This just hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks one day and refused to go away. This is just the first chapter. I actually already have more written, but it's by no means finished. I just want to get some feedback on this, see if it can be improved, and I look forward to your constructive criticism.

Warnings: Possible eventual John/Sherlock; eventual blood and violence

Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor The Hunger Games. They belong to Mofftiss and Suzanne Collins respectively.

I wondered why somebody didn't do something. Then I realized, I am somebody.

~Author Unknown

It's Reaping Day here in District 10. It's Reaping Day all over Panem, actually. Across Panem, twenty-four families are about to 'sacrifice' a child to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. Those twenty-four children, called Tributes, will be chosen at random and swept off the Capitol to be forced to fight to the death, and twenty-three will not return to their districts. The single Victor will be crowned and loved and adored and will win a year's supply of food for their district. My district hasn't won in nearly fifteen years due to a series of poor Tributes and some droughts that left depleted our already meager food supply and income. I look up at the stage in front of the Justice Building. Two large glass bowls are full of slips of paper. I know my name, John Watson, is on nearly fifty of them. I had to take out tesserae ever since I could just to help my family stay alive. The extra rations of grain and oil aren't much, but they're better than nothing. They are the reason my name is that bowl so much, since my sister, Harry, is now nineteen. She's no longer allowed to collect tesserae. At seventeen, I still have another year.

There are hundreds of us packed into the square in front of the Justice Building, just like cattle waiting for the slaughter in the hot sun. Sweat is dripping down my back, soaking my shirt. Our families surround us. Somewhere in that crowd, are Harry and my mother. There are also those who are sneaking through the crowd, taking on bets on who will be reaped, if they cry, faint, scream. That's how a fight started in the crowd one year. The Capitol loved it.

The escort for our district comes out onto the stage, a woman named Anthea. She has very red hair, redder than any I've ever seen, than any natural colour, but that was anyone from the Capitol really. Her skin looks too pale, her lips the same unnatural shade as her hair. Her clothes, though, are black. It's as though someone finally told her that we don't think the Reaping is a happy occasion in the districts. I shuffle my feet, waiting for her to speak. I'm still wearing my filthy working boots. Mum wasn't too pleased when I refused to change them.

Anthea welcomes us all to the Reaping, sounding excited despite her black attire, and explaines the same boring thing she does every year.

The thirteen districts of Panem rebelled against the Capitol during the time known as the Dark Days, ending with the complete destruction of District 13. Following the defeat and surrender of the remaining twelve districts, the Capitol instated the Hunger Games to remind the districts that we are completely at their mercy. So, once a year, each district must offer up one male and one female child between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete. As she explains all of this, I cast my eyes over to the large group of girls, looking for one face in particular. There I see her. Mary Morstan. She's my age and lovely. Lots of boys are after her, but she turns down every one. Then, they all get jealous of me.

Mary's been my best friend for as long as we can remember. Her and her family work on our ranch, helping out with everything that needs to be done. We learned everything together: how to ride a horse, rope cattle, hunt predators in the wild. She keeps her eyes on me now and nods, as if she is trying to reassure me that everything will be okay. Her blonde hair has been set in a long plait down her back, tied up with ribbon. Her brown eyes don't leave mine until Anthea calls out, "Ladies first!"

My heart beats in my chest. I don't want them to call Mary.

"Sarah Sawyer!"

A mousy girl with dull brown hair and eyes moves forward like a ghost. Only Anthea applauds. I look the girl over. She might be about fourteen, and she doesn't come from a ranch. She lives in town, for sure. What exactly her family does, I have no idea. At least it wasn't Mary.

"And now, the gentlemen!"

I watch her hand swirl over the bowl, then dip in to shift the papers around. My name is on fifty of those papers. My heart is still pounding, only this time, it's for me. It's not my name she calls.

"Michael Stamford!"

No. Not him. Mike shouldn't even be allowed to sign up or be Reaped. Sure, he's big and strong and a good worker… but he's simpleminded. He still thinks like a young child at the age of sixteen. He's too good, too friendly, too much of a child. Even now, he looks utterly confused by what's happening. I hear his mother crying out, and it suddenly hits me that he's an only child. Peacekeepers close in on him, wanting to usher him to the stage. Without thinking, I do the only thing that seems to make sense out of everything. I surge forward to him, shouting, "No! Not him! I volunteer! I VOLUNTEER!"

The world stops. Everyone falls silent. I say, loud and firm, "I volunteer as Tribute."

My mother and sister cry out. Mike looks more confused than ever as I squeeze his shoulder on my way by. I'm not sure how I make it to the stage. The male mentor, Greg Lestrade, nods at me. I can't discern the look on his face. Sarah stares blankly ahead. Anthea, however, is excited. District 10 hasn't had a volunteer in nearly fifty years, not since the First Quarter Quell.

"Well, well! We're off to an exciting start!" she chirps, coming over to me, "And now, young man, what's your name?"

"John Watson."

"Alright, how about a round of applause for this year's Tributes, Sarah Sawyer and John Watson!"

She starts to clap politely, but no one follows suit. Instead, they press their three middle fingers to their lips and then hold them out in a salute. It's old and rarely used, usually at the funerals of old timers. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love. It's a bold move. Anthea's clapping quickly dies out.

