Fic: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor [Sherlock/The Hunger Games] Chapter 2
Title: An Unedited Account of a Forgotten Victor
Fandom: Sherlock/The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC. The Hunger Games was created by Suzanne Collins.
Overall Rating: R
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Elements of all three books.
Warnings: Character deaths all over the place. Angst.
Summary: John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute). May the odds be ever in their favour.
A/N: Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. My beta (the lovely jesse_kips) was away over Easter and then I was away for a week without internet access.
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Previous Chapters
Chapter 1
--
I should have appreciated the relative freedom of the train, because when we arrive in the Capitol we discover that our every moment will now be controlled by someone else. We have to be prepared for the opening ceremony, train ourselves in survival and battle, and be judged and scored all while still coming across well in our individual interviews. Any moment we aren’t doing any of that will be spent preparing for the next task and endlessly tweaking our strategies.
During all this we have to face the often bewildering lifestyles and technologies Capitol. We are expected to understand the pointless and complex gadgets and must try not to stare at the array of grotesquely modified people around us.
Being away from home is harder than I expected. Back home I understood the world around me and in my own small way I thrived in its hardship. Now I’m surrounded by luxury and comfort and yet I’m in more danger than ever.
It’s hard not to get annoyed at the people here too; if their looks are grotesque then their personalities are worse. It seems every person I meet is vain, shallow, and thinks of nothing but themselves. A fine example of this happens on my first day when I meet the woman responsible for my appearance.
I’m naked. My skin is pink from being scrubbed with sweet smelling salt and slick from being soothed with lotions. Only Harry’s earlier warning to keep calm at all costs is keeping me docile.
My stylist is gargantuan and wearing purple gown that trails several feet behind her. I wonder for a moment how it stays clean, but then I’ve not seen a single speck of dirt in the Capitol. Her hair is purple and her lipstick is pale lavender flecked with silver.
“I’m Conni, my darling. Conni Prince. And it’s my job to turn you from a bland boy, with a bland face, from a bland district, into someone worth noticing. I’ve styled seven victors, you know. That’s a record. I was the stylist for District 1 for seventeen years.” Her voice becomes brittle even though her smile remains fixed. “But now brighter and younger stylists must have their chance and I’ve been assigned to you.”
I wonder at my luck in getting yet another team member who seems to need support from me rather than the other way around. Will Haydon Melwark cry on my shoulder during the interviews?
To give her some credit, Conni has thrown herself into her duties. Her plan for the opening ceremony is to represent the weaving done in our district by having outfits in which shimmering threads thicken into cloth. This means my shoulders and chest will be bare and the threads will finally become opaque around my naval.
She explains all this with breathless excitement but I cannot miss the way her eyes flicker to my shoulder throughout her speech. She looks both nervous and repulsed by the scar there. I have already experienced this disgust - one of the women scrubbing me down actually shrieked at it - and yet her skin was dyed cerulean blue.
“Will my shoulder present a problem?” I ask.
My words may sound neutral but my tone is cold and unapologetic. It flusters Conni.
“Oh no! Of course not. It’s just… I designed the outfit before I knew of your deformity...”
She trails off. I think the subject is finished but before Conni leaves she can’t seem to stop herself from asking. Her tone is perky, as though she has forgotten my coolness on the subject; “How on earth did you get it? Was it some horrific factory accident? Because that sort of thing would make a great story.”
She reaches out and runs a finger along the line without even asking. The trail she leaves with her nail starts itching at once.
“It’s not important,” I say through gritted teeth.
--
Too soon we are in the stables readying ourselves for the opening ceremony. I am completely surrounded by people, horses, and excited voices. Stylists and mentors dart around but I’m not interested in them. I’m looking at the other tributes - this is the first time I’ve seen any of them in the flesh.
Sarah is standing next to me. She can barely walk because she’s wearing a dressmakers cage** as a skirt. Conni has made a new addition to our costumes; a giant silver needle now spears each of them. Mine is across my back and Sarah’s is piercing her headdress.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sew with a needle,” says Sarah as she is helped up onto our chariot. “Or use a dressmaking cage.”
I shrug. “They do hand stitching in District 1. Conni probably thinks that’s how all clothes are made. Besides… I don’t think anyone cares for accuracy.”
Once we are both in place I focus on looking at the other tributes.
I am relieved to see that my costume is nowhere near the silliest. The two from District 9 (Lestrade and Ella) are practically naked other than artfully arranged bark-like body paint. Anderson and Kitty are wearing plastic fish tanks moulded to their body shapes with live fish swimming around inside (offering the hopeful viewers tantalising hints of skin).
Everyone is looking around at each other under the guise of looking at the costumes. I am not alone in staring at Sherlock Holmes. If he wasn’t already a favourite to win his expression of fury would attract attention. He looks like he has been forcibly dragged here and is protesting loudly. It isn’t, I think, as though his costume is that bad. Jim Moriarty has been forced into what looks like a windmill (from a distance he looks like he’s wearing a daisy on his head) and he seems to be taking it well enough. In comparison the tight chainmail outfit Sherlock is wearing looks positively normal.
“Suppose he thought he was above this circus when he volunteered,” sneers Harry as she notices where I’m looking.
“Mm,” I grunt.
Conni prods us into a good position. “Everyone says he’s a nightmare to work with! But never mind him,” she says with pleasure. “Everyone is looking at you two.”
“They’re all looking at John’s scar,” snaps Harry. She scowls at Conni. ”I thought I told you to make sure it was covered.”
This begins a squabble between them over the practicalities of redesigning a costume in six hours.
“It can’t hurt to have it on display…” wheedles Conni.
“Anything that marks John out as a threat to the others does more harm than good!”
I look from one to the other, willing them both to shut up. It has no effect.
Thankfully Sarah provides a distraction. She leans across to whisper to me; “Sherlock is watching you.”
Instantly I turn to look. He’s stopped protesting and is climbing up onto his chariot. His back is to me.
