John
"John, John wake up, it's Reaping Day," a soft voice whispered into my ear. Oh, right. Today is the Reaping. When every district is forced to give up one girl and one boy between the ages twelve and eighteen to fight an epic battle to survive. They called this brutal tradition the Hunger Games. Established two hundred and twenty-one years ago, it was created as a reminder of how the districts had rebelled against the capital. Two more years, two more years and I am no longer eligible to compete. But today is my older sister Harriet's last year. His name is put in forty-seven times, mine twenty-eight. Hopefully the tesserae my mother will collect from this will help her through if one of us is to be picked.
"Come on, wake up, you slept in. It's time to get dressed." Harry murmured, shoving my shoulder with her broomstick.
"Ohhhh, tell those darned Peacekeepers to stuff it. That suit is the most uncomfortable thing I have ever worn." I whined, crawling out of my small cot and stumbling towards the makeshift wardrobe in the corner of the room.
"Ah, loosen up Johnny, at least you don't look eighty years old in your outfit." Harry winked, pulling out her dress. It was covered in a hideous floral pattern, and the lacy sleeves were horribly ripped. I chuckled and retrieved my gray jacket and dress pants. Mother knocked on the door.
"Come in!" Harry giggled. Mother stepped over the threshold into our room.
"How are ya doing this morning guys? Not nervous I hope." She tapped one blackened finger against her nose. As far as I knew, we were actually the most light-spirited family in District Twelve, all of the other children were grim faced and sullen, and their parents even more so. Not that there was much to be happy about, you know, starving half the time, sickness, and poverty. Despite all of that, Mother was happy. Her laugh was like the trill of a bird, her smile luminous like the glow of a lantern. Everyone adored her. She had become somewhat less jovial after the death of Father, but it was her light heartedness that had gotten Harry and I through.
"No, it's not like there's a chance that we could be picked to battle a group of bloodthirsty children to win riches for our district." Harry quipped, pulling on her dress.
"And if you are picked, I am sure you do just that. Survivors, that's what the Watson's are." she stated matter-of-factly. I buttoned my jacket, trying to dismiss the intense discomfort originating in the small of my back.
"Surviving would be easier if my suit wasn't so friggin' stiff." Mother laughed at me, straightened her own dress, and left the room.
"Quit complaining Johnny, at least you can walk like a normal human being. I feel like I am abou to fall over." Harry teetered into the kitchen, unsteady on her three inch heels. I sighed, Harry had a chance in the games, but I had no special talents besides those that would help me stay alive in the woods. I can't shoot, punch, or throw. I have a considerable strength but no skills to use it for, and not being the sharpest tool in the shed isn't helping.
"Johnny! Breakfast!" Mother called.
My hands were shaking in their pockets as we strolled down the cracked pavement in order to reach the stage where the Reaping will take place. Mother kissed the tops of our heads and took her place in the audience, Harry walked off to join her group, and I mine. I winced at the Peacekeeper who had pricked my finger and stood in my section. All conversations were silenced as Sally Donovan stepped onto the stage. Her nut-brown skin washed out by the garish pink dress and gaudy jewelry she wore. She tapped a dainty finger ag ainst the microphone and spoke in her sadistically cheery voice.
"Welcome to the two hundred and twenty-first annual Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor! Our dearest friends in the Capital have sent us a special video for us all to watch this year, shall we see?" Sally chirped, waving her manicured hands about as she spoke. A video started to play on the screen to her right. It was horribly depressing, but Sally seemed to enjoy it. I could see her mouthing along with the narrator through the last few lines.
"Oh, I just love that!" she exclaimed, "Now, for this years tributes, as always, ladies first." she dipped her hand into the glass bowl full of names. She withdrew one folded slip, petting it with her left thumb.
"Jennifer Wilson!" several people in the audience gasped, such reaction was customary when a twelve year old was selected, "Come on up dear, don't be shy. Stand right next to me." Sally waved at the timid little girl that was approaching the stairs.
"Okay, now for the boys." she started once Jennifer was situated at her side, "Ah, let's see, looks like, John Hamish Watson!" I froze, it can't be! I thought frantically. I shuffled through the throng of people. When I reached the stage, Sally flashed another brilliant smile.
"Ah, here he is! Quite a looker ain't he?" She helped me up the stairs and placed me next to her. The rest of District Twelve looked at us somberly, their eyes flitting away whenever I caught them. Peacekeepers joined us on the stage, guiding us into the backroom where tributes were taken.
