Hunger Games: Fandom Style

Not. Dead. (Yet).

Author's Note: Almost up to 600 views! Yay! Also: I finally reposted "Confessions of a Part Time Monster". Check it out!
On to more relevant material: I realize it's been several chapters since we've explored the arena. We should be back in it tomorrow, and we'll *technically* be down to the final eight. Technically. I mean, Tia's not dead, and Edward's not dead, and the whole point of this chapter is someone not being dead, and technically, Merlin's in the arena, so let's put it like this: In the next chapter, eight of the official contestants will still be in the running. You'll get some more hints about what's up at the end of the chapter.
Also, you! Yes, you! The one looking at the screen right now. No, not to your left. You. You have been called upon to fulfill this quest: You must answer the following questions and leave your answers in the comments section. Do you a) prefer romance b) prefer action c) prefer the behind the scenes mentor stuff or d) other. Question two: Which of the remaining tributes are you voting for? and Three: Which fandoms do you read for?
I'm taking a poll. Be forewarned, if no votes come in, I shall be forced to depend on my beta. And she has some very . . . forceful . . . opinions.
Not, of course, that she's not a wonderful and amazingly supportive person. Just opinionated.
And possibly capable of beating me to death with a couch cushion, but you're not reading this for the author's notes. Enjoy!

