John

The next few days passed in a blur of angry glares and flung weapons. God I hated the training sessions. I hated being forced to talk to and ally myself with the people who were going to kill me in the near future. I don't understand the purpose of the group training, but I did it anyway. Sally had advised us to not show of our strengths, to try something new and learn survival skills. Survival skills were the only thing I actually already knew. I walked quietly across the training floor, trying to seem invisible in the crowd. Jenny clung to my arm, as she had the entire time we were here. I surveyed the room, yesterday and the say before that I had devoted to refreshing my memory on knot making and plant identification. It was a bit boring, so today I was ready to train myself with a weapon. Archery turned out to not be my thing, sword fighting was awful, I could throw a weight pretty far, and then I spotted the handgun. It was just sitting there, nobody else was using it, probably because it was very rarely included in the games.

"Hey, Jenny, why don't you check out the basket weaving station." I shooed the little girl away, and practically ran to where the deadly black asset lay unassuming on its side. The gun fit smoothly in my hand, as if it were tailored to my palm. With a quick breath of excitement, I pulled the trigger, and nothing happened. Again and again the little device yielded nothing that could be attributed to success.

"What the," I muttered.

"You have to turn the safety off before you shoot," a deep baritone voice whispered into my ear. I jumped away, frightened by the Tribute standing next to me, "Sherlock Holmes, District One."

"John Watson, District Twelve." I extended my hand in greeting, oddly satisfied to finally have a proper meeting with the enigmatic fellow. Sherlock nodded as if he already knew, dark curls bouncing. He took the gun from my hand and properly demonstrated how to undo the safety, before shooting at the target. I gaped at the perfect bulls-eye Sherlock had just shot.

"Do not worry John, I'm sure you'll get the hang of it, unless you are as stupid as you appear to be. I surely hope not." Sherlock furrowed his brow, analyzing my face.

"What?" I took a step back away from Sherlock, frightened by the sudden scrutiny I was being subject to.

"Hope your sister won't be too sad if you lose the games." With that, Sherlock waltzed off to the knot tying station. It took me a few seconds to finally close my mouth after the young man had left. Once I had managed to gather myself, I turned my attentions to the gun. Following Sherlock's instructions carefully, I aimed at the target and fired. A small hole appeared on the outermost ring. Not that bad for your first time ever holding and shooting a gun, but nothing too special.

I spent the next hour shooting, and realized that I was actually getting better. By lunch I had gotten two bulls-eyes and gone through ten magazines. Jenny ended up having a panic attack when Mary Morstan, who was a bit pretty, had thrown a knife at her after feeling insulted by the way she talked about pink. Whatever that's supposed to mean. She was shaking slightly beside me, tugging her shirt collar that had been cut by the knife.

"I just said that I like pink, I said 'I really like the color pink, it's to bad that boys don't wear much because it's a girly color', and she just threw a knife at me." Jenny shuddered.

"I dunno' why she threw a knife at you," I sighed, biting into the sandwich I had gotten for lunch, Jenny huffed, opening her bag of crisps. A boy who couldn't have been older than seventeen sat down across form us. Gray hair was already sprouting around his ears.

"Hello, I'm John." I extended a hand, trying to make conversation.

"Greg, but call me Lestrade." Lestrade shook my hand, before staring blankly at his plate, "Got anyone in mind for an ally?"

"Not really, the only other Tribute I've talked to besides you and Jenny was that Sherlock guy." You know the one with the wonderful hair and cheekbones?

"Philip Anderson obviously wants to team up with me, but I don't like him much. Bit of a snake that one is." Lestrade frowned, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, "That Holmes is a queer one. Quite the ladies man during the parade, so I tried to talk to him. Gave me the weirdest look." I nodded, Sherlock's façade of charm during the parade was obviously fake once you actually talked to him.

Sherlock

I bit my lip until the distinctive, metallic, taste of blood could be sensed. Today was the day private training sessions were held, I wasn't nervous, but Molly's constant twitching and fidgeting was beginning to become irritating. Luckily, I was the male tribute from District One, so I go first. Molly had wished me luck about a hundred times on several different occasions. I told her that luck did not exist, and was simply a construct of imagination employed to make ourselves feel better.

