bigbrotheriswatching | hunger games au

hunger games au

He ushers them out late at night, each carrying a rucksack, in anticipation of hard times ahead. They have to get to the train station on their own. If they can make it that far, they stand a chance. The question right now is just to look as calm and reasonable as possible, and not get stopped, despite Sherlock's newfound celebrity, and Mycroft's lingering popularity as well.

One thing he hadn't counted on, unfortunately, was the public interest in the brother story. Younger, trained by the older, picking up the mantle as it were. It's been a long time since Mycroft was in competition, a very long time, but the world hasn't forgotten him quite as much as he'd hoped.

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Sherlock wasn't surprised to see the brother story appear. It's happened in the past, especially with siblings or family members. He hates seeing that sort of thing on the television. It feels so cheap. It's entirely possible it's planned, or organized somehow.

He's honestly surprised by Mycroft's influence, however, as they easily walk from one end of the train and out the other, out to freedom. The Capitol is usually so careful with how they keep their Tributes, but Mycroft and Sherlock have the quickest, fastest way out while the girl tribute goes right to her room. Sherlock only has a fleeting glance at the other Tribute's room, at

They have a long, long walk to get to District Thirteen.

He takes a short sip of water and looks over to Mycroft as they walk calmly across the perimeter. It says more than a little bit about his influence that the guards ignore them, too. It won't last that long. Hoovercrafts and danger will await them the further they get from the District border.

"You shouldn't be so surprised."

Mycroft murmurs, at his side, because two men walking in silence are far more conspicuous than two chatting quietly.

"This entire thing was a bid to cripple me. If I make their work easy by vanishing entirely, they'll hardly try their hardest to stop me. I'm sure a search will be mounted in a few hours, something flashy and very noticeable, to hammer in my complete disgrace, but by then we'll be long gone and they know it."

Clearing his throat.

"However, the search will continue, and they won't be invested in trying to capture us alive."

"Of course they will," Sherlock says. "They'll want to make an example of us."

He turns to look at his older brother. "Mostly you."

After all, Mycroft will be the family member trying to protect the Tribute. He'll be made an example of specifically to deter others who might try to fight it, who might try to save their loved ones. The Capitol never wanted anyone fighting back.

"Well, if we end up tortured to death, you'll know you're right. If we're shot instantly, I'll know I'm right."

He decides, looking back over at him, with a wry smile.

Either way, he won't let it happen.

"Publicly executed," Sherlock admonishes him. "We've seen enough of them during mandatory viewings."

Sherlock is certain that there's more going on with President Snow than it appears. His rise was too fast, his strength too strong. Something was wrong with him and Sherlock is certain Mycroft knows this, too. If they had some way to get to the Capitol without dying, then Sherlock might be able to work it out.

"How do you think they'll spin it to the public?"

"Cowardice, disloyalty, corruption- probably using my position to try to insinuate that I think my family above all this. You as my foolish accomplice, craven and traitorous."

He gives a guard a cheerful nod, as they wander past. The man salutes back.

"I'm not sure what they'll treat me as. If they rely too much on the 'damaged' angle, they risk drawing criticism for the games."

"You're also a victor. They rely on showing off their victors. Maybe we will simply vanish. Edited out of the world."

The idea is actually sort of appealing. Sherlock and Mycroft have never really belonged in this world in his opinion. Being edited out would just be something new. If it were literal, of course. The way the Capitol did it was just brainwashing and murder.

"If I could impress one thing upon you before this all really begins, Sherlock, it would be not to underestimate the sensation of pain. Whatever risks we may be consenting to take, intellectually, when it comes down to it, pain will surprise a mind even like yours."

Informing him. The past few hours have all been something of a fruitless exercise in trying to impress upon his younger brother his own vulnerability.

Sherlock glances over to his brother again. He's long suspected other things about the Capitol, about their influences over Mycroft, though he's never been able to find anything definitive. Mycroft was one of the only people he knew who could truly keep his secrets secure.

"What else did they do to you, Mycroft?" he asks. "To manipulate you. What did they----"

He stops. Stops walking, straightens up, and looks back from where they came. "Me. They used me. Held me over like bait to make sure you'd do what they wanted."