Sherlock
I rolled over in my bed, staring at the clock on my bedside table. Reaping Day. Brilliant. Now I have to sit through some hare-brained ceremony of children being carted off to their slaughter. Someone knocked on my door.
"Yes?" I growled into my pillow, "Come on in. You're not disturbing me or anything. It's just the day when my name is put in a bowl with the chance of being chosen so that I can go be murdered by a group of bloodthirsty mongrels!"
"Sherlock, don't be like that! Your name is only in there three times!" Mycroft stepped into my room, sitting down on the edge of my bed, "Get dressed. Please do not wear that navy sweatshirt you so obviously adore. It really is quite hideous."
"I shall wear whatever I deem fit for this occasion. I could go nude if so I please." I spat in response, burrowing into the duvet. Mycroft sighed audibly walked out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, regretting last night having one that I slept on. My wardrobe was filled with a variety of clothing, ranging from Capital freak Technicolor, to District 12 gray. I selected a deep purple silk shirt and some black dress pants. It wasn't too showy, but expensive. Being that I do live in District One, luxury is horribly important to us. We gluttonous pigs do love to spend money and train our children to become murderous psychopaths. I was no exception to that training. Even at age five I could wield a sword and throw a knife, but I was never really one of them. More than anything I wish that I could join District Five, put my genius to good use. But no, I have to sit here and train while my brain rots from disuse. None of the other children my age ever acknowledge my presence, I am tall and thin, not stout and muscled, I am smart and clever, not stupid and brutal. Chances were, if, against all odds, I were picked, no one would volunteer. Which would be really very strange, and a declaration of how they want me to get killed. I really, honestly don't care though. I actually kind of looked forward to getting Reaped. I would be able to leave these freaks and hang out with more freaks. The Capital freaks. Deductions galore!
"SHERLOCK! GET OUT HERE!" my mother shrieked from down the stairs.
"COMING!" I quickly pulled on my shoes and sped out the door.
The sky was a mournful gray when we arrived at the square. Dozens of families were already milling around by the time my family had arrived. I filed into the the line of people my age and waited for the Peacekeepers to prick my finger. Once that had been done, I stood in the pen where the boys were kept. Hope Jefferson practically skipped onto the stage, fiery orange curls bouncing as she approached the microphone. She tapped her finger against it until the crowd fell silent.
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" Hope sang, spreading her long arms as if to encompass us in a gigantic hug, "As always, ladies first!" She pulled a folded slip of paper out of the glass bowl.
"Irene Addler! Come on up darling! Don't be shy!" Poor little Irene, I thought sarcasticly as a small girl sashayed confidently onto the stage. Sure she was nice, and less stupid than the rest of District One, but she was brutal and cruel, not to mention hell-bent on winning the Games.
"I volunteer in place of Irene Addler!" a sweet and distinctly female voice called from the crowd. She stepped up onto the stage and Irene scowled, and stomped back to the pen.
"Oh how exciting! What is your name?" Hope cooed.
"Molly Hooper." Molly whispered
"Well hello Miss Hooper! And now for the boys!" Hope groped through the slips, before pulling her prize from the bowl, "William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Quite a mouthful there eh?" I suppressed a smile. It really could not have gone any other way.
John
I leaned my head against the cold glass window of the train as it sped off to the Capital. Jennifer, or as she prefers, Jenny, poked at a plate of vegetables beside me. She had immediately hit it off with Sally. The two girls shared a mutual love of hot pink. So they had spent an hour discussing the different shades. Not that I had minded much. The conversation seemed to help calm her nerves, she hadn't cried since.
"Oh! Fifteen minutes until we arrive!" Sally exclaimed, walking through the threshold of the dining car, "Oh, and sorry darlings, but your mentor is feeling a little under the weather. She should be better by tomorrow."
"Do we get to see people!" Jenny squealed.
"Yes of course! Make sure to smile and wave, you need to impress all of your potential sponsors!" Sally glided over and sat down with us, "Come on John! Don't be so sullen!"
"Okay, I'll try." I forced a smile.
"Now, why don't you watch the replays for all the other Reapings while we wait. One should always know their enemies." Sally clicked on the telly in the corner. First was District One. I watched, enthralled as the Capital lady pulled a slip from the glass bowl.
"Irene Addler! Come on up darling! Don't be shy!" a small girl stepped onto the stage. There were several cheers of encouragment that she ignored. Someone volunteered for her, strangely, it seemed to be out of kindness and not greed for power. Little Molly Hooper looked like the kind of person to do that. The Capital lady fished through the second glass bowl.
