Disclaimer: This stands for the entire fic. I am most certainly not Suzanne Collinns. I am even more certainly not BBC. Stop bugging me.

I wanted to do a Sherlock Games fic, and then I realized that in fact, given the chance, Sherlock and Moriarty would probably be allies, friends even- up to a point.

Can someone tell me how to get the line thingy that separates sections?

Enjoy, and please give feedback!

It was a sunny day. Generally the people of District Ten were the ones lining up the livestock for slaughter, but that day it was the Peacekeepers who had them penned in. Violet Hunter, the crimson-haired escort from the Capitol, sashayed up to the wooden platform constructed annually for the Reaping. She cleared her throat.

"Now," she started, "As I'm sure some of you have forgotten what happened, I will play the recap of the Quarter Quell drawing. Have fun!"

As she crossed to her chair on the other side of the stage, John Watson rolled his eyes from his place in the sixteen-year-old males section. As though anyone would forget the subject of the fourth Quarter Quell! Violet might have had a thing for replaying old footage, but for most of the citizens of District Ten, any reminder of the Hunger Games was to be avoided.

Violet grinned once at the unwilling audience, then turned to the giant screen and pressed a button on her remote. Instantly pictures flickered to life on the blank surface, and the silent watchers were presented with a view of the young president, Derra Snow. Derra smiled bewitchingly at the camera, then announced in a very self-important voice:

"Today marks the 100th anniversary of the revolt of the District against their benefactor, the Capitol. I have right here the box in which reside several hundred cards containing information for the Quarter Quells." She gestured melodramatically at a simple wooden chest sitting on the table in front of him. "Shall I eliminate the suspense and draw one now? Very well." Winking cheekily, she drew a card identical to every other one in the box. "To ensure the amusement of the citizens of the Capitol, one extra tribute of random gender shall be drawn for each of the Districts." She smiled cheerily. "But wait! It gets better! To show the generosity and forgiveness of the Capitol, four tributes will be able to win these Games." She wiggled her eyebrows, then announced: "Panem out."

John wouldn't have been surprised if some of the Career tributes had been upset about the last part—after all, where was the glory in being one of a group of victors?—but for the inhabitants of the less well-to-do Districts, it was good news. Seven more tributes would die, but three more would live. The chances of living were far greater than before.

"Wasn't that lovely?" squealed Violet, jerking John out of his reverie, "I'd just love to watch it again, but I'm afraid we haven't got time!"

Thank goodness for that, at least.

"Still, we get to watch the history movie! Oh, what fun!"

Violet Hunter may have actually enjoyed watching historical recreations of bloody massacres, but she was probably the only one in the entire District Ten who enjoyed doing so. Everyone else had seen the video dozens of times and was less than eager to watch it again, and John Watson was no exception. He effectively tuned out the screams of agony and the gun shots and thought instead about the soft bread his mother had bought as a special treat. He'd seen it in the pantry that morning, soft, delicious…

"Oh, that was amazing!" shrieked Violet. With a start John realized that the film was over. Next was the Reaping.

Just not Dora.

Just not Stella.

Just not Dora.

Just not—oh, goodness gracious, just not me!

Violet swept toward the large glass bowl containing the name of every single female in District Ten between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Dipping her hand in it and swirling her fingers around, she plucked a slip of paper, unfolded it, read it, and smiled at the audience.

"Carrie Lemming!"

There was a snort of laughter from one of District Ten's two living victors. Violet frowned at him, welcomed the trembling thirteen-year old being pushed onto the stage by Peacekeepers, then turned back to the audience.

"Now for the boys!" she said cheerfully.

This time, there was no swirling, no dramatic unfolding. Violet snatched the first paper that floated into her fingers, cleared her throat, and read:

"John Watson!"

If the shock had had a color, it would have been white. Cold, white shock, like a blanket, muffling everything. Slowly, John stepped out of his pen and headed toward the platform at a pace only marginally faster than that of a snail.

"Oh, come one, dear, don't be shy!" burbled Violet happily.

At the moment, there weren't words to describe what John felt. Shock, yes, but mainly he felt punctuation: !. (Of course, it's reasonable to assume that some of those exclamation points were the residue that followed Violet around wherever she went. She certainly had enough punctuation to spare.) Shy certainly had nothing to do with his sentiments. Still, he managed to accelerate his pace until the hypothetical snails were left in the dust. Climbing the steps up to the platform, he saw Dora break down and start crying on her best friend's shoulder. He saw his father's eyes fill with dread and loss. He watched his sister Harry, drunk as she was, give one heart-wrenching sob, then push her way out of the crowd only to be stopped by Peacekeepers.

