HEEEEEEY PEOPLE! SORRY FOR INTERRUPTING THE BEGINNING OF YOUR STORY BUT YOU ACTUALLY HAVE TO READ THIS BEFORE YOU READ THAT (*arrow down because I'm a stupid fake geek who doesn't know how to make one*)!

Moving on... This is the second chapter of The Wholock Games (*Snape saying 'obviously'*), and these chapters won't really have names... Sorry, too creativity-lacking, but the important things are: I'm posting this because you actually liked it (THANK YOU FOR THAT!), and that will stop now. Just give me a few days and I'll post the third chapter (which is already done), and so on, okay?

Other subject of importance: you may be a bit confused at first about the POV of the chapters, but that's exactly my point... I'll use SEVERAL POVs in my chapters... From most of the Tributes, actually so, get ready! This one is just Sherlock, but the others WON'T BE JUST ONE, okay?

May the odds be ever in your crying favor!

Chapter 2

Sherlock did not believe in God; he didn't believe there was anything greater than wit, logic or his own knowledge. He was absolutely sure that he could logic his way out of anything, including the twisted invention that were the Games.

He wouldn't need God in the Arena, he'd only need to lay low and know his enemy. Or at least that's how he saw things.

For that reason, he sat huddled on the floor, back against the wall, elbows propped up on his knees and hands knotted over his mouth and chin as he observed his fellow Tributes in their natural habitat: the Training Centre.

Deep inside, he was dreadfully tired of all this, of pretending to actually take an interest in the Games. All he wanted as he volunteered for another round - contrary, seemingly, to popular belief - was to get a better chance to see these Games for what they were, to inspect the Capitol's macabre murder scheme more closely.

And, just maybe, he had felt a pang of sympathy for the older man, but that was something he would hide from the press at all costs. Let them believe he was dying to get in their merciless little Games once again; let them think whatever they wanted. He had won this once, and could certainly do it again. Would do it again.

He inspected his opponents' actions while they trained; he noticed the way the curly-haired blonde woman - he recalled that her name had something to do with water, but didn't remember it exactly. Not that he needed to; it's not as if she was important - barely looked at the weapons she was grabbing, apparently confident that she could handle anything. She looked back and noticed him watching, making sure to send him a slight wink and flash a grin at him. He chuckled softly to himself. She really believed she could handle anything. Well, she could try to catch him first; maybe then they'd start talking.

He moved his gaze to her right, where the other blond-haired girl - from District 12, this much he recalled - expertly sent an arrow flying across the room and quickly rolled sideways. Sherlock arched his eyebrows as he watched the arrow describe a gentle arch on the air and strike a dummy on the other side of the Centre, piercing through the bulls-eye, through its heart. He barely had time to dwell on this, though, as already a second arrow followed, hitting the dummy's head, and making the whole thing shake violently. She stood up slowly, a satisfied smirk across her face. Sherlock didn't even need to search his intellect to understand she was a pure fighter, and a possible winner, which could mean, perhaps, a threat to his plan. But then not really: her ability to handle long-distance weaponry and her speed did not compensate at all on her lack of posture, her slightly limp left side or her obvious arrogance of thought. Easy enough, that one.

He stared dumbfounded as the white-blonde man from 12 brutally ripped a dummy's head off with his bare hands, and raised an eyebrow as the man tossed the plastic head across the room and spurted out a laugh that could only be described as manic. A tall man with black hair and a pearl-white grin - from one of the first Districts, if he wasn't mistaken - slapped the other one gently on the shoulder as he whispered something into his ear. They shook hands, and Sherlock couldn't help but think how ridiculous it was that already alliances were being made, with the Games being still days away. Sherlock had already decided he would not make any alliances, of any kind. He worked alone, and he would win like that – again.

He quickly surveyed the others. The dark-skinned Healer was picking out edible herbs and berries in a corner of the room. Typical, he thought. The male Tribute from 11 - who he actually remembered was called John - sat in a corner, fiddling with a knife and occasionally throwing it at a dummy few feet before him. Though he hit bulls-eye every single time, he insisted on sighing, getting up, retrieving the knife and restarting the process. It was boring to watch, but Sherlock kept staring anyways, despite himself; he could not move his gaze anywhere else for a couple of seconds. Either way, he quickly understood that the man planned to repeat the strategy he used in his first Games, which was helpful to Sherlock's judgment.

He looked sideways and noticed a dark-haired young woman – from District 10? He wasn't sure – quickly shifting her stare from where it had been barely seconds ago: him. She did so nervously, a violent blush spreading across her cheeks. It's not as if Sherlock wasn't used to this - he'd brought upon him the stares of many young girls back in his District -, but he'd thought perhaps his fellow Tributes would be a bit more intelligent than to eye someone lustfully, knowing you would have to kill him – or, most likely, be killed by him.