"Sherlock Holmes." the speaker intoned. I stood up, brushed off my pants and began to approach the door.

"Good luck!" Molly breathed nervously, I smirked to myself and strode into the room.

"Proceed Mr. Holmes," the Gamekeeper sniffed pretentiously, waving a hand for me to start. Anger boiled in my stomach, and I completely abandoned my plan to show my fencing and archery skills.

"Oh, I suppose I am expected to respect a man having an affair with his neighbor, your wife would be so displeased with you. Not to mention how you have been neglecting one, no two tabby cats and a small terrier. I suppose maybe it is how you refuse to talk to your mother on religious grounds and your sister is a raging alcoholic." I spat, pleased with the rush deductions bring me. The Gamekeeper gawked at me, grip tightening on his wine glass.

"How could you possibly- I mean, I have no idea what you are talking about!" he shouts back at me, a small vein popping from his fore head.

"Oh, if you insist. Your shoes, they are very expensive, your nicest pair probably, the tread is worn, but you don't seem to be the kind of person to do much walking. Though, the shoes are new and based on the way you are sitting you have acquired several blisters from walking in them. The wear on the tread indicates more pressure than usual focused on the front part, so you were walking around your job on your toes? Unlikely, more possible that you had been sneaking, trying to be quiet. The wear also suggests that it was only for short distances. Your ring finger, the knuckles are unusually red and calloused, so you have removed your ring often, for whom? So that combined with the shoes implies affair with a neighbor or someone in the near vicinity. The cats and the dog, three distinctively different types of hair on your pant leg. All in the same area, but the cat hair is only on your pant leg where both have been rubbing against you. The dog's hair is also present in your lap. There are nearly faded bite-marks on your hands. The pets have been biting you. Since you seem to be a strict man they are most surely trained, but neglected because you have been spending late nights at work, judging by the bags under your eyes it's been about a month since they've been properly fed. Your necklace, it is an old cross. Likely to be an heirloom, but has been neglected in past years. Not by you because the polish is fresh. So it was your mother then. She wasn't religious so you refuse to speak with her. There is a whiskey stain on the left sleeve of your jacket. The wine in your glass is barely touched so you don't drink. The stain is recent and was hastily dried with the pink handkerchief in your pocket. Your name, Julias, is written on the side. The handwriting is definitely that of a woman between the age of twenty and thirty. It was probably a gift from her, you love it but someone just wiped the whiskey off your arm with it. Probably a sister, probably a drunk. Am I wrong?"

"No, no you're absolutely right, how in heck did you manage to do all that?" the Gamekeeper closed his mouth staring at me oddly.

"This has been a most interesting visit! Good day to you all." I tipped an imaginary hat in their direction and swaggered out of the room.

Hope had not at all been pleased though. She lectured me for, what now, the third time? I just sat there nodding and muttering apologies and promises I had no intention to keep.

"Do you understand?" Hope barked.

"Yes ma'am. It won't happen again." I gave my most charming smile. She nodded, looking less angry.

"Yeah, that was what you said when you told of the president." Hope sounded defeated, all of the previous cheer had been drained from her dainty figure, "The scores are about to be shown. Better get to the living room." I jumped out of my chair and trotted over to the telly. I waited impatiently through the introduction, only glancing away from the screen when Molly joined me on the couch.

"Now, the male tribute from District One, Sherlock Holmes, with a score of… twelve!? What the!?" The news anchor gasped, and the room went dead silent.

"How?" was all Molly could manage, "That, that's the highest score you can get!"

"Yes, I know."

John

I managed to get out with a respectable score of eight. Poor Jenny only got a three. But Sherlock, good god. Sherlock bloody Holmes came out with a freaking twelve! That was the highest score ever; he broke Katniss Everdeen's score of eleven with a freaking twelve! Now he was going to get serious sponsors, but in the games, he was going to become even more of a target. My own handgun skill paled in comparison to whatever it was that Sherlock did for the Gamekeeper. I couldn't help but feel slightly scared of the man. The interviews with Ceaser Flickerman, who, like Snow, was magically still alive after all of the years spent on the games, was tomorrow. I really need to make an impression on the crowd; else, I am dead meat. The only person who came close to Sherlock was Moriarty with a ten. Not quite as impressive, but good all the same. I knew that I was going to have to ally myself with one of them. Sherlock being my number one choice, but Moriarty would suffice if it came to that. An annoyingly strong headache was throbbing beneath my temples by dinner. Even Sally was surprised by my lack of an appetite.