"Of course."

He murmurs. Glancing over at him.

"Did you think I stopped speaking to you because you were annoying? Not that you aren't, dear brother-"

But the farther apart they'd been, the safer they were for everyone.

After their mother's death, there was very little left for Sherlock in Mycroft, and he'd always been of the opinion that he had been the one to walk away. Looking back now, he can see that it was Mycroft, pulling away. Spending more time at work. Missing Winter Solstice and birthdays. Protecting him.

Something tight forms in Sherlock's chest. It feels like a rock or a hard piece of clay and makes it difficult to swallow. He allows it to exist, but doesn't bother trying to work out what it means. Understanding that feeling won't help them if and when they need to run.

He takes a sip of water. "District Thirteen's footage is false. It isn't still a wreckage. Or, if it is, it's overrun with something else."

"It's overrun. Incredibly unsafe, for almost everyone. And an ideal place to go."

And a very long journey. They're clearing the most heavily supervised area now, and Mycroft is already breathing a little easier.

"Our first priority is getting ourselves established somewhere safe. Then, we can decide on what our goals will be."

"I think our priority is going to be avoiding getting killed," Sherlock retorts. "I've heard about the hoovercrafts. They'll be tracking us."

"And arming ourselves. Well, arming me, training you."

A cheerful smile.

"You can't stop me from fighting back, Mycroft. I may not be a Career Tribute, but I will be fighting for my life."

He thinks about it for a moment. He's not just fighting for his own life, he's fighting for Mycroft's. Despite the animosity they constantly share for one another, he has to admit, they will need to work together. There is a chance that Sherlock could survive this on his own. It's just not a very good chance.

"Our lives."

"I know. And I'm going to teach you to do it in a way that's a little more effective than boxing."

Which tickles his strange sense of humour.

"Just as they wished, actually. Funny how these things go."

Sherlock glares. His own boxing skills are effective. They've kept the Careers away from him when he was younger and they thought he was easy pickings for teasing. But against more dangerous opponents, those armed with actual guns and lasers, he knows a close-range fight won't save him.

He nods to the fence again.

"Time left before they start to trace us again?"

"We should assume they began right away. Someone could have come into our compartment, there's no sense banking on having any sort of get away."

Glancing around them, thoughtfully.

"Before much longer we'll be able to get off the main road. The terrain will be more uncomfortable, but the chances of being seen will go down."

Mycroft, having survived the games, would be more adept off of the main road than Sherlock. Sherlock spent his life in District Two, enjoying the fruits of the Capitol and living off of the little mysteries surrounding the main hub and the people who worked there. Suddenly having nothing but survival around him would be a different experience, and part of him is genuinely excited about that, but part of him is also very wary. He can't survive alone.

He's also not certain he wants to survive alone. He wants to have Mycroft there. That familiarity, that face he knows in a wilderness he doesn't.

"Let's break away now," he says. "In between the guardposts."

"Good idea."

And not one he'd been quite ready to suggest, because it's better that Sherlock seal his own fate as far as muddy, damp shoes and miles of underbrush are concerned. But they're just coming up on a guard post now, so they have a few feet yet of this ease.

"In the interest of learning to make conversation with one another- I never heard the end of your latest case."

"Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

He does want to talk about it. He was particularly clever, working out what worker had been smuggling out information to the other districts. He'd pieced it together and handed it off to Lestrade, a Peacekeeper with more brains than the whole lot of them put together (which wasn't saying much, really).

But talking about it means giving in to Mycroft. He can't do that, not even a little bit.

"I was curious."

That's all.

"A little ironic, isn't it? That we're the fugitives now. Me, the model citizen, you the terror of every criminal in the district."

"So long as there are people in District Thirteen, I imagine we'll be quite useful," he replies. Useful, or dangerous. Where Sherlock and Mycroft never quite fit in prior to running away, it would be far worse in a place that didn't have to keep them. Mycroft's loyalty to Sherlock would be his downfall in this case, as Sherlock couldn't just "turn off" his personality, couldn't make himself likable. In District Two, Mycroft made Sherlock a part of the place and people had to accept it. It would be starting over in Thirteen.