--
The opening ceremony is nothing worth remembering. It’s just noise and people and I don’t feel myself again until I’m in bed and wearing the least ridiculous nightwear I can find.
Day two, tomorrow, is when training begins and is the only chance we’ll have to learn skills and weigh up the abilities of the other tributes. My mind isn’t on them though; I’m worrying over my own lack of skills.
I can’t use a weapon, I can’t light a fire, and what I know about hunting or gathering can be written on the head of a pin. I’m going to be a laughing stock.
“Can’t sleep?”
I’m jolted back to reality by Harry’s voice. She is standing in the doorway and her silk nightdress looks rumpled - she’s already been to bed.
I shake my head.
“Me neither. You should take a Sleeper.”
“You haven’t.”
She shrugs. “If I’m tired tomorrow it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not going to matter much for me either,” I say bitterly and slump backwards into the position I’d been in before she startled me.
She doesn’t reply. Instead she pads around the enormous bed and slides in next to me. She has to inch closer several times before we are close enough to feel each other’s body heat.
When I was very little and our family lived in two rooms in the tenements, Harry and I used to share a mattress together. I was too young for whispered conversations then, but until this moment I’ve never realised just how much I missed the sensation of sharing that space.
“Don’t get obsessed with how you appear in training. If you look like an idiot then that gives you an advantage. Just pay attention to the others. Trust me.”
Her voice is rough and warm from the pillow beside me. She reaches out hesitantly and rubs my shoulder through the blankets.
It’s this last phrase - trust me - that bothers me. I haven’t forgotten her initial reluctance to help me. I still don’t fully understand why she’s changed her attitude and perhaps a small part of me doesn’t believe she has.
“Why should I trust you? You said my death would be better.”
To my surprise her hand doesn’t pull away and she doesn’t leave. After a silence she starts speaking; “I never wanted you to die. I never wanted you to know what I’ve been through. But you are here now and all I can do is hope that you choose the least painful path.”
“And dying is better than being a victor?”
I can’t believe that.
“I think there are a lot of victors who realise that too late,” says Harry. “Whatever the Capitol says… I don’t think there’s a single victor who isn’t damaged beyond repair.”
“There’s Mrs. Hudson,” I say.
Harry snorts. “Oh John. You really believe that, don’t you?”
Her derision stings and I’m irrationally angry with her. She thinks that I’m naïve, but she hasn’t spent the last five years watching adults and children die with their organs hanging out of their flesh and limbs trapped in machinery. She’s given-up because of twenty-three people dying - I’m still standing after the deaths of hundreds.
And what pisses me off most is that it’s not even the death and destruction of those tributes that she’s damaged about. Just one. “You’re only bitter because of Clara.”
I regret it instantly. All my righteous anger disappears in the short pause after the words are out of me and is replaced by a mixture of shame and embarrassment. I know that I’m right but I regret saying it.
To my surprise she doesn’t shout, or even begin to cry. She just climbs out of bed in silence. She doesn’t even look upset; it’s as if she’s just gripped by a desire to be… away.
I think she will leave without saying anything, but she pauses at the door and speaks with more calmness and dignity than I expect;
“I’m not trying to sabotage you John. If you want to live I’ll do everything I can to help you. If you want me to be a mentor and not a sister, then that’s what I’ll do.”
--
I couldn’t bring myself to take a Sleeper even after the fight. The next morning the world is blurry and I don’t have the energy to do more than prod at breakfast with a fork.
Sarah doesn’t seem to be hungry either and I’m almost grateful for my exhaustion - I don’t have the energy to be nervous.
Harry forces me to drink some coffee while Mrs. Hudson forces Sarah to eat something. By the time Mike Stamford leads us down to the training area we both look passable.
We’re free to choose which subjects we want to train ourselves in. The careers all swarm on the weaponry stations, leaving the rest of us to choose something else or face their derision. In the end I decide to start with learning basic survival skills.
I’m joined by the District 3 tributes Soo Lin and Andy and the instructor sets about teaching us to build a fire. I miss part of the demonstration when Sherlock takes a place beside me. I’d assumed he’d be messing around with weaponry and his presence throws me off.
We are told to take it in turns to practice and we crouch down in pairs to pile up twigs and dried leaves. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to a tribute from another District and, for some reason, Sherlock has been the one I’ve been most interested in from the start.
“I’d have thought all the careers knew this stuff already,” I say.
I half expect that he’ll be too aloof to answer but he does.
“They teach us to fight for the supplies - not to survive without them. It’s a weakness that’s the careers often overlook and the other tributes rarely exploit.”
We both glance at the weaponry area. Irene is wielding a machete with a look of delight, Kitty is showing off her lightning fast reaction times in hand to hand combat, and Sebastian Wilkes smirks across at us as light glints off the dagger in his hand.
“Well once they’ve slaughtered everything in sight and eaten through all the supplies, it’s a comfort to know that they’re going to be completely fucked,” I snipe.
Sherlock laughs. It’s a sort of huff. It surprises me and I think it surprises him too.
I am about to ask him what he meant when he said he’d volunteered to annoy his brother, but I don’t get the chance. He stands.
“Must dash - I need to refresh myself on stitching a wound. I’m sure it will be too basic for you.”
I blink. “Why would you think that?”
“Because your medical knowledge is superior to everyone else in this room. Even the trainers won’t have had as much experience as you - they’ve never had to amputate a leg on an awake and screaming patient while crouching under blood covered machinery. And your scar tells me just how dedicated you are to your craft.”
He turns, leaving me to gape after him. “How do you know about any of that?” I call after him.
He doesn’t reply.
--
Later I do go over to the weapons area. I’m the first of the non-Careers to do so and I’m well aware that I’m being watched.
“Teach me how to fight,” I instruct the trainer. It’s a big ask and so I quickly clarify myself; “not with weapons. There’s not enough time. Just the basics of hand to hand combat.”