According to his calculations, the plan had a 89.76% chance of going fatally wrong, which is why, of course, it had been Plan B. Circumstances had deteriorated, however, and he had been left with little choice.
The Reidenbach flower was rare and useful only in very narrow circumstances. It was uncommonly good however, at what it did: feigning death while sustaining life under almost impossible circumstances.
Of course, he'd had to tell Irene about his plan. She would have bribed the undertaker not to bother with embalming him.
Hearing returned first. From the sound of it, he was at the viewing that followed his funeral.
"He was such a dear boy," Mrs. Laveen sobbed.
"Yes, thank you," Mycroft said woodenly.
Sherlock wished he could laugh. What a thing to say!
"What was that about?" John hissed. John was here! That was good.
"She's down a tier on the pay scale now that she's down to twenty-four orphans," Mycroft explained quietly. He paused. "That in mind, if there are any double murders over the next few weeks, she should be considered as a suspect." The deduction was as close to humor as Mycroft ever got. Sherlock wondered if he should be offended that his brother was cracking jokes at his funeral. But there had been something off about his voice.
Dead. Empty.
His analytical brain dismissed the words as poetical terms lacking precision when used in this context. Unfortunately, he couldn't come up with any better ones.
His left thumb twitched involuntarily. He hoped no one noticed. From the sound of it, there were still too many people here.
How was John? His tone had been off as well. Rather similar to how it had been just after they'd arrived at the orphanage, in fact.
John was grieving for him. Sherlock felt oddly touched.
It occurred to him a moment later that this explanation might fit Mycroft's behavior as well, but he dismissed quickly.
"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
If John grieved, he grieved alone. The thought bothered him more than it should have.
Redbeard would have missed him. But Redbeard was long gone, of course.
"Greg," John said, his voice still entirely too tight.
Sherlock pursed his lips slightly. Lestrade. Sherlock had tolerated him for years, finding him vaguely useful on occasion. The past year or so though, he had to admit he'd come to regard him as almost a friend. Not like John, of course, but he would have been disturbed had he been picked at the Reaping.
"John. Mycroft."
He actually sounded upset. How surprising. Sherlock was under no illusions about how the other children felt about him.
"I didn't think he'd actually . . . I mean, he was so brilliant. I never thought he wouldn't be coming home."
"Statistically speaking, his odds were never good. The Capital's assessment of his odds was actually overly generous, particularly when one considers this year's other factors."
His eyelids started to flicker, but he couldn't get a good view. He didn't need one though. He knew Lestrade would be staring at his brother with an expression Sherlock was all to familiar with. John would be probably be siding against his brother on this one.
"Your brother is dead, and you're talking about statistics?" Lestrade said in disbelief. "Good grief, man, did you actually care about him at all? Are you even capable of that?"
Machine. Freak. Sociopath.
"Caring is not an advantage."
In the scant second it took these memories to cross his mind, Mycroft's fist must have been traveling through the air, because the next sound Sherlock heard was of flesh striking flesh, followed by Greg's cry of pain and the sounds of John trying to restrain Mycroft.
"Mycroft - "
"Don't you dare," Mycroft snarled, "don't you dare even think you know what I'm feeling right now. You think, you all think - no, you don't think, that's the problem. I loved my brother. And if you ever say otherwise again, I will break your neck."
Sherlock stiffened in surprise. The back of his mind noticed the progress and was pleased with it. The rest of him was too caught up in what his brother had just said.
Was someone else standing there? Were there cameras? Who did Mycroft feel the need to put on a show for?
Sherlock heard John lead Lestrade away for a moment. Ah, John. That would make sense. Mycroft would need to put on a show of grief to remain in John's good graces. Why he wanted to do that, Sherlock wasn't sure, but perhaps Mycroft merely wanted to have someone he could rely on for those pesky group projects at school. Or, less likely but still possible, perhaps even the great Mycroft enjoyed having one person in the world who was more inclined to breathe "Genius," than yell "Freak".
John was gone now, though, presumably to let the two combatants cool off and to give the "grieving" Mycroft time alone with the body. As long as Mycroft kept his back to John, perhaps with some convincing shoulder movements, he should be able to pull off the act without too much effort. Sherlock hoped he would say something to help complete the illusion. It would be nice to know what his brother really thought of him. Or, if nothing else, if someone was too close, he might keep up the grieving act. Even knowing it was an act, a small, long buried portion of Sherlock had awoken at his earlier words.
"I told you once that caring was not an advantage," Mycroft whispered. "I meant it. What I didn't tell you was that it is not an advantage I myself possess. I didn't want you to have to feel all of this." He swallowed hard. Was he actually crying? "I wanted you to be safe. And I failed you. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry." His words were barely more than a breath now. "Don't leave me, Sherlock. Don't leave me here alone. Oh, please, don't make me face this alone. Don't make me feel, after all this time. I don't want to care. It hurts too much. But I can't help it. Why can't I help it, Sherlock? What did you figure out that I couldn't? What did you know that I don't? What does everyone know that I don't?" Was that a sob? "I'm going to take them down, Sherlock. Every last one of them. I've already started. We're blackmailing the Head Peacekeeper. We've got him right in our pocket. John's stirring up the others. We're going to take them down or die trying. It's not very rational, I know. But that's what you finally figured out, wasn't it? Not everything has to be." He took a deep breath. "If it hurts this much, I wish it were."
Sherlock suddenly wanted very much to move. But with all he had regained, he couldn't move quite enough. Mycroft walked away.
He wasn't quite sure what to make of that little speech.
I was, in some ways, very close to being moved by it.
Lestrade was refreshingly straightforward. "You were the smartest idiot I've ever met. It'll be a duller world without you." He paused. "And, all right, I'll miss you. Not that you'd care."
Admittedly, "smartest idiot" was a bit absurd, but it was about as much coherence as he expected from Lestrade.
He would need to move soon. He managed a hand. He was reasonably confident he could talk now, if he wanted, but he thought he'd wait till John said his piece. He was curious.
He sneaked a quick look. John was crying. An unexpected pang of guilt hit him. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.
"You were, without question, the most arrogant, annoying, selfish, manipulative, infuriating person I have ever met, including your brother." On second thought . . .
"You were also the best, the bravest, and the greatest friend I will ever have. You were brilliant and behind that brilliance, you hid a good heart. You did impossible things, so I'm asking you for one last favor. Please. Please, don't be dead." His voice caught on the last word.
"All right," Sherlock said agreeably. He blinked his eyes open. "Could you help me sit up?"
As dramatic moments went, it wasn't bad. Although, admittedly, Sherlock admitted to himself several minutes later as he nursed his sore nose, Mycroft had a much better punch than he had given his brother credit for.
"Explain to me again why you didn't mention this plan of yours ahead of time," Mycroft said in a dangerous tone of voice.
Sherlock fidgeted a bit uncomfortably before he caught himself. "Well, it was Plan B, you understand. I know hiding that I'm alive from the Capital might be difficult. If it did come to fruition, Irene knew. She'd told the undertaker in no uncertain terms not to let me be buried. I'd already minimized the risks."
"And what about us?" Mycroft exploded. Sherlock blinked. He hadn't seen Mycroft like this in years.
"I didn't think there would be quite this much fuss."
John threw his hands up in the air. "What did you think we would do?"
Lestrade was taking it best, really. He'd clapped Sherlock on the back before making a strategic retreat to the rear. "To be honest, I often have a hard time predicting your behavior," Sherlock admitted.
John stared at him for a moment. "You're an idiot."
"If I agree, will you accept my apology?" Sherlock extended a tentative hand.
John ignored the hand and instead wrapped him into a crushing hug. "Idiot," he repeated, but he sounded happy, so Sherlock concluded he must not be too angry. Good. He'd missed him. He didn't have so many friends he could afford to lose one. Especially not this one.
"Mycroft?" he asked hopefully.
"Next time you die, I'm performing the autopsy." He turned to walk out the door, but he paused on his way. "I'm glad you're back, brother. I missed you."

Bucky pushed his way over to Stark.
"Barnes! Glad you joined us tonight." Tony extended his hand.
Bucky ignored it. Instead, he grabbed Stark's arm and dragged him into the relatively quiet hallway.
"What - "
"I don't know what you think you're playing at here. Maybe you feel guilty that Natasha died instead of your girlfriend. Maybe you're just acting out to get under your dad's skin. Maybe you actually looked past your own nose for once and saw what life's like for the rest of us. But I'm telling you right now, I'm not here for your speeches. I'm not here for your 'boot camp'. I'm here to protect Steve. If you get him hurt, much less killed, playing this game of yours, I will hunt you down and end your sorry life. Understood?"
Stark nodded once. "Understood."

Author's Note: Some of the dialogue was based on the season two finale for Sherlock. I know Mycroft's not really an emotional guy, but remember, this is a younger version, and I think he truly did care about his brother.
And here's the chapter title for tomorrow, which is also your hint: "Trees Like Torches".