Sherlock hadn't expected Mycroft to visit. He knew his brother had been present at the Reaping- it was imperative that the Mayor attended the most important event of the year. But they hadn't seen each other for at least a week beforehand, or even looked at each other when the announcer called Sherlock's name.
"Does the Mayor always come and visit the tributes?" he asked after a few minutes. He had no problem with silence, but it did feel a little like wasted time.
"I'm not here as the Mayor, Sherlock," Mycroft snapped, sinking down into one of the provided chairs. Sherlock followed his lead. At the factory, Sherlock dealt with cheap fabrics, things to be used for dishcloths or mops. He had never felt anything quite like the plush velvet of the furniture. It was soft against his skin as he ran his hand back and forth across the arm. It was a good distraction.
"Then why are you here?" he replied.
"As your brother, my dear sociopath. Did it ever occur to you that I might care that my only family has been marked for death?"
Family. The word sounded alien. He shared Mycroft's blood, that was true. But Mycroft hadn't spent hours persuading Sherlock to sip at water or milk. Mycroft hadn't hand-stitched him blankets and tucked them around him on dark nights where his thoughts were unkind and wouldn't leave him alone. As far as Sherlock was concerned, his closest and only family was the old woman who lay in an unmarked grave by the Vault.
"You don't think I could win, then?" Sherlock ignored the question and asked his own. Mycroft breathed out slowly.
"Sherlock, look at yourself." There was a mirror hung up in the decadent room so that people could check their appeal to the cameras. Sherlock glanced up from his seat, but Mycroft rose and closed the space in a few strides. His hand clamped down on his brother's shoulder.
"No, properly. Get up and tell me what you see." Sherlock obeyed, and looked at the person stood behind the glass. He wasn't quite sure what to say. His latest growth spurt had left him long, gangly limbs. He was too thin, with cheekbones that stood out against his face. His hair was dark, his skin was pale, his eyes were a colour that nobody had a name for.
"I don't understand," he frowned. "What am I looking at?"
"You tell me. Are you looking at a victor?"
Sherlock cast his mind back to the people he had seen win games or come close. Muscly, larger than average, already scarred with cuts and burns from practise and training back home. They were boys who fought and girls who hunted. Their faces were determined and their eyes full of anger or confidence. He looked back at himself.
He was thin because he was malnourished. His skin was so white because he spent his days inside, reading or investigating. He was tall given his limited diet, but he certainly wasn't strong. His eyes, regardless of colour, were… blank, like they were only there because it was the social convention for people to have pupils and irises on the front of their face. He answered without really thinking about it.
"I'm not even sure I'm looking at a human." Mycroft's hand lifted from his shoulder, and for a few moments Sherlock's words hung alone.
"Then you'll probably do well," he eventually answered.
"Any parting advice?" Sherlock asked.
"It's going to be okay." Mycroft moved forwards awkwardly, but recoiled. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Do you know why?" Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply when his brother suddenly lunged forwards, wrapping his arms tightly around him.
Sherlock frowned. This was definitely not normal- he couldn't remember Mycroft ever hugging him. He couldn't remember Mycroft had ever hugging anybody. He was almost reassured when his brother began to hiss quick words in his ear, lips barely moving.
"They can't hurt you in there, Sherlock. They've already done the worst they can. Remember that. You're going to be freer than you've ever been before in your life."
He pulled back, and Sherlock realised that seventeen years on, he still didn't really know who his brother was.
"I know why, Mycroft," Sherlock announced for the benefit of any hidden cameras. "I can fight."
"That isn't what I was going to say. You're an intelligent man-" Mycroft began.
"I know that."
"Then you must know that your 'fighting' resembles a deranged puppet wafting flies." Sherlock bristled a little.
"Well, I've hardly got enough time to learn."
"My point exactly. So don't fight: think. It might be all you're good for, but you really are rather good at it."
"Thank you, Mycroft." Mycroft knew a dismissal when he saw one. He nodded, and headed for the door.
"Goodbye, Sherlock," he called as he left. Sherlock didn't reply and Mycroft didn't look back.
Greg was angry that they made his grandmother come out. She was old, and frail, and he didn't understand why they couldn't have just gone to her. The way her face lit up as she entered the goodbye room and took in the kind of luxury she'd never seen before nearly made it worth it. But the effect was spoiled when she sank down in the chair, breathing too heavily for the few steps she had walked.