If Harry could see me she’d be furious. She specifically told me to avoid this area knowing it would expose my weaknesses to the other tributes. But it’s not like they don’t know that the tributes from the non-career districts haven’t been trained to fight, and a part of me wants to know whether I can injure with the steadiness that I normally use to heal.
After an initial bout which ends with me on the floor with the wind knocked out of me; the instructor sets about teaching me. I ignore the amusement I’m creating for the careers (Anthea and Sebastian Wilkes aren’t hiding their laughter) and focus instead on trying to work out the different between a feint and a genuine attack.
After two hours (by which time I’m so exhausted I can barely stand) I manage to land a hit on the instructor and he begrudgingly admits that my reaction times are ‘pretty fast’.
“Give it six months and you’d be lethal,” he adds.
I don’t have six months. I swear to myself that by the end of the three days I’ll beat him.
--
It’s the big media event before we go into the Arena tomorrow. The interviews. Yesterday the judges gave us all a score based on our abilities and this is the final chance we’ll have to win the audience over. We’ve all spent hours rehearsing answers and working on our strategies.
Am I only one who has suddenly forgotten everything?
Haydon Melwark* is even more bloated and scarred in person than he appears on screen. His rolls of fat are barely contained by his powder blue suit and every patch of visible skin - including his bald head - is scarred. Even with his extensive surgery he looks ancient.
He isn’t a natural interviewer. He was a soldier who fought for the Capitol during the rebellion. He’s a fierce Capitol supporter and seemed to take the rebellion as a personal affront. His brief in the early days was to make the tributes look bad. He’d quiz them on their family’s part in the rebellion and produce evidence against them, making it clear to everyone watching that the tributes were getting what they deserved.
Now he can’t really do that. The rebellion seems like ancient history to the tributes - our parents were little more than children during it. As a result any difficult questions he offers are designed to please the gossip hungry viewers and he asks them with contempt.
I’m waiting for my interview and wearing a particularly uncomfortable white mesh outfit. Conni is determined to show off my scar, if only to annoy Harry.
Irene is the first interviewee and it doesn’t take much for her to win the viewers over. She talks about her rope tying skills and flashes a muscled thigh at the audience. Harry might have been right about her using her looks rather than her brains.
Sebastian Wilkes talks a big game and sounds like he’s making conversation over a relaxed dinner. Annoying as he is, I remember the ease with which he used that dagger.
I don’t notice much of Anthea’s interview (other than her tight silver dress) because I’m waiting for Sherlock’s. He’s next and he looks more uncomfortable than I expect. I think Harry’s right about one thing - he isn’t enjoying the whole media circus that comes with this. No one does - but he looks like it’s eating him up inside.
“So tell us about your family, Sherlock.” It’s more of an order than a question.
“I don’t really have much of a family.”
“Well that’s not true. You mentioned your brother at the reaping. He’s the mayor of District 2.” Again, it’s an interrogation.
“Yes he is. He was against me volunteering, but he’d be a fool if he really thought that I wouldn’t. And he may be many things, but he’s not a fool.”
I can see that Sherlock’s not really winning the audience over. He speaks factually and with an arrogance that doesn’t do much to endear him. He hasn’t made eye contact with either Haydon or the camera and I get the sense that it’s more annoyance with the procedure than shyness. With another interviewer he might have been given the benefit of the doubt, but Haydon has no real interest in making him look good.
“Are there any alliances beginning to form within the group so far?”
“We aren’t supposed to discuss our game strategy. I’d be moronic if I did.”
“And you’re not a moron, right?” Haydon says it with a snide air.
Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the tone. “I’m not, no.”
“What do you think of your competitors then? Are you still sizing them up?”
For some reason I expect him to say that he thinks we’re all idiots. Instead he shrugs.
“I know everything I need to know. At least two are intentionally hiding their skills, and -” his expression softens a little, “ - I think one has a lot more potential than they’ve been given credit for.”
Does he mean me?
“Are you going to tell us who?”
For the first time during the interview, Sherlock actually engages with Haydon. He gives a dangerous smile. “Where would be the fun in that?”
--
On the third day of our training sessions we are individually judged. We are giving the use of a training room and the judges watch as we try to impress them.
The tributes who can throw knives throw knives, the tributes who can hunt set traps, but no one tells you what the tributes who can’t do much of anything do; an interpretive dance of how we’re going to die horribly?
Sarah is planning on climbing the rock wall - she turned out to be pretty agile. I have no idea what anyone else is doing, but from the look on Sherlock’s face as we wait to go in, he’s looking forward to it.
Harry has told me to mix some berries together into a healing paste to show off my medical skills. While this sounded alright when she said it, now that I’m here the idea of handing the judges a bowl of goo and telling them it’ll reduce swelling seems like the stupidest idea on the planet. My self-defence skills might have improved in the last few days but they’re still laughable to anyone who has been properly trained. I have no ideas at all.
But one by one people are going inside. Now there’s only Sarah left to go and if I don’t think of something soon I’m going to get the lowest score ever handed out.
--
I feel sick as I take my seat next to Haydon. I’ve never had so many people looking at me before, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place. All the people in our district couldn’t fill this amphitheatre.
I try and remember all of the advice but it’s slipping away from me.
Haydon’s look is contemplative. “So everyone at home is familiar with your sister - the former victor Harry Watson. Is she helping you prepare?”
I swallow. I don’t know what an ashen face looks like, but I certainly feel like I have one. “She’s my sister. She’s just bossing me around like normal.”
This would have got a weak laugh from someone like Sarah (who has just wowed the audience with her wit and charm) but the audience cackles appreciatively.
“And I hear you’ve been taking an interest in your fellow tribute?”
Sherlock?
Thank every deity in the universe that I don’t actually say that out loud. My brain catches up just in time.
“Sarah and I were friends back home. It’s difficult. It’s painful.”
The audience ‘awws’.
“Everyone has been very curious about that scar of yours. What’s the story?”
