hand. Since John continued to smile, Sherlock did too. And as their fire and smoke disappeared, all the tributes and spectators craned their necks to see President Moran approach the microphone.
Moran was an imposing man, fairly new to the office. He was tall and tan with sandy hair that he had slicked back neatly across his head. He had a sculpted square jaw and cold eyes. Whenever he smiled, even Sherlock, with all his limited insight into the subtleties of human expression, could tell it was insincere.
"Welcome, tributes. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Sherlock looked around at the other chariots, ignoring the entirety of Moran's speech. He found Moran unsettling. Everyone did. But even more unsettling was the dark haired man from District 1. He was grinning manically, his tilted crown catching the light. He shot Sherlock a look and laughed to himself. Sherlock felt the lurch of the chariot beneath him and forced himself back to the present.
Backstage, the stylists were waiting with Irene and Mycroft. Mycroft looked mildly pleased.
"Well, I don't think that could have gone better for us, do you?"
"Better is relative in the Games, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered at him.
"I told you I knew what they liked." Irene flashed them a pleased smirk. "Thank god for good stylists." Hudson gave a dismissive wave of her hand. Anthea was too preoccupied with her gadget to notice. Irene looked between John and Sherlock. "Whose idea was the hand thing? Oh, don't tell me, it must have been you, John. Not really Sherlock's style, is it? It was a good move."
John arched an eyebrow at Sherlock, a blatant I told you so.
John practiced with as many different weapons as possible. He had plenty of survival skills and knew how to hunt animals, but he felt it wasn't enough. There was no telling what he would have access to in the arena. He couldn't just hope he had a weapon that he was proficient with.
Throughout the day, Sherlock kept his distance. He hadn't spoken at all at dinner the night before, and had slammed his bedroom door without even a passing glance to anyone else. The parade had seemed to exhaust him more than any amount of physical activity would have. And all day, John had watched him go from station to station. He split his time evenly between all of them, not giving anyone any indication what his strengths or weaknesses were. John wasn't sure that it was a calculated move, or if Sherlock genuinely felt he needed practice in all areas. If so, John hoped he had a steep learning curve.
John kept to himself, working with the spears, when he heard voices nearby. He paused, spear still in hand, and slowly he made his way around the corner, and saw the man from District 1 towering over the girl from District 8. He had her backed up against the wall, and she was trying to hold her own, but every time she attempted to get away from him, he would push her back, just gently enough to not draw attention.
"How about you go back to your own training, then?"
The man looked up, his hand still braced against the wall. He smiled at John the way a hungry dog looks at meat.
"How do you know I'm not training? Or maybe giving someone from a less fortunate district sound advice to help them?"
"Because I'm not an idiot."
"I highly doubt that's true." The man let his hand fall, and he took a few steps closer to John, forgetting the girl entirely.
"Back off."
The man ignored the warning. John held the spear out, setting the tip against the man's chest. "You're not nearly practiced enough to do anything with that." He locked eyes with John. "If this were the arena, you'd be dead."
"Good thing it isn't the arena, then."
The man only laughed, pushing the spear's tips away with his finger. John let him.
"Stay on your toes, Twelve," he said, finally turning his back and walking away.
When John looked to the wall, the woman was gone.
... ... ...
Irene was late to dinner that evening, finally strolling in as she had on the train, with a sort of hazy look in her eyes. John had gone to ask her a question earlier, and walked in on her tying a tourniquet around her arm while holding a syringe between her teeth. She'd looked at him, waiting for him to speak, but he had just turned and walked away. Despite this, she seemed mostly coherent, and as she sat down at the table across from Mycroft, she cast a glance to Sherlock, who had been staring at his plate in silence, and said, "My my, aren't we surly this evening."
He only looked up to glare at her.
"Of course, we're surly every evening, I'm sure."
"That's quite enough, Miss Adler," Mycroft said, giving her a disapproving tilt of his head.
"Don't we all look like a happy family." She looked between them, smiling, completely ignoring Mycroft. "And how did your day go, dear?" She turned to John, mimicking an interested parent.