"Well hello Miss Hooper! And now for the boys! William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Quite a mouthful there eh?" People jeered and laughed, no one volunteered. None of the other children sounded particularly fond of Holmes. A few seconds later I saw why. When the camera zoomed in on his face I gasped. He was, well, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Thick curly black hair, catlike blue-green eyes, full mouth, and cheekbones that could cut glass graced the screen. He was so thin and lean. His arms were evenly muscled (unlike the body builders District One usually produced), his legs long and graceful as he strode onto the stage. Despite all of this, there was a cold impassiveness lurking behind his gemstone eyes. Holmes stared out at the crowd as if they were all idiot children. As if he was above them. He looked as if he had accepted his fate and had reconciled it, I wanted to slap him. Sure people go into the games knowing that they are probably going to die. But Holmes was going into the games accepting that, he was resigning himself to slaughter. He was thwarting the games! Based on the massive intelligence that glittered in his eyes he knew exactly what he was doing. Molly was staring up at him with nothing short of awe. I didn't really pay attention to the rest of the video. I only caught snippets. There was a Clara and a James from Two, Sebastian and Violet from Three, Gregory and Mary from Six (Four and Five were lost on me), Carl and Janine from Seven, and I can remember no one else. I sat there, in a new jumper and slacks, staring out the window as we pulled into the Capital.
Sherlock
Mycroft strode easily into the room where I had been led by the Peacekeepers.
"Oh, brother mine, please try to not get killed. Despite what you believe our hearts would break if you were to perish." He intoned nonchalantly.
"There is no point in trying to hide it Mycroft, you're glad to see me go. No more pesky children to interrupt your experiments." I replied, equally apathetic and uncaring. Mycroft surprised me by grabbing my shoulders.
"You can't give up Sherlock. Make the Capital care. Make them realize that you are a person and not a playing piece." His eyes were shining, and I didn't understand.
"What? Why do you care all of a sudden? I was nothing for our entire childhood and then as soon as something interesting happens, you're crying. Why care now?" I tried to sound as if I wasn't bothered by this display of emotion from my brother.
"I have always cared, there just was never a good enough reason to tell you." And the emotion was gone. His face was once again impassive.
"Good luck Sherlock, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
I was doing my best not to notice how Molly was staring at me the entire trip to the Capital. Not the stare I usually received from the children who hated me, but one I was never subject to before. We had watched the other Reapings, and knew that James Moriarty from District Two. Though only one possible ally presented themselves to me. It was John Watson from Twelve, a stout little boy with sandy blonde hair and an obvious medical background.
"Hey Sherlock, are you nervous?" Molly asked timidly. Tightening her pony tail and looking up at me expectantly.
"Why would I be nervous?"
"Well we are being carted off to our slaughter. It's likely that we won't ever see our families again, and we have to get prettied up by a bunch of clowns." She spat, her voice quite forceful for someone so delicate.
"I concede to the point that getting 'prettied' up will be awful." Molly snorted, and Hope walked in, obnoxious heels clacking against the linoleum.
"We're almost there!" Hope clapped her hands and shot us a white-toothed grin. Sure enough, the train had just arrived in the Capital. Eccentrically dressed residents waved their multi-colored hands and whistled through make-up slathered lips. I inwardly cringed as the train shuddered to a halt, and the doors opened. Hope steered Molly and I towards the crowd, whispering about how we should behave. Unsurprisingly, I felt like not smiling. Molly on the other hand, had the part down. She waved and blew kisses, all the while maintaining a convincing look of glee on her face. I scowled at the throng of citizens; this only seemed to encourage their efforts to take as many pictures as they could. Several Peacekeepers frog-marched us up the path and into the Tribute quarters.