I wince. I hate this story. It makes me look stupid and it brings back memories of my parents yelling themselves hoarse at me, my mother sobbing…
It also brings back the memories of my judging yesterday and Harry yelling herself hoarse at me.
--
Inside the training room I find the judges in high spirits but with a tinge of boredom that makes me feel sorry for the tributes yet to come.
I wait for them to look at me with the terrifying knowledge that when I have their full attention I’ll have nothing to fill it with. I cast one final, desperate eye around at the items laid out for us. Weapons (which I can’t use), materials for traps (which I can only set after three or four attempts), berries, leaves, some basic supplies, and various targets.
What can I do? What’s the one thing I’m any good at?
And then the answer comes to me.
I walk slowly over to the table of supplies and take a few items and then go the weapons, eventually deciding on a short dagger. With these items I return to the mat, sit down, and lay them out in a careful line.
I’m not scared. This surprises me. More than anything I’m grimly satisfied that no one else will have done this before.
I peel off my shirt and chuck it over my shoulder, then look down at my skin to choose a spot. My stomach. Above the belly-button.
I take the dagger and place the tip about two inches above and to the left of the belly button. Then in one slice I drag the dagger across my belly, leaving a cut about six inches wide.
It’s a deep flesh wound, but not enough to do serious damage. At home it would be a problem but here in the Capitol is can be fixed in minutes by a machine. Blood immediately begins to seep from it and I’m glad my trousers are black.
I pick up the needle and thread from the supplies and carefully thread the cotton through it. It’s funny, I think, Conni was right. A needle represents me better than I thought.
Ah, and there’s the pain. Oh it huur - AH! - huurts. And it’s only going to get worse. I know from experience.
I look up at the judges; they’re certainly paying attention now. Several mouths are open and Mr. Reichenbach, this year’s gamemaker, looks torn between calling for help and watching in fascination.
I take the needle and begin the painful process of stitching myself back up. The quicker it’s done the less blood I’ll lose, so I don’t hang around.
When I’m finished I mop the blood off of my skin, bind myself up with the bandage from the supplies, and stand. My head is swimming and putting one foot in front of the other makes everything from my neck down burn with pain. But I’m going to leave that room under my own power if I have to do so on my hands and knees.
“Gentleman,” I croak out, “thank you for your attention. I apologise for the mess.”
I turn and stagger to the door.
--
I look down at my scar though that’s not much help since I can only see the edge of it from this angle. The part I can see is still dark pink, though it has faded a little over time. It stretches from my underarm across my pectoral and ends in the centre of my chest.
“I got it when I was eleven. I… was learning everything I could from my parents who are good at patching up injured workers. But I had nothing to practice on and I needed to know if I was good enough. So I… I got a knife and I sliced my shoulder open to see if I could repair it.”
“Why?” demands Haydon. He clearly thinks it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. The audience is silent.
“Because if I couldn’t trust myself to save my own life… how could I let anyone else trust me? And it was worth it. It hurt a lot and my parents were angry but I didn’t let anyone help me. For two months I did everything to care for it until it healed.”
“You risked your life to prove you were good at healing people?”
I can tell my story has impressed the audience but Haydon still sounds like he doesn’t understand why.
Jim Moriarty’s words suddenly come back to me. What else is there to do?
--
“Are you INSANE?” Harry is shrieking. “ONCE WASN’T ENOUGH?!”
We’re in our rooms after the judging. Our scores will shortly be announced.
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “They sent me to medical afterwards and they used one of those machines on me. It was completely healed in ten minutes. Why can’t we have one of those in our district?”
“Oh even District 1 couldn’t afford one of those,” says Mrs. Hudson regretfully.
“They’d have been within their rights to deny you treatment,” Harry grinds out. “Tributes aren’t allowed treatment for any purposeful self-harm before the games.”
“I did it to show them my skills. It was that or make them a bowl of herbs.”
“A fat lot of good that’d be if you went into the arena practically disembowelled.”
We are shushed by Sarah. The scores are about to be announced. Once we have our scores all that’s left is the interview and then the Arena.
In 48 hours I could be dead.
I focus on the commentator who spends several minutes building up the excitement before finally parting with the scores. One is the lowest and twelve is the highest. I’ve never seen anything higher than an eleven.
Irene is first and gets a nine, which is average for a career. Sebastian Wilkes gets a nine too.
“Told you Wilkes was all bluff,” mutters Harry. She has flopped down onto the couch to seethe in comfort.
Anthea gets a ten, which surprises me (though I haven’t paid her much attention) and I find myself excited for Sherlock’s score. I wonder what he did for the judges.
“District 2, Sherlock Holmes. Ten.”
A good career score then. I admit I’d hoped it would be even higher, though why confuses me. It’s not like I’d seen him do anything amazing other than know a few facts about my life, but there’s something about him that interests me.
Which, I tell myself, is ludicrous. He’s my enemy, after all. I should be sorry he got a high score at all.
There are some fairly low scores next, and then Kitty with another ten, and Anderson with an eight. I tune out the next lot of low scores until we get to Greg, who is the final tribute before Sarah and I have our scores read out.
Greg gets an eight.
Sarah’s next. She hugs a cushion nervously.
Eight.
We congratulate her. She looks hugely relieved. I start to feel sick because I’m next.
I wait. The pause for mine seems longer than the others even though I know it can’t be.
“District 8. John Watson…” the commentator announces.
“Ten.”
I’ve just been given a score higher than most of the careers.
--
Chapter 3
--
Fic Notes:
*Haydon Melwark was the tribute interviewee from the very first games until he was replaced by Ceasar Flickerman for the 66th Hunger Games. Haydon had fought for the Capitol during the rebellion and was a fierce supporter of punishing the districts. He was known for ripping apart any ‘gameplan’ the tributes tried to use in the interview and taking delight in exposing their true emotions.
** Link to dressmaking cage.
A/N: Thanks for the wonderful reviews last time. I'd appreciate hearing what you think of this chapter.