"Oh for god's sake," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
"In all seriousness," she continued, her smile still on her lips, "I hope you made good use of the day."
John nodded, feeling a bit too tired to talk. Sherlock just frowned at his water glass.
"The talk I've been hearing is that John's a bit of an underdog favorite." She gave him a nod of approval. "Of course, Jim Moriarty has a large fan base already."
"Who?" John asked.
"The man from District 1."
Sherlock looked up, his interest mildly piqued.
"Anyone who actually talked to him wouldn't consider him a favorite," John said.
"Good publicity can wipe out all sorts of unpleasant details of personality," Mycroft said. "Though I'm not sure there's ever enough in some cases."
"Your faith in me is astounding, Mycroft." Sherlock sat back in his seat.
"There's no need to snap, Sherlock."
"Just say it."
"Say what."
"What you've been thinking since we arrived."
Irene and John both looked at Mycroft expectantly.
Mycroft sighed, twirling a gaudy ring around his finger. "I simply think – and this is in no way a determination of who will win the Games – I just believe that of the two of you, John currently has the upper hand."
"And why is that?" John asked.
"Because the citizens adore you, and will only adore you more once the interviews commence. You're both a healer, a martyr, and a trained killer."
"Of animals. And I'm not trained."
"You have more expertise with killing than many tributes do. Sherlock has never been in a survival situation in his life, let alone one that requires killing others. And if he were to get wounded, he wouldn't be able to heal himself. You would." He turned to Sherlock. "It's fact, Sherlock. There's no room for sentimentality here."
"Your arrogance won't do you any favors, Mr. Holmes," Irene said to Sherlock. "It will make you unlikeable, and it will cloud your judgment."
In a very calm voice that belied how upset he was, he answered, "If statistics are to be believed, then my judgment is irrelevant. There's a reason you're the only victor our district has to offer, Miss Adler. The odds have never been in our favor, and I don't believe there's any hope of that changing any time soon."
"Don't you want to fight?"
"I believe the term for this sort of fight is 'a losing battle.' Goodnight." He pushed his chair back and calmly walked out of the room.
The three of them shared glances, Mycroft giving a beleaguered raise of his eyebrows.
"What was all that about, then?"
Irene turned to John. "Oh, he's just being moody. From what I understand, he's like that even on the best of days."
"Is it true? About my chances being better than his?"
She paused, draining her drink. "Best not to think of the odds, John. He was right about that. The odds have never been in our favor."
... ... ...
"Mycroft seemed really bothered by your talk last night," John said. Sherlock stood across the table from him in the training room as they worked with camouflage techniques.
"How tragic."
"You know, there's no sense in making things more bleak than they already are."
Sherlock shot him a look. "Do you believe there's any sense in holding on to false hope?"
"Maybe it isn't all false. We don't know what sort of arena we'll have, or what sort of sponsors. We may still have a chance."
"Wrong. One of us may still have a chance. There is no we in the Games, and you know that as well as I do."
"Well until it comes to that, we might as well be a team. We can survive a whole lot easier working together."
"Until one of us is forced to kill the other."
John fell silent, his eyes dropping to the table. "You don't believe we'll be the last two alive anyway, so what does it matter? According to you, it will never actually come to that."
"So what is the point in working together when we're both going to die?"
"Christ, Sherlock, haven't you ever fought for anything? Don't you see any value in at least trying?" He hated the sharpness in his voice, and hated even more that Sherlock had struck a nerve so frayed and raw that he had been reduced to it.
"No. I don't."
"Then you might as well step off the platform before the countdown's finished, or throw yourself off a cliff or something and end it, since you obviously don't care whether you live or die."
"Don't be mistaken, John. If attacked in the arena, I will gladly kill whoever strikes the blow. But I am confident that at some point, I'll be too late. I will get killed just like twenty-three others. And does it really matter at all?"
"Yes. It matters when people die, whoever they are."
Before he walked away, he said only, "Wrong."