Live and Let Die: Chapter 2

BBC Sherlock/ The Hunger Games crossover

Chapter 2: There's nothing left, so save your breath



When the anthem ended, there was no time for idle chit-chat. Nobody reprimanded Sherlock on his inappropriate conduct, though the mayor shot him an unfriendly glance. The newly chosen District 3 Tributes were ushered into the Justice Building and then lead into their respective rooms.

Sherlock lived in luxury on the daily basis, so the interior of his temporary residence didn't make any impression on him. If anything, he found it rather tasteless. The reddish, worn-out carpet clashed with garish green upholstery of the armchairs and the golden candelabra shaped like angels looked really pretentious. Sherlock paced to the window and leant his forehead against the glass, trying to erase the image of the room from his memory. A horrible place to say your final goodbye to your loved ones.

"How dull." Sherlock mumbled contemptuously. He knew nobody would want to come and see him, so he dreaded spending a tedious and unproductive hour just staring blankly at the slowly emptying square. District 3 families were dragging themselves home, being happy that this year they were spared and their children won't die in the arena. Sherlock shook his head impatiently. If it was up to him, he'd go straight to the train station.  

He still felt excited at the thought of leaving this horrible District and being able to see and learn so many new things, but his analytical mind kicked in, suppressing all of his emotions. Feelings were dangerous if not kept at bay, he learnt that a long time ago. And they certainly wouldn't help him win.

He started to think about his chances in the Games. He was positive they were exceptionally high. The intelligence, adaptability and powers of observation were his greatest advantages over the other Tributes. Of course, he still didn't know who they were. He decided to watch the recap of the Reapings as soon as he could and then try to assess his chances with more precision. However, if all of them were like Sally, he would win the Games in no time. Especially, that he had one of the most  powerful men in all of Panem as his mentor. He smiled at the thought. He couldn't wait to finally talk to sinister James Moriarty.


His train of thoughts was interrupted by the sudden noise of the door opening and muffled patter of feet on the carpet. Sherlock flinched, but didn't turn around or in any way acknowledged the presence of the intruder. There was only one person in this whole wide world that might want to bid him farewell and Sherlock certainly didn't want to lay his gaze upon that person.

There was a loud sigh and the stranger started to speak.

"You can win this, Sherlock."

"Of course I can. And I will, Mycroft," he replied flatly. "I'm the smartest Tribute that ever entered the Hunger Games."

"Don't get cocky. If you underestimate your opponents you might wind up dead." There was a clear reprimand in his voice.  

"And since when do you care?" He asked coldly, finally turning around to stare at his brother. Sherlock's face was smouldering with anger, whereas Mycroft's expression remained calm as always. He never showed any emotions, claiming that other people might take advantage of them. Officially, he was nobody, merely a mayor's assistant, but in practice he nearly run the whole District. A man of wealth and of power, clearly not to be messed with.

"I..." he started, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Remember what you said when our parents died? Do you?" He snapped. "Because I do. How was it? All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

Mycroft averted his gaze. There was an aura of uneasiness around him, which didn't happen often.

"I wanted to make you understand."

"I was six years old, Mycroft," he said, a hint of grievance in his voice.   

The brothers were looking at each other, knowing there was nothing left to say. The rift between them was too deep to mend it with words.

Mycroft put his hand on the handle, but stopped for a moment. Before he left, he said: "Regardless of what you think of me, I only wish that the next time I see you, you won't be lying in the coffin."

"The feeling is mutual..." Sherlock mumbled to the closing door.