Fandom: Sherlock/The Hunger Games
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by the BBC. The Hunger Games was created by Suzanne Collins.
Overall Rating: R
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Elements of all three books.
Warnings: Character deaths all over the place. Angst.
Summary: John Watson (District 8’s Tribute) meets Sherlock Holmes (District 2’s Career Tribute). May the odds be ever in their favour.
A/N: Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter. My beta (the lovely jesse_kips) was away over Easter and then I was away for a week without internet access.
--
Previous Chapters
Chapter 1
--
I should have appreciated the relative freedom of the train, because when we arrive in the Capitol we discover that our every moment will now be controlled by someone else. We have to be prepared for the opening ceremony, train ourselves in survival and battle, and be judged and scored all while still coming across well in our individual interviews. Any moment we aren’t doing any of that will be spent preparing for the next task and endlessly tweaking our strategies.
During all this we have to face the often bewildering lifestyles and technologies Capitol. We are expected to understand the pointless and complex gadgets and must try not to stare at the array of grotesquely modified people around us.
Being away from home is harder than I expected. Back home I understood the world around me and in my own small way I thrived in its hardship. Now I’m surrounded by luxury and comfort and yet I’m in more danger than ever.
It’s hard not to get annoyed at the people here too; if their looks are grotesque then their personalities are worse. It seems every person I meet is vain, shallow, and thinks of nothing but themselves. A fine example of this happens on my first day when I meet the woman responsible for my appearance.
I’m naked. My skin is pink from being scrubbed with sweet smelling salt and slick from being soothed with lotions. Only Harry’s earlier warning to keep calm at all costs is keeping me docile.
My stylist is gargantuan and wearing purple gown that trails several feet behind her. I wonder for a moment how it stays clean, but then I’ve not seen a single speck of dirt in the Capitol. Her hair is purple and her lipstick is pale lavender flecked with silver.
“I’m Conni, my darling. Conni Prince. And it’s my job to turn you from a bland boy, with a bland face, from a bland district, into someone worth noticing. I’ve styled seven victors, you know. That’s a record. I was the stylist for District 1 for seventeen years.” Her voice becomes brittle even though her smile remains fixed. “But now brighter and younger stylists must have their chance and I’ve been assigned to you.”
I wonder at my luck in getting yet another team member who seems to need support from me rather than the other way around. Will Haydon Melwark cry on my shoulder during the interviews?
To give her some credit, Conni has thrown herself into her duties. Her plan for the opening ceremony is to represent the weaving done in our district by having outfits in which shimmering threads thicken into cloth. This means my shoulders and chest will be bare and the threads will finally become opaque around my naval.
She explains all this with breathless excitement but I cannot miss the way her eyes flicker to my shoulder throughout her speech. She looks both nervous and repulsed by the scar there. I have already experienced this disgust - one of the women scrubbing me down actually shrieked at it - and yet her skin was dyed cerulean blue.
“Will my shoulder present a problem?” I ask.
My words may sound neutral but my tone is cold and unapologetic. It flusters Conni.
“Oh no! Of course not. It’s just… I designed the outfit before I knew of your deformity...”
She trails off. I think the subject is finished but before Conni leaves she can’t seem to stop herself from asking. Her tone is perky, as though she has forgotten my coolness on the subject; “How on earth did you get it? Was it some horrific factory accident? Because that sort of thing would make a great story.”
She reaches out and runs a finger along the line without even asking. The trail she leaves with her nail starts itching at once.
“It’s not important,” I say through gritted teeth.
--
Too soon we are in the stables readying ourselves for the opening ceremony. I am completely surrounded by people, horses, and excited voices. Stylists and mentors dart around but I’m not interested in them. I’m looking at the other tributes - this is the first time I’ve seen any of them in the flesh.
Sarah is standing next to me. She can barely walk because she’s wearing a dressmakers cage** as a skirt. Conni has made a new addition to our costumes; a giant silver needle now spears each of them. Mine is across my back and Sarah’s is piercing her headdress.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sew with a needle,” says Sarah as she is helped up onto our chariot. “Or use a dressmaking cage.”
I shrug. “They do hand stitching in District 1. Conni probably thinks that’s how all clothes are made. Besides… I don’t think anyone cares for accuracy.”
Once we are both in place I focus on looking at the other tributes.
I am relieved to see that my costume is nowhere near the silliest. The two from District 9 (Lestrade and Ella) are practically naked other than artfully arranged bark-like body paint. Anderson and Kitty are wearing plastic fish tanks moulded to their body shapes with live fish swimming around inside (offering the hopeful viewers tantalising hints of skin).
Everyone is looking around at each other under the guise of looking at the costumes. I am not alone in staring at Sherlock Holmes. If he wasn’t already a favourite to win his expression of fury would attract attention. He looks like he has been forcibly dragged here and is protesting loudly. It isn’t, I think, as though his costume is that bad. Jim Moriarty has been forced into what looks like a windmill (from a distance he looks like he’s wearing a daisy on his head) and he seems to be taking it well enough. In comparison the tight chainmail outfit Sherlock is wearing looks positively normal.
“Suppose he thought he was above this circus when he volunteered,” sneers Harry as she notices where I’m looking.
“Mm,” I grunt.
Conni prods us into a good position. “Everyone says he’s a nightmare to work with! But never mind him,” she says with pleasure. “Everyone is looking at you two.”
“They’re all looking at John’s scar,” snaps Harry. She scowls at Conni. ”I thought I told you to make sure it was covered.”
This begins a squabble between them over the practicalities of redesigning a costume in six hours.
“It can’t hurt to have it on display…” wheedles Conni.
“Anything that marks John out as a threat to the others does more harm than good!”
I look from one to the other, willing them both to shut up. It has no effect.
Thankfully Sarah provides a distraction. She leans across to whisper to me; “Sherlock is watching you.”
Instantly I turn to look. He’s stopped protesting and is climbing up onto his chariot. His back is to me.