He saw it all, but heard nothing. The blanket of shock and the wild exclamations points had blocked all sound. Silently, he took his place next to the shaking Carrie Lemming.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" the words, twittered by an overenthusiastic Violet Hunter, managed to pierce the fog of John's shock. He watched dumbly as she crossed to the last bowl, a huge affair containing the names of every single twelve- to eighteen-year-old in the District, and drew a tiny slip of paper from the very bottom. She unfolded it slowly, then grinned at the audience and announced:

"Molly Hooper!"

Molly. Poor, sweet, Molly. She wasn't exactly John's friend, she was more his friend's friend, but he hung out in the same group as her at school and he knew her to be a very kind person. Her timidity wouldn't stand a chance in the arena. At least, not by herself…

"Thank you, District Ten!" chirped Violet, "And may the odds be ever in your favor!"


The next half an hour was a blur for John. He was reasonably popular at school, so around ten of his friends came in, most of them trying valiantly not to cry, but a few sobbing openly. They weren't helpful. He too was crying by the end of his friends' visits and was in horrible shape for the last visitors: his family.

Harry was drunk. Of course she was; she was never sober, and since her younger brother had just been reaped she was in an even sorrier state than normal. Eventually she was removed by the peacekeepers after she broke an ornamental vase sitting on the table.

Dora was weeping hysterically, while Stella was white as a sheet, with no outward signs of what she was thinking other than the small trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth that showed she was biting her lip to stop herself from crying.

But it was John's parents that were the most painful to look at. His father looked as though he'd already lost his son—eyes so full of sadness they looked like twin bottomless pits of sorrow. His mother was clearly trying to keep her son's spirits up, but her false optimism made John feel worse even than Dora's sobbing.

"I might survive," he said finally, when his mother's comments got to be too much "After all, four of us'll live this time."

"Of course, dear," his mother said kindly.

But his father just shook his head sorrowfully.

"There'll be nine Careers this year. Nine. I'm sorry, John. You're as good as dead."

Dora wailed.

As the Peacekeepers pulled his family out the door, Stella darted back and pressed something into his hand.

"Wear this," she whispered.

The last thing he saw of his family as the Peacekeepers slammed the doors shut was his sister's mouthed message: I love you.

Tears running down his cheeks, he looked down at the thing in his hand. It was Stella's bracelet, a simple woven affair made of hemp.

A heart-shaped pendant swung forlornly from the braid.


The train was the most beautiful, most graceful method of transportation John had ever seen. It moved smoothly, with nary a bump even as it passed through mountainous District Seven, and it was fast, faster than any horse or cart John had ever been on.

Too bad it was the path leading to the slaughterhouse corral.

"Now, dears," Violet squealed as she strutted down the corridor, "Whatever you do, you must not disturb the driver. Carrie, Molly, you two share this room. John, this is your room right here. Wear anything you want from the wardrobe. All three of you, be in the dining room at seven for dinner. Oh, this is so exciting! See you!" She trotted off, leaving them to their own devices.

Molly looked at Carrie, then at John.

"See you at seven, then, John?" she said finally.

"I guess," he replied.

No one moved.

Well, this is awkward.

"Umm…" said Carrie.

"Yeah..." said John.

"Okay…" said Molly

Finally, Carrie turned and pushed open the door to her and Molly's room, stepped through it, and pulled Molly in after her, leaving John standing alone in the corridor. He sighed, shaking his head generically at everything that had happened that day.


"So, everyone!" Violet bubbled after dinner, "We get to watch the other Districts' Reapings! Won't this be fun?"

She led them to a small lounge with a couple of fluffy sofas, a giant armchair, and a huge TV screen. As the tributes made themselves comfortable, she blathered on about how it was all so thrilling and exciting and exhilarating and amusing. John made a mental note to use her as a thesaurusif he needed one. Finally, she glance at her watch, squealed, and twittered:

"It's almost nine! We'd better stop chatting!" She pushed a button on her remote and bright colors filled the room as the TV sprang into life.

It was indeed almost time, for the image was that of District 1. The televised Reapings had started.