~~A/N: New fanfic here! Basically, Rose and Ten (and Jack, etc.) get drawn to participate in the annual Hunger Games, where it just so happens that so are Sherlock, John, Castiel, Gabriel, Sam, Dean, Moriarty, Lucifer, etc. So, yeah. Completely random, but I guess we’ll see where it goes. And it’s the 50th quarter quell, so twice the number of tributes are chosen from each district. This is sort of SuperWhoLock with a little bit of Attack on Titan, Sword Art Online, and stuff (only as the other tributes, they aren’t a main part of the story). Enjoy! (Also, I’m going to try to avoid promising update times- they tend to change no matter what.)
“Sherlock, stop that. You have to get ready.” Mycroft glared down at his younger brother, who was sprawled out on the floor over a pile of wires.
Sherlock rolled over, groaning. “Shut up, Mycroft. I’m dressed, what else do you expect?”
“Show a little family pride, hmm?” Mycroft hummed, already walking out of the room.
Sherlock turned back to the toy helicopter he was rewiring. It was the only way to get his mind of off today. Today was the Reaping. What worried him wasn’t the odds of getting picked to be thrown into an arena full of bloodthirsty and helpless teenagers. The worst of it was the announcement that had come the day before- since it was the 50th Quarter Quell, there would be two boys and two girls from each district sent into the arena. Twice the number of deaths. Twice the number of grieving families.
In these times of need, his brother’s words of wisdom often came to mind. Caring isn’t an advantage, Sherlock, he’d say. Sherlock would then nod and leave the room. Of course, Mycroft was right. Caring was a disadvantage, one that often led people to do stupid things and end their lives. But that didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t care. He tried not to, he really did, but he was only human.
Sherlock stood up, leaving the helicopter on the floor. His mother wasn’t home yet, but it wouldn’t be long. Mycroft was right- he needed to get dressed; he was still in his pajamas. And although Sherlock didn’t particularly care about that, everyone else sure seemed to. Especially since his father was the Mayor.
Sherlock walked back into his room, trying to be quiet so that Mycroft wouldn’t hear him and think he was right to tell Sherlock to get dressed. Which, of course he was. As per usual.
Sherlock got dressed quickly, not really paying attention to what he was putting on. Before he left his room, he paused in front of a full length mirror hanging on his door. His hair was still a messy bedhead of black curls sticking up in different places, but he was wearing a black suit. That’s all they were going to get from him.
Every year it was the same- rows and rows of people, standing below a stage with two empty mics. Except this year, there were four.
Sherlock stood in line, Mycroft in front of him. The white uniform of a peacekeeper pricked their fingers in turn, then let them join their respective groups of children. The whole city square had an overhanging tension. Four kids in this crowd were going to be killed. It could be anyone- the person standing next to or behind you. It could be you. And there was no way to know until it happened.
The video that played every year started after a speech their dad gave- something or other about the war and how it was the Districts fault. How, to remember their sacrifice, each district must send two tributes into the Hunger Games for a fight to the death against twenty two other tributes- except for the new rules for the 50th Hunger Games, the second quarter quell. Sherlock was relieved that he hadn’t been born in time for the first quarter quell- that year, the districts had to vote on who would be sent into the arena. And Sherlock wasn’t one of the most well liked people in District 3, but everyone knew who he was.
Sherlock looked around. Some people seemed to exude confidence- either they knew they weren’t going to get picked, or they were confident that if they did they would be this year’s victors. Everyone else seemed anxious, shifting their weight from foot to foot, eyes flitting to and from everyone near them.
Sherlock turned back to the stage. A short lady with bright blue hair piled up on the top of her head, smiled an obviously fake smile down at the kids and anxious parents. “And now, to choose our tributes.” The words hung in the dry air for a short moment as the lady hobbled over to a clear bowl.
“Ladies first,” she said into a mic, before sticking her hand into the bowl. A second later she pulled it out, a tiny piece of paper in her hand.
This was always the worst part- amid the audible sighs of everyone not chosen, there was the anguished cry of a mother who had just lost her child. A girl stepped forward, walking slowly to the stage as if in a dream. She couldn’t be more than thirteen years old. Too young to die, Sherlock thought. But he seemed to be the only one that thought so.
Another name was called- Margret Hudson, someone he had talked to on occasion at school. Sherlock felt bad that all he had ever said to her were insults regarding her blatant ignorance of the world around her. That didn’t mean she deserved to die, even he could recognize that.
The two girls stood on the stage in front of each mic, but they never spoke. Erin seemed to be crying now- Margret put a comforting arm over her shoulder.
The woman ignored the girls, waddling over to the other bowl of names. “And now for the boys,” she addressed the crowd with a grim smile. Her hand dove into the bowl; it came out with a name.
“Sherlock Holmes.” She watched the crowd, looking in all the wrong directions for the boy she had called. Sherlock froze, fully aware of the situation, but hoping that there was someone else with his name that she was looking at.
After a minute, someone pushed him forward, throwing him into the pathway that lead up to the stage. She had called his name again, but the pounding in his ears seemed to drown out everything. Two uniforms grabbed his shoulders, half dragging, half walking him up the path.
Sherlock stumbled up to the stage, trying to wrap his brain around how this had happened. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft watching him, whether with disapproval or horror he had no idea. Something hit Sherlock in the stomach as he watched his brother. He didn’t care. No one cried for him when his name was called. No one protested, no one ran forward to volunteer. They only watched him take his place behind a microphone on the stage with a distant look of loss.
The woman stuck her hand into the fishbowl again- that’s what it was. A fishbowl of helpless kids, and Sherlock had been caught.
Sherlock wasn’t sure if the woman smiled as she said the next name; he wasn’t sure she was even standing next to him anymore, everything had seemed to disappear. But he heard the name as clear as day, and a sickening feeling of pleasure accompanied it.
Mycroft straightened his back, walking confidently down the path. Everyone’s eyes were burning stares focused on his back. Cameras watched as he joined his brother on the stage.