--
The opening ceremony is nothing worth remembering. It’s just noise and people and I don’t feel myself again until I’m in bed and wearing the least ridiculous nightwear I can find.
Day two, tomorrow, is when training begins and is the only chance we’ll have to learn skills and weigh up the abilities of the other tributes. My mind isn’t on them though; I’m worrying over my own lack of skills.
I can’t use a weapon, I can’t light a fire, and what I know about hunting or gathering can be written on the head of a pin. I’m going to be a laughing stock.
“Can’t sleep?”
I’m jolted back to reality by Harry’s voice. She is standing in the doorway and her silk nightdress looks rumpled - she’s already been to bed.
I shake my head.
“Me neither. You should take a Sleeper.”
“You haven’t.”
She shrugs. “If I’m tired tomorrow it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s not going to matter much for me either,” I say bitterly and slump backwards into the position I’d been in before she startled me.
She doesn’t reply. Instead she pads around the enormous bed and slides in next to me. She has to inch closer several times before we are close enough to feel each other’s body heat.
When I was very little and our family lived in two rooms in the tenements, Harry and I used to share a mattress together. I was too young for whispered conversations then, but until this moment I’ve never realised just how much I missed the sensation of sharing that space.
“Don’t get obsessed with how you appear in training. If you look like an idiot then that gives you an advantage. Just pay attention to the others. Trust me.”
Her voice is rough and warm from the pillow beside me. She reaches out hesitantly and rubs my shoulder through the blankets.
It’s this last phrase - trust me - that bothers me. I haven’t forgotten her initial reluctance to help me. I still don’t fully understand why she’s changed her attitude and perhaps a small part of me doesn’t believe she has.
“Why should I trust you? You said my death would be better.”
To my surprise her hand doesn’t pull away and she doesn’t leave. After a silence she starts speaking; “I never wanted you to die. I never wanted you to know what I’ve been through. But you are here now and all I can do is hope that you choose the least painful path.”
“And dying is better than being a victor?”
I can’t believe that.
“I think there are a lot of victors who realise that too late,” says Harry. “Whatever the Capitol says… I don’t think there’s a single victor who isn’t damaged beyond repair.”
“There’s Mrs. Hudson,” I say.
Harry snorts. “Oh John. You really believe that, don’t you?”
Her derision stings and I’m irrationally angry with her. She thinks that I’m naïve, but she hasn’t spent the last five years watching adults and children die with their organs hanging out of their flesh and limbs trapped in machinery. She’s given-up because of twenty-three people dying - I’m still standing after the deaths of hundreds.
And what pisses me off most is that it’s not even the death and destruction of those tributes that she’s damaged about. Just one. “You’re only bitter because of Clara.”
I regret it instantly. All my righteous anger disappears in the short pause after the words are out of me and is replaced by a mixture of shame and embarrassment. I know that I’m right but I regret saying it.
To my surprise she doesn’t shout, or even begin to cry. She just climbs out of bed in silence. She doesn’t even look upset; it’s as if she’s just gripped by a desire to be… away.
I think she will leave without saying anything, but she pauses at the door and speaks with more calmness and dignity than I expect;
“I’m not trying to sabotage you John. If you want to live I’ll do everything I can to help you. If you want me to be a mentor and not a sister, then that’s what I’ll do.”
--
I couldn’t bring myself to take a Sleeper even after the fight. The next morning the world is blurry and I don’t have the energy to do more than prod at breakfast with a fork.
Sarah doesn’t seem to be hungry either and I’m almost grateful for my exhaustion - I don’t have the energy to be nervous.
Harry forces me to drink some coffee while Mrs. Hudson forces Sarah to eat something. By the time Mike Stamford leads us down to the training area we both look passable.
We’re free to choose which subjects we want to train ourselves in. The careers all swarm on the weaponry stations, leaving the rest of us to choose something else or face their derision. In the end I decide to start with learning basic survival skills.
I’m joined by the District 3 tributes Soo Lin and Andy and the instructor sets about teaching us to build a fire. I miss part of the demonstration when Sherlock takes a place beside me. I’d assumed he’d be messing around with weaponry and his presence throws me off.
We are told to take it in turns to practice and we crouch down in pairs to pile up twigs and dried leaves. It’s the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to a tribute from another District and, for some reason, Sherlock has been the one I’ve been most interested in from the start.
“I’d have thought all the careers knew this stuff already,” I say.
I half expect that he’ll be too aloof to answer but he does.
“They teach us to fight for the supplies - not to survive without them. It’s a weakness that’s the careers often overlook and the other tributes rarely exploit.”
We both glance at the weaponry area. Irene is wielding a machete with a look of delight, Kitty is showing off her lightning fast reaction times in hand to hand combat, and Sebastian Wilkes smirks across at us as light glints off the dagger in his hand.
“Well once they’ve slaughtered everything in sight and eaten through all the supplies, it’s a comfort to know that they’re going to be completely fucked,” I snipe.
Sherlock laughs. It’s a sort of huff. It surprises me and I think it surprises him too.
I am about to ask him what he meant when he said he’d volunteered to annoy his brother, but I don’t get the chance. He stands.
“Must dash - I need to refresh myself on stitching a wound. I’m sure it will be too basic for you.”
I blink. “Why would you think that?”
“Because your medical knowledge is superior to everyone else in this room. Even the trainers won’t have had as much experience as you - they’ve never had to amputate a leg on an awake and screaming patient while crouching under blood covered machinery. And your scar tells me just how dedicated you are to your craft.”
He turns, leaving me to gape after him. “How do you know about any of that?” I call after him.
He doesn’t reply.
--
Later I do go over to the weapons area. I’m the first of the non-Careers to do so and I’m well aware that I’m being watched.
“Teach me how to fight,” I instruct the trainer. It’s a big ask and so I quickly clarify myself; “not with weapons. There’s not enough time. Just the basics of hand to hand combat.”