After that, our mayor reads the Treaty of Treason. It just reminds us of the terms of our surrender after the Dark Days. I'm not listening. I'm staring at Mike Stamford, a poor simpleminded boy who looks scared and sad and confused. I vaguely hear the mayor tell me and Sarah to shake hands. Her grip is limp and weak, her hand sweaty. As the anthem of Panem plays, I suddenly get the feeling that Sarah won't last long in the arena.

Once the anthem is finished, we are ushered off the stage and into the Justice Building. There is an hour before we will be headed to the train station. There is an hour for me to prepare myself. I will not cry. They cannot see me cry. My mother and sister come in first, both crying and upset. I hug them and try to calm them down. I tell them to be careful to make sure the cattle are taken care of, to watch for predators. They just nod. They know what to do. I emphasize that they should look after my horse. He'll be worried when I don't come back, and he's a good horse. If I don't win, at least he'll be worth some money.

The Peacekeepers come in and escort them out. Mary comes in next. She throws her arms around me and calls me an idiot. I wrap my arms around her waist and just breathe in. Then she whispers, "Get a knife. That's your best chance besides a bow. If they have a bow, then get that. I know you can win. You have to win, John. For me."

She kisses me quickly on the lips, says, "It's just like hunting. Remember that," and leaves.

The last ones to visit me are a surprise: Mike and his mother. She embraces me like I'm her own, just whispering, "Thank you," over and over. When she's done, she gently pushes Mike toward me and tells him softly, "Give it to him, honey."

He fishes clumsily in his pocket and pulls out a gold pin, circular, with a bird in flight at its center.

"Here, this is for you," he says.

"Thanks, Mike," I murmur.

"Will you wear this in the arena? You're allowed one item from your district as a token. I hope you'll take this with you," his mother explains, "Good luck, John."

She hugs me again, and so does Mike. I'm touched. After they leave, the Peacekeepers come in again and lead me out of the building to the train station. I've never been on a train before. People in Ten are only allowed on trains for official business, which really only includes transporting livestock for slaughter and processing. Mostly people travel by foot or on horseback. This train is special, though, a sleek bullet model from the Capitol that goes up to 200 mph. We are surrounded by a great deal of photographers and flashing lights. I try to keep my face a mask of calm. I see myself on a screen and am pleased to see that I am succeeding. Sarah has clearly been crying, her face splotchy, her eyes red and wet. I'm suddenly reminded of a girl who won the Games not long ago, Johanna Mason from District 7. She spent the whole Games appearing weak and vulnerable until there were only a few Tributes left. Then she killed them all and won. It was pretty impressive. Somehow, I don't think Sarah is pretending like that.

We're ushered onto the train where Anthea is waiting for us. She doesn't even look at us as she directs us to wash up for dinner, and we're shown to our rooms on the train. The floors are richly carpeted, and everything looks expensive, lavish. I even have my own indoor bathroom with a shower. I've only ever had an outhouse, definitely no shower. We had to boil water if we wanted it hot. I find that I enjoy a warm shower. It's nice. I quickly scrub down and redress, putting on different shoes. I find my way back to the main car, and I am assaulted by the best smells I've ever encountered. It almost makes me lightheaded.

Anthea and Greg, as well as the female Mentor, a middle aged black woman named Jeannette, are all seated and chatting politely, Anthea tapping away on a strange device. I have no idea what it could be. Sarah emerges not long after I do. She still looks very sad. We both sit down and start eating everything in sight, at least I did. It was all so wonderful. I ate three bowls of a delicious lamb stew with plums by myself.

"At least the two of you have manners," Anthea states, "Those two from last year ate like animals with their hands. No manners at all."

The two Tributes from last year were poor kids from the sheep country who'd lost half their flocks from starvation, drought, and predators. They hadn't had a good meal in years, maybe their whole lives. I make a point to start eating with my hands when I can. Anthea presses her lips together in distaste, and Greg smiles at me. I nearly make myself sick from the richness of the food. Anthea picks delicately at her plate, while Sarah just pushes everything around with her fork, barely eating at all.

After dinner, Anthea turns on a TV screen in the car so we can watch the highlights of the Reapings from every district. The Capitol spaces them out so a person could feasibly watch every one of them, but only the people in the Capitol can do so. They don't have to actually attend one. I watch only to see who I will be fighting in the arena. The boy from One is small but has dead looking eyes that honestly terrify me. The girl looks calm and gorgeous. Two's boy is large and muscular, while the girl is of average height, with dark brown skin and hair; she looks smug. There's a boy from Five with dark hair and a plain face that looks like he finds everything unpleasant. The boy from Eleven can't be more than twelve, very small and thin. The girl from Three looks even more upset than Sarah, barely holding back tears on stage. It is the boy from Three, though, that holds my attention. He volunteers before any name is called, looks genuinely bored with everything. His clothes look nicer than everyone else's, like he's of a higher class, and he's thin but not from starvation. He's intriguing.

I go to sleep that night with his face in my mind. I'm not sure why.

Please, please, PLEASE concrit! I really would like to hear your thoughts! (But flames/trolling will be ignored.)

If you all think I should continue, I most certainly will :)

(I want it. I need it. Ooh baby, ooh baby.)