John
I fell, exhausted, onto the ridiculously soft bed that had been provided for me by the Capital. A small sigh escaped my lips as I burrowed beneath thick duvet. Being from District Twelve, Jenny and I got the penthouse. Not that that was of any comfort to me, but, it was pretty nice. Everything was completely unlike anything I had experienced before. My family hadn't been the poorest, but we weren't exactly well-off. Poor Jenny had literally fainted when she was shown her rooms. The crowd had loved her. I gave my best effort to look likeable, but chances were I didn't make a very good impression. Tomorrow the Tribute parade was going to take place. Nearly the entire day was going to be spent on making us look good. I had never even bathed in clean water before! Hope had lectured us all through dinner about how to smile correctly and walk straight. Then she dived into this whole lesson on manners and the importance of knowing how to tell the difference between all seventeen different fork varieties. How that that was going to help us survive was lost on me. I listened, or pretended to listen, throughout the entire thing. Hope seemed to appreciate that, giving me a pat on the cheek and whining about what a shame it was that mentors had been banned. My stylist, Skye, was apparently the talk of the town. He was acclaimed for his creative outlook and ingenuity, almost as famous as his girlfriend, Pearl, who styled for District One. I was just glad it wasn't some crazy psychopath dressing me up in a frilly outfit and sticking me on a carriage. Well, I don't know, I've never met Skye. I gazed out of the large window, watching the stars until I sank into a deep and fitful slumber.
Sherlock
I awoke to a very excited Sally shaking my shoulder earnestly.
"Come on, breakfast! Then you get to meet Pearl! She's your stylist!" her annoyingly chipper tone put me in a bad mood, and it was only nine o' clock. Molly was already seated and eating by the time I had trudged down to join her.
"Mornin' Sher'ock!" she said through a mouthful of French toast. I shook my head and sat across from her, surveying the selection.
"Go ahead and get something darlin'. Don't be shy!" Hope encouraged, waving her fork like a wand in front of my face. The collection of dense and heavy food turned my stomach.
"Not hungry." I choked out, taking a quick sip of warm tea.
"Nonsense! You are already a twig! A little extra weight wouldn't do you any harm in the games." Hope reasoned, narrowing her baby blue eyes.
"Not. Hungry." I pushed my plate away and stalked over to the sitting room and began to watch the news. Only an hour into it, Hope came in a turned it off.
"It's time to start getting ready! These things seem to take longer every year!" she practically skipped over to me, grabbing my hand, and then proceeding to drag me out of the room.
"On a scale of one to ten, how necessary is this?" I whined, trudging along behind Hope, "Where is Molly
anyway?"
"Eleven, and she is already with her stylist!" she tutted, "Pearl will do a good job with you, you've quite the appeal under all that bristleliness." I sighed, and walked through the door Hope just opened for me, "Here you are darling, listen to Pearl's crew, and they will get you ready to meet her." I sat in the cold room for nearly five minutes after Hope had left, then a group of people practically skipped in, chattering on about the latest fashions. One woman with pea-green skin and light pink hair approached me. Happily married for three years, had toast for breakfast, seven cats, on a strict diet, I quickly deduced.
"Oh, he'll do just nicely. Look at those cheekbones. Mmmm, whadaya' think Glamour?" she ran a pudgy finger down my cheek, and it took all of my willpower not to flinch away in disgust. A tall, muscled man with a chocolate complexion stirred behind her.
"I dunno' Emmy, we should probably just stick with the basics right now. I haven't seen anyone like him. Don't even put any powder on yet. Pearl is the expert. She hasn't let us in on her plan yet." Glamour shrugged, and began to chew the tip of his thumb, occasionally batting his brutally magenta lashes. Emmy sighed.
"Alright, let's get you washed up!" she enthused, "Take your clothes off." I nearly fainted from shock.
"What!?"
Several self-deprecating hours later, the odd group had finished with me. My legs, underarms, back, and chest had all been waxed, my eyebrows plucked and darkened along with my eyelashes, and several creams had been applied to my skin to apparently make it soft. Each stylist had a different specialty, Vanity did dyes, Precious did exfoliantes, Emmy did make-up (which hadn't been needed), and Glamour did hair removal. Now I was standing, naked and alone, in a small room waiting for Pearl to come inspect me. Finally, the thick metal door creaked open. A tall, lean woman sashayed in, resembling a bird of paradise more than a human. Wicked intelligence flashed behind slate grey eyes that were obscured by three inch long turquoise false lashes.
"You will do very nicely," Pearl observed, looking me up and down, "Thin, but not scrawny, pretty, but not delicate, enticing, but most definitely alien." She circled me like a vulture would its catch.
"I do have a name, believe it or not." I spat, ignoring how she had begun to run her fingers over the small muscles that bulged beneath the skin of my arm.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Pearl's tongue darted in and out of her mouth like a lizard, "I have been informed that you go by Sherlock?"
"Indeed," I growled, "Are you going to continue surveying me like a slab of meat at a butcher shop or are we going to get this over with?"
"Touchy, eh? Well I suppose there is no reason to delay, now is there? Let's get started."