If it's even real.

"Explain to me what to look for in a forest wilderness," he says. "For water."

"Unless you know the terrain, in an area as lush as this there's no way to spot water except to listen, and to follow deer trails. They'll generally lead to or from a place to drink. You're best served by finding a ground source, but those are a little hard to come by. The second best option is a stream- and if you follow it upstream long enough, you might be in luck. Always try to drink where the water moves fastest and clearest, there's less sediment, and less contamination. Standing water in the woods can make you sick. In a last case scenario, drink lake, or even puddle water; a little illness is better than death by dehydration."

He recalls, keeping moving.

"We have water in our packs for another two days. Another trick is to run fabric, nonabsorbent, ideally, across the grass before dawn and lick up the dew. It collects on leaves, too, if you aren't too deep under the forest canopy, but it isn't there past sunrise and it won't last you long."

The whole idea sounds positively revolting to Sherlock. He knows very well that, for a district teen, he's lived a life of fair privilege by being a victor's brother and growing up in District Two. He's heard from rumor and seen from the telescreens that other districts don't fair as well and that many of the people out there starve, or live a life of dehydration and death. Sherlock has never wanted, not really.

He will, though. And Mycroft, who should have been free of want because of his victory.

"You could have always let them take me."

"You'd be killed."

He reminds him, yet again.

"You could always go back, say I dragged you away with the benefit of all my training. I'll even give you a bruise or two to make it plausible, if you like."

"It really matters to you," he says. "Not just as a matter of pride, Mycroft. Pride is something we both know very well. This is something else. Why would my death bother you? It would just give you more reason to tear them down."

"This may come as a great surprise, but you are my brother and I do love you, Sherlock."

He finally announces, with no little exasperation in his voice.

Mycroft realizes he may never have actually said it before, but really. He picks up the pace a touch, pulling head, moving professionally through the underbrush.

"We'll want to get as far as possible before the sun begins to go down. We can erect shelter for the night while it's still light."

He loves Sherlock. Sherlock lets out a little rueful laugh at that. Their relationship has always been strained, though they are brothers. Mycroft loves Sherlock. Sherlock thinks that if he didn't hate his brother so much, he might love him as well. Shame they'd never know that.

"They'll sweep the forest in a clockwise motion," he says, gesturing to the grass. The grass is overgrown, but there is a slight burn of hovercraft energy at the tips.

"The trees? Build a small sleeping area there?"

"We're not far enough yet. Another hour or so walking will put us just at the point where the search begins to thin, where the night begins to grow cold and they wish to turn back, where their haste can be used against them."

He agrees with the idea, though.

"It'll be a small lean-to, it'll give us a little more camouflage."

Sherlock nods.

"All right." Mycroft is the more experienced. He knows how they operate, he's survived the games. But Sherlock feels like there's something else. Something that they're both missing.

It was too easy to escape. They set up failsafes against this.

Mycroft feels it too, and when he's finally ready to stop for the night he clears his throat, glancing around at the low light.

"We need to gather sticks, branches, and the like. And consider what we might be missing."

Because it must be something.

"Smoke will attract attention. We should set the fire up long before we make camp," Sherlock advises.

He looks up to the sky. No sign of hovercrafts. He'd have expected them by now. At least looming by, attempting to find them.

"Making an example of you," he thinks aloud. "Allowing you the ability to get this far, but then catching you---when? When would be the best time?"

"Oh, no fire. The branches are for the lean-to. I wouldn't risk flames for another few days' walk."

Stooping to pick up a long branch for the backbone of the structure.

"When would be the most appropriate time to catch someone they want to make an example of? Not the first day, that would be too obvious."

He doesn't pick up any branches, he just follows, his mind elsewhere, his eyes on the sky.

"Even if they are just humouring us the first day, there's no sense making them aware of our whereabouts. We can only hope to slip away before they catch us in earnest, use their own game against them."

Easier said than done, of course.

"The answer might be going deeper into the woods."

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