leave me fic prompts

[tellytubby101]

seeing as I'm bored, I'm going to ask people to leave me characters and/or pairings in the comments and I'll give you little drabble pieces of my head canon (if you want an AU setting or something, just specify)

try to aim for a fandom I'm familiar with please, though go free reign on any pairing/character/AU that you want; length of response will

Comments

Hunger Games/Sherlock; John mentors Sherlock

[tellytubby101]

They tell John that he won. There is a scar on his shoulder that he asked to keep and a tremor in his hand that won't go away and a limp in his leg that doesn't make sense. They tell John that he won, but he doesn't believe them.

.

In the arena, he killed two others. Sitting on the throne, crown heavy on his head, he watches the replay and it almost feels like he killed them all.

President Snow smiles down at him and shakes his hand too tightly. It doesn't hurt, but the smell of blood almost makes his retch.

John's hand still shakes, just barely, and he clenches it tightly in a fist.

.

He still wakes up in a coat of cold sweat, the ghost of a scream on his lips. Part of him knows he should probably talk to someone about this. However, he also knows that no one would understand.

Outside, the district is getting a shower of gifts--food, so desperately needed--and John tries to tell himself that it was worth it.

His shoulder aches and his feet drag and every breath rattles in his lungs. He cannot hear the children outside laughing, but in his head he can remember the screaming.

.

Mary screamed before she died. She cried out his name. John didn't kill her, but he didn't save her, either.

There is only one survivor. He wonders why it had to be him.

.

Two years pass and despite his best efforts, the children die. He tried to save them, tried everything to keep them alive, but in the arena there are no second chances.

Harry drinks to escape, wanders around the district in a drunken stupor, and as he watches the Games, John wants to join her.

.

Then, came Sherlock Holmes. A young man from the merchant class, an unlucky draw. Eighteen years old, his final turn in the Reaping. John sees him, pale skin and lanky limbed, graceful like a cat with ice cold eyes, and John thinks, You are going to die.

In the train, Sherlock cuts John down with a few words, and if wit were a weapon, perhaps Sherlock would come out of the arena alive. John knows though, knows far too well, that wit alone does not keep you alive. Not when there are Career tributes prowling.

.

"My brother would have volunteered for me," Sherlock notes absently. He barely touches his food, though John is eating as much as he can. "Mycroft is too old though."

John doesn't say anything. He allows Sherlock to think this. There is not point to telling him that sometimes family meant nothing. If he recalls correctly, Mycroft works for the Capitol, and word on the street is that this year's arena will be suicidal at best.

(How many pieces would Sherlock's corpse be in?)