If Harry could see me she’d be furious. She specifically told me to avoid this area knowing it would expose my weaknesses to the other tributes. But it’s not like they don’t know that the tributes from the non-career districts haven’t been trained to fight, and a part of me wants to know whether I can injure with the steadiness that I normally use to heal.
After an initial bout which ends with me on the floor with the wind knocked out of me; the instructor sets about teaching me. I ignore the amusement I’m creating for the careers (Anthea and Sebastian Wilkes aren’t hiding their laughter) and focus instead on trying to work out the different between a feint and a genuine attack.
After two hours (by which time I’m so exhausted I can barely stand) I manage to land a hit on the instructor and he begrudgingly admits that my reaction times are ‘pretty fast’.
“Give it six months and you’d be lethal,” he adds.
I don’t have six months. I swear to myself that by the end of the three days I’ll beat him.
--
It’s the big media event before we go into the Arena tomorrow. The interviews. Yesterday the judges gave us all a score based on our abilities and this is the final chance we’ll have to win the audience over. We’ve all spent hours rehearsing answers and working on our strategies.
Am I only one who has suddenly forgotten everything?
Haydon Melwark* is even more bloated and scarred in person than he appears on screen. His rolls of fat are barely contained by his powder blue suit and every patch of visible skin - including his bald head - is scarred. Even with his extensive surgery he looks ancient.
He isn’t a natural interviewer. He was a soldier who fought for the Capitol during the rebellion. He’s a fierce Capitol supporter and seemed to take the rebellion as a personal affront. His brief in the early days was to make the tributes look bad. He’d quiz them on their family’s part in the rebellion and produce evidence against them, making it clear to everyone watching that the tributes were getting what they deserved.
Now he can’t really do that. The rebellion seems like ancient history to the tributes - our parents were little more than children during it. As a result any difficult questions he offers are designed to please the gossip hungry viewers and he asks them with contempt.
I’m waiting for my interview and wearing a particularly uncomfortable white mesh outfit. Conni is determined to show off my scar, if only to annoy Harry.
Irene is the first interviewee and it doesn’t take much for her to win the viewers over. She talks about her rope tying skills and flashes a muscled thigh at the audience. Harry might have been right about her using her looks rather than her brains.
Sebastian Wilkes talks a big game and sounds like he’s making conversation over a relaxed dinner. Annoying as he is, I remember the ease with which he used that dagger.
I don’t notice much of Anthea’s interview (other than her tight silver dress) because I’m waiting for Sherlock’s. He’s next and he looks more uncomfortable than I expect. I think Harry’s right about one thing - he isn’t enjoying the whole media circus that comes with this. No one does - but he looks like it’s eating him up inside.
“So tell us about your family, Sherlock.” It’s more of an order than a question.
“I don’t really have much of a family.”
“Well that’s not true. You mentioned your brother at the reaping. He’s the mayor of District 2.” Again, it’s an interrogation.
“Yes he is. He was against me volunteering, but he’d be a fool if he really thought that I wouldn’t. And he may be many things, but he’s not a fool.”
I can see that Sherlock’s not really winning the audience over. He speaks factually and with an arrogance that doesn’t do much to endear him. He hasn’t made eye contact with either Haydon or the camera and I get the sense that it’s more annoyance with the procedure than shyness. With another interviewer he might have been given the benefit of the doubt, but Haydon has no real interest in making him look good.
“Are there any alliances beginning to form within the group so far?”
“We aren’t supposed to discuss our game strategy. I’d be moronic if I did.”
“And you’re not a moron, right?” Haydon says it with a snide air.
Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice the tone. “I’m not, no.”
“What do you think of your competitors then? Are you still sizing them up?”
For some reason I expect him to say that he thinks we’re all idiots. Instead he shrugs.
“I know everything I need to know. At least two are intentionally hiding their skills, and -” his expression softens a little, “ - I think one has a lot more potential than they’ve been given credit for.”
Does he mean me?
“Are you going to tell us who?”
For the first time during the interview, Sherlock actually engages with Haydon. He gives a dangerous smile. “Where would be the fun in that?”
--
On the third day of our training sessions we are individually judged. We are giving the use of a training room and the judges watch as we try to impress them.
The tributes who can throw knives throw knives, the tributes who can hunt set traps, but no one tells you what the tributes who can’t do much of anything do; an interpretive dance of how we’re going to die horribly?
Sarah is planning on climbing the rock wall - she turned out to be pretty agile. I have no idea what anyone else is doing, but from the look on Sherlock’s face as we wait to go in, he’s looking forward to it.
Harry has told me to mix some berries together into a healing paste to show off my medical skills. While this sounded alright when she said it, now that I’m here the idea of handing the judges a bowl of goo and telling them it’ll reduce swelling seems like the stupidest idea on the planet. My self-defence skills might have improved in the last few days but they’re still laughable to anyone who has been properly trained. I have no ideas at all.
But one by one people are going inside. Now there’s only Sarah left to go and if I don’t think of something soon I’m going to get the lowest score ever handed out.
--
I feel sick as I take my seat next to Haydon. I’ve never had so many people looking at me before, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people in one place. All the people in our district couldn’t fill this amphitheatre.
I try and remember all of the advice but it’s slipping away from me.
Haydon’s look is contemplative. “So everyone at home is familiar with your sister - the former victor Harry Watson. Is she helping you prepare?”
I swallow. I don’t know what an ashen face looks like, but I certainly feel like I have one. “She’s my sister. She’s just bossing me around like normal.”
This would have got a weak laugh from someone like Sarah (who has just wowed the audience with her wit and charm) but the audience cackles appreciatively.
“And I hear you’ve been taking an interest in your fellow tribute?”
Sherlock?
Thank every deity in the universe that I don’t actually say that out loud. My brain catches up just in time.
“Sarah and I were friends back home. It’s difficult. It’s painful.”
The audience ‘awws’.
“Everyone has been very curious about that scar of yours. What’s the story?”