He watched her stare at the floor and continue tying a complicated knot, putting in too much strength - probably due to her self-directed anger – and ended up ripping the thin rope into two short stubs. Sherlock thought he caught the glint of a tear on her cheek. Weak, he immediately thought, despite his hate for early labels. He couldn't help but think that of the girl who cried during training, for a man she didn't even know, had never spoken to. She was going to die soon, surely.

He continued looking around, and saw another dark-haired woman, from District 1, performing an elaborate dance, knife in hands, her flourish though deadly movements leaving the dummy on which she was practicing nearly in shreds. She obviously meant to distract her Tributes in the Arena as she performed her kills and, though Sherlock would never admit it, she was succeeding a bit. As he watched her slicing and moving graciously around, his thoughts flew back to the man from 11, though he quickly pushed those away.

He looked at the woman again and saw that, despite her grace and divine subtlety of movement, her feet eventually struck the ground hard, causing her to lose balance a couple of times, her movements having been too rough. They were making this too easy for him; it wasn't fun like that. He had already thought of four ways to easily kill her, and the Games hadn't even started yet. Those Tributes would have to improve a lot if they were hoping to beat him.

Sherlock ran his eyes across the room one last time and noticed something he hadn't seen in his first studies of the Centre: there were two other people sitting down, not unlike him, and refusing to train. Sherlock had a clear reason not to do so: he obviously didn't need any training, as he would not use any weapons, and he was well-enough mentally trained already, but he felt that was not the reason why those two were copying him.

The black-haired young boy - perhaps from District 6 – sat in a curled-up tight ball in a distant corner of the enormous room, hands over his face. As Sherlock watched from afar he removed his hands and lifted his head, eyes red but keeping his face serious and steady as he gazed at nothing.

Sherlock could see something deep inside his eyes, deep inside his soul, but what was it exactly? He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but could it be… Yes, he was almost sure it was that. The boy's tears were not of sadness or grief, and definitely not of happiness; he was tired: tired of the Games, tired of his life. Sherlock remembered his face from watching last year's Games with his landlady Mrs. Hudson, and he imagined the boy wasn't willing to compete again; he didn't want to see - or do - any more killing. Sherlock remembered again – as he had found it odd - how the boy had won only out of luck, as the last remaining Tribute ran straight into a trap he had set on his first day. The boy himself had been hiding in a cave deep inside the woods, unwilling to go out. Sherlock was sure that boy was going to die fast in these Games – and that maybe that's what he wanted in the first place.

Sherlock eyed the other figure; that one he could recognise clearly: the so-mysterious to everyone Doctor. In his first Games a few years ago, when Sherlock was still a young adult, he'd appeared out of nowhere in the arena, inside a funny blue box, claiming not to know how he had ended up in there. Sherlock had thought, even back then, how ridiculous the trick of lights and deceptive camera motion by the Capitol had been; they'd obviously been intending to make the older man win since the beginning. The strange box had been removed almost immediately, leaving the man to the mercy of the Games. The Capitol had obviously just wanted to give the audience a good show, but had failed as the man had ignored the last four Tributes and hidden in the midst of a plantation field, coming out only when the last remaining Tribute came looking for him, and just to kill him by smashing his head against a tree.

Sherlock had seen the purpose of that strange kill since the beginning: the man had not wanted to touch any weapons. Still, it was a suspicious victory, but the Capitol had accepted it. Of course; they were the ones who created it, Sherlock mentally reproached himself.

Sherlock searched the Doctor's eyes and face as he sat down, cross-legged and staring intently at the ginger woman from his own District. He could see the reason for the Doctor's defiance to the Capitol was not his own, and not the boy's. The Doctor apparently had different ideas concerning murder, though he had not hesitated on committing it during his first Games. Maybe he lost his mind at the prospect of power, but no - Sherlock could see it was not that. He had never wanted to kill that boy, no matter the Capitol had told him to. He'd intended on disappearing, just as he intended to do now.

Sherlock remembered how no one had seen or heard from the Doctor in almost ten years after his Games. Where could he have gone to, and why would he have come back now, only to take part again on something he apparently wasn't even willing to? Sherlock would have to inspect him more cautiously when the opportunity came.

Sherlock saw that the others were now slowly shifting towards the door. Had training already ended? Had he been so enthralled in his own thoughts that he had missed the signal? It didn't matter anyway, and he was used to that happening.

Sherlock slowly got up, and sighed as he remembered he would now have to get back to his District's accommodations, and put up with Astrid Peth again. Had the train ride not been painful enough? He was sure she would not stop chattering once again, and as ignoring her hadn't worked, he would have to lock himself up in his room to escape. Better that way, he figured; more time to think.

Small step after small step, he got out of the training room and into the elevator, already wondering how he could kill Astrid in the arena, if the opportunity came. He smirked to himself. In a quarter of a minute, he'd thought of eight different ways.

These Games were already won.