"Come on John, at least have some soup, you need to get something down," Jenny coaxed a few spoonful's of chicken broth down my throat before I retired to bed wondering what I was going to do.

The next morning was spent being taught how to properly hold ourselves in a conversation, act politely, and properly play your angle. Sally and Skye had come to the agreement that I should be friendly, but witty. Jenny was advised to play the oh-I-am-so-nervous-I-hope-I-can-win-for-my-family pity evoking role. Once we had been properly schooled, Sally turned us over to our stylists. I hated the styling stuff. Skye and I just didn't see eye to eye on the whole 'fashion' thing. Apparently, eyebrow plucking and scalding water baths were a good thing in his world. Nevertheless, I found myself amazed at how he managed to completely change me into a more confident version of myself. The boy, well, a man really, in the mirror stared back at me, an arrogant smirk spreading across his- no, my face. The only person that could possibly be comfortable in the deep crimson and charcoal suit would be him. Jenny had been similarly transformed. She smiled easily in a low-cut red satin gown covered in black lace.

"We look nothing like ourselves," she observed, staring into the depths of the mirror.

"No, but that's how you play and win the game. You don't be yourself, you be desirable," I tried to keep the melancholy note out of my voice, but to no avail. She sighed heavily, and followed Sally out of the room, signaling for me to keep up.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, the line was so long. It felt as if was going to have wait for an eternity, my only companion being the anxious tick I had resorted to. The first person to go was Molly Hooper, the female from District One. She was sporting a light pink knee-length dress with small diamonds decorating the top. The cinched silk of her garment clung to breasts and hips that the poor girl simply didn't have, giving her an unhealthy, starved look.

"Well Molly, what are you liking here in the Capital?" Ceaser asked enthusiastically.

"Oh, well everything is just very wonderful." Molly replier entire interview continued on like this, Ceaser asking a question, Molly giving a simple and quiet answer. Her departure was met with a polite, but detached, round of applause. Next was the male Tribute, Sherlock. I couldn't help but smirk as he sauntered onto the stage with so much confidence it could be viewed as cocky. The crowd screamed it's welcome to the raven haired Tribute.

"Ah, the enigmatic Mister Holmes," Ceaser smiled, "We have all been looking forward to properly meeting you I'm sure." Several different noises of approval sounded from the audience.

"Oh, I am as well," a corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with the promise of an arrogant smirk, "The Capital really is quite the place you know, very, delicious." The tip of a light pink tongue dipped out of the young man's mouth and wet his lips. I could see the people in the crowd fainting even though I was twenty feet away from a very small screen. His spokesperson and stylist had very clearly chosen for him to play the sexy angle. What with the skin tight royal purple silk, shirt, with the top few buttons left flirtatiously undone. Not to sound weird, but Sherlock played the role surprisingly well.

"So, Sherlock, I find myself incredibly curious as to how you managed a score of twelve. However did you do it?" Ceaser asked, leaning forward in his chair slightly. Sherlock chuckled and tapped he side of his nose.

"Some things ought to stay secret, you know. I am not about to divulge my tricks." Sherlock gave a flippant wink to the front row. Ceaser looked slightly crestfallen at his lack of an answer.

"Well, I had to ask. Is there anyone special back at home?" the older man grinned, seeming pleased by the surprised look on Sherlock's face.

"Ah, no, actually," Sherlock cast a look of embarrassment, little pink splotches appearing on his cheeks, that was entirely too lovely of a shade for me to stand. The crowd ate it up, catcalls echoing from nearly everywhere in the stadium.

"That can't be true, handsome, charming guy like you," Ceaser chided, "Well I hope you have all had a wonderful time here speaking with this years, undoubtedly, favorite Tribute. I noticed how no one had spoken about his little outburst with the president, but quickly forgot about it, dismissing the idea that the event held any long term importance. Sherlock descended the steps back to where he rest of the tributes were, his eyes locking with mine a second longer than would be considered a passing glance. My stomach did a weird sort of flip, and I struggled to hide the blood heating my cheeks. Who would ever notice me?