I wince. I hate this story. It makes me look stupid and it brings back memories of my parents yelling themselves hoarse at me, my mother sobbing…
It also brings back the memories of my judging yesterday and Harry yelling herself hoarse at me.
--
Inside the training room I find the judges in high spirits but with a tinge of boredom that makes me feel sorry for the tributes yet to come.
I wait for them to look at me with the terrifying knowledge that when I have their full attention I’ll have nothing to fill it with. I cast one final, desperate eye around at the items laid out for us. Weapons (which I can’t use), materials for traps (which I can only set after three or four attempts), berries, leaves, some basic supplies, and various targets.
What can I do? What’s the one thing I’m any good at?
And then the answer comes to me.
I walk slowly over to the table of supplies and take a few items and then go the weapons, eventually deciding on a short dagger. With these items I return to the mat, sit down, and lay them out in a careful line.
I’m not scared. This surprises me. More than anything I’m grimly satisfied that no one else will have done this before.
I peel off my shirt and chuck it over my shoulder, then look down at my skin to choose a spot. My stomach. Above the belly-button.
I take the dagger and place the tip about two inches above and to the left of the belly button. Then in one slice I drag the dagger across my belly, leaving a cut about six inches wide.
It’s a deep flesh wound, but not enough to do serious damage. At home it would be a problem but here in the Capitol is can be fixed in minutes by a machine. Blood immediately begins to seep from it and I’m glad my trousers are black.
I pick up the needle and thread from the supplies and carefully thread the cotton through it. It’s funny, I think, Conni was right. A needle represents me better than I thought.
Ah, and there’s the pain. Oh it huur - AH! - huurts. And it’s only going to get worse. I know from experience.
I look up at the judges; they’re certainly paying attention now. Several mouths are open and Mr. Reichenbach, this year’s gamemaker, looks torn between calling for help and watching in fascination.
I take the needle and begin the painful process of stitching myself back up. The quicker it’s done the less blood I’ll lose, so I don’t hang around.
When I’m finished I mop the blood off of my skin, bind myself up with the bandage from the supplies, and stand. My head is swimming and putting one foot in front of the other makes everything from my neck down burn with pain. But I’m going to leave that room under my own power if I have to do so on my hands and knees.
“Gentleman,” I croak out, “thank you for your attention. I apologise for the mess.”
I turn and stagger to the door.
--
I look down at my scar though that’s not much help since I can only see the edge of it from this angle. The part I can see is still dark pink, though it has faded a little over time. It stretches from my underarm across my pectoral and ends in the centre of my chest.
“I got it when I was eleven. I… was learning everything I could from my parents who are good at patching up injured workers. But I had nothing to practice on and I needed to know if I was good enough. So I… I got a knife and I sliced my shoulder open to see if I could repair it.”
“Why?” demands Haydon. He clearly thinks it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. The audience is silent.
“Because if I couldn’t trust myself to save my own life… how could I let anyone else trust me? And it was worth it. It hurt a lot and my parents were angry but I didn’t let anyone help me. For two months I did everything to care for it until it healed.”
“You risked your life to prove you were good at healing people?”
I can tell my story has impressed the audience but Haydon still sounds like he doesn’t understand why.
Jim Moriarty’s words suddenly come back to me. What else is there to do?
--
“Are you INSANE?” Harry is shrieking. “ONCE WASN’T ENOUGH?!”
We’re in our rooms after the judging. Our scores will shortly be announced.
“It’s fine,” I sigh. “They sent me to medical afterwards and they used one of those machines on me. It was completely healed in ten minutes. Why can’t we have one of those in our district?”
“Oh even District 1 couldn’t afford one of those,” says Mrs. Hudson regretfully.
“They’d have been within their rights to deny you treatment,” Harry grinds out. “Tributes aren’t allowed treatment for any purposeful self-harm before the games.”
“I did it to show them my skills. It was that or make them a bowl of herbs.”
“A fat lot of good that’d be if you went into the arena practically disembowelled.”
We are shushed by Sarah. The scores are about to be announced. Once we have our scores all that’s left is the interview and then the Arena.
In 48 hours I could be dead.
I focus on the commentator who spends several minutes building up the excitement before finally parting with the scores. One is the lowest and twelve is the highest. I’ve never seen anything higher than an eleven.
Irene is first and gets a nine, which is average for a career. Sebastian Wilkes gets a nine too.
“Told you Wilkes was all bluff,” mutters Harry. She has flopped down onto the couch to seethe in comfort.
Anthea gets a ten, which surprises me (though I haven’t paid her much attention) and I find myself excited for Sherlock’s score. I wonder what he did for the judges.
“District 2, Sherlock Holmes. Ten.”
A good career score then. I admit I’d hoped it would be even higher, though why confuses me. It’s not like I’d seen him do anything amazing other than know a few facts about my life, but there’s something about him that interests me.
Which, I tell myself, is ludicrous. He’s my enemy, after all. I should be sorry he got a high score at all.
There are some fairly low scores next, and then Kitty with another ten, and Anderson with an eight. I tune out the next lot of low scores until we get to Greg, who is the final tribute before Sarah and I have our scores read out.
Greg gets an eight.
Sarah’s next. She hugs a cushion nervously.
Eight.
We congratulate her. She looks hugely relieved. I start to feel sick because I’m next.
I wait. The pause for mine seems longer than the others even though I know it can’t be.
“District 8. John Watson…” the commentator announces.
“Ten.”
I’ve just been given a score higher than most of the careers.
--
Chapter 3
--
Fic Notes:
*Haydon Melwark was the tribute interviewee from the very first games until he was replaced by Ceasar Flickerman for the 66th Hunger Games. Haydon had fought for the Capitol during the rebellion and was a fierce supporter of punishing the districts. He was known for ripping apart any ‘gameplan’ the tributes tried to use in the interview and taking delight in exposing their true emotions.
** Link to dressmaking cage.
A/N: Thanks for the wonderful reviews last time. I'd appreciate hearing what you think of this chapter.