For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. She held out her arms and he went to her, forgetting that he was seventeen, forgetting that he was independent and nearly an adult. He should be thinking about how to appear to the cameras to best gain sponsorship or making clever plans, but it didn't even cross his mind. He let his brain shut off for a few minutes and lost himself in the familiarity. Neither of them cried even though both of them wanted to, and would later on.
"While I'm gone, Gran-" he eventually began. She looked at him, eyes wide.
"Why are you worrying about me? You need to think about yourself."
"No, I don't. Listen, Gran, I know some people who might be able to help you out. I work with a woman named Vivian- she's nice, and pretty well off. If she hears I've been chosen and turns up to say goodbye, I'll ask her to share some food with you. She won't mind, honest."
"Gregory Lestrade, why are you wasting your time like this?" his grandmother said sternly. "I'll be fine. I took care of myself for long enough before you came along."
"But that was then," he said cautiously, "this is now. Gran… you must know how much weaker you are."
"I'm fine!" she insisted. "I can get my own food and money, don't you worry. I'll take in laundry or darning or something. Concentrate on yourself. I'll be fine for a few months until you come back."
"But what if-" he took a deep breath. "What if I don't come back?"
"Don't say that, Greg. Don't even think it."
"But what would you do, Gran?"
"Stop it!"
"No, we need to talk about this! What if this isn't just for a few months? What if this is for forever?" His grandmother rested her head in her hands. She sighed, sounding more defeated than Greg had ever heard before. The silence was damning as she looked up.
"Look… Greg," she began. "Why don't we both stop lying to each other?"
"Okay," he agreed. "That seems like a good idea."
"You first," she said. He nodded. The words stuck in his throat, and he had to work hard to get them out.
"I might not make it out alive. I probably won't come back." It was true. What chance did a District 6 boy, underfed and used to a quiet, sedentary lifestyle have?
"And I'm probably not going to be here for you to come back to," his grandmother said evenly. It was the first time she'd ever fully acknowledged her ill health. Usually she gave excuses, lies, anything to deny the fact that she was weakening. Her admission told him more than other words ever could: she didn't think he could survive either.
"That solves that, then. We'll both be dead within a few months and we won't have to worry." He said, matter-of-factly. It really, really wasn't funny, but Greg found himself smiling all the same.
"Don't joke about this!" Mabel scolded, but he could see her trying not to giggle.
"No more cleaning," he coaxed. She gave in and started to chuckle.
"No more cleaning," she agreed.
"And I won't have to work at that stupid office anymore."
"And I won't have to cook anymore."
"I won't have to go to school."
"And neither of us will have to watch the Games again," she finished. He nodded vigorously.
"I could get used to this death thing," he grinned. She smiled, but it soon faded.
"I love you," she told him, looking into his eyes, "so much."
"I love you too," he told her. "Thank you. For everything."
"No, Greg. Thank you." She held him for a few minutes, and he wondered what would happen if he just stayed there. If he just refused to move. But eventually, a Peacekeeper strode in and ordered her away. She obeyed.
"For the record, I'm not counting you out," she insisted as he pulled away. "I never would."
"I know," he said. "Goodbye, Gran."
"Goodbye, Greg." The Peacekeeper glared at his grandmother as she hugged him again, tapping his watch. He grabbed her roughly by the shoulder.
"C'mon, you, time to leave." Greg closed his eyes. He opened them, smiling a little, when he heard a familiar indignant cry.
"Get your hands off me! That is no way to treat a lady!" Greg watched his grandmother as she left. Despite her age, Mabel held her head high as she walked away. She didn't lean on her cane anywhere near as much as he knew she wanted to.
An eighty year old woman was a strange person to draw inspiration from, but it worked for him. Greg raised his head to look the Peacekeeper in the eye and, his face straight and voice steady, asked "so, can we go now?"
Harry was late. John couldn't sit down as he waited, pacing backwards and forwards. He only had sixty minutes of visiting time, and they were precious. Nearly thirty-five had passed by the time she arrived.
"Where were you?" he demanded, not bothering to try and stay calm. Harry's eyes widened.
"Why are you shouting?" she asked.
"You're late!"
"They only just let me go," she whimpered. "They said they were worried I was a danger to you. They wanted to send a Peacekeeper in with me."
"Right," he said flatly.
"John? John, look at me."
"I am."
"No, properly. In the eyes." He went to glare at her, but stopped when he saw the sorrow and guilt on her face.
This could be their last meeting. This was not how this was supposed to go. He made a conscious effort to swallow his anger. John looked at his sister properly, who seemed so out of place in this opulent room. He winced a little when he noticed her arms. She had opened deep red ravines on her skin when he was chosen, every part of her screaming.
"Does it hurt?" he asked gently.
"My heart? Every single day. My arms? Not really." Pain tugged at John's chest, but he ignored it.
"Are you sure? They look pretty bad."
"You should see the guy who held me back."
"You hurt him? Harry, don't you know how dangerous that is?" Attacking a Peacekeeper was a serious offence. People had been executed for less.
"They judged that I wasn't in a suitable state of mind. I didn't know what I was doing, apparently. Considering the circumstances."
"And did you know what you were doing?"
"I don't even know what I'm doing now." He wasn't in the mood for her riddles or her melancholy. The frustration was bubbling back to the surface and it was hard to push back. He didn't want to be angry at somebody so broken- but damnit, he was only human.
"You have to stop this," he urged her. "I won't be able to look after you when I'm in the arena."
"I don't need looking after." John decided not to argue.
"Well, you're going to have to stop drinking."
"No," she replied immediately.
"Just for a while if nothing else."
"No."
"Harry-"
"No, John, and I mean it. If anything, I plan to drink more. A lot more." That was it, then. John turned away from her in disgust.
"Why do I bother?" he muttered.
"You don't understand."
"What don't I understand? You forget that you're not the only one who lost their mother, Harry. You aren't the only one who lost their father. You lost Clara, sure, but I lost you!"
"I'm right here," she rasped.
"Really? How can you tell? Because you sure as hell aren't my sister anymore!"
"No. No, I am," Harry said, voice rising, sounding more sure of herself than she had in months. "I might be many things- I might not be many things- but I'm still your sister, John. That will never change. It doesn't matter how much I drink. It doesn't matter how much I let you down. No matter how much you might want to, you can't change the fact that you're my brother." Harry reached out a tentative hand. "My little brother." John let her touch his cheek. It seemed to leech some of the bitterness from him, like venom from a wound. His anger drained away.
"I'm sorry," he stated quietly.
"Me too." John didn't know what she was apologising for, and he didn't want to ask. He didn't want to have it reconfirmed that the drinking wasn't stopping any time soon.
"I don't think I've ever heard you sound like that," she commented.
"Sorry," he immediately said.
"Don't be. It was… good. Like hearing the real you for a change. You know, I'm not as fragile as you think." His face must have betrayed thoughts his mouth would not, because she continued. "No, seriously. I know that I drink too much and do too little- but I'm still here. I've lost three of the people who meant everything in the world to me, and there's a chance I'm going to lose the fourth and final. But I'll live. Do you get what I'm saying? If I was going to give up, I would have done it a long time ago."
If this isn't giving up, then what is? a traitorous part of John thought. But he knew what she meant. On the most basic level, Harry was still going. She was still breathing, her heart still beating. She would stay that way. Her unspoken words were louder than their dialogue: I'm not going to die. You might. Focus on yourself.
"Do you think I can do it?" he asked. "Do you think I can make it out?" Harry didn't reply, and his anxiety rose. He babbled, trying to fill in the gaps. "I mean, with what happened to our parents and then the orphanage and helping out with the Healers and… I've seen enough death, haven't I? Enough to know how to avoid it?"
"Oh, you could stay alive. I don't doubt that. But can you kill?" He didn't have an answer for her. He was saved from trying to find one by a Peacekeeper's intrusion. John snuck a quick look at their face to check for damage, but this was a different man. He stood in the doorway, looking at Harry warily.
"Ready to leave?" he asked. John wanted to protest, but Harry spoke before he could.
"Almost. Could we have just one more minute?" The man nodded, and left them alone. Turning back to John, Harry's hands flicked up to her head.
"Here." Her hair suddenly cascaded down, framing her face in loose blond curls. She held out a strip of patterned cloth. "It's not much, but it was mother's. I wear it every day. You can have it, if you want. As your token."
His token. Right. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He let Harry tie the strip of cloth around his arm and then embraced her. She was a few inches shorter than he was, tucking her head against his chest. She shook slightly in his arms. He did in no way feel like the younger sibling.
"Will you be okay?" he found himself asking her.
"No. But I'll live." She drew back. "You do the same. Okay?"
"Okay," he agreed. And then the door was opening and the Peacekeeper was back and footsteps were clattering and words were being said and his heart ached more than ever as the door closed on Harry. John shut his eyes. He lifted the cloth to his nose and inhaled, mother and sister and family wrapping around him and masking the loneliness. Harry's words echoed around his head.
I'll live. You do the same.
He would try his hardest.
