Tick Tock Goes The Clock (Chapter 1)

The Chosen One (Sherlock's POV)

UPDATE: THIS VERSION IS AN ALTERED VERSION OF THE ORIGINAL STORY I HAD. IT'S THE EXACT SAME EXCEPT THE CHARACTERS FROM "THE WORLD'S END" WERE REPLACED WITH CHARACTERS FROM "SUPERNATURAL." I DID NOT CHANGE ANY DETAILS.

WARNINGS: descriptive images, violence, major character deaths, etc.

*I do not own any of these fandoms. (BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who, The Hunger Games, Harry Potter, The Hobbit/Lord Of The Rings, The Avengers, Star Trek: Into Darkness, Supernatural) They belong to their rightful owners.

*Pay attention to who the chapter's POV is from (it changes for each chapter)

Districts & Tributes

* Note - (#) = their ages

District 1: Sherlock Holmes (15) / Nyota Uhura (17)

District 2: Thorin Oakenshield (18) / Luna Lovegood (14)

District 3: Tony Stark (17) / Charlie Bradbury (14)

District 4: Greg Lestrade (16) / Natasha Romanova (16)

District 5: Rory Williams (13) / Molly Hooper (12)

District 6: Dean Winchester (16) / Martha Jones (14)

District 7: Ron Weasley (15) / Irene Adler (16)

District 8: Harry Potter (15) / Amelia Pond (13)

District 9: 11th Doctor (17) / Jo Harvelle (12)

District 10: James Kirk (18) / Clara Oswin Oswald (13)

District 11: Steve Rodgers (18) / Hermione Granger (16)

District 12: John Watson (16) / River Song (17)

The only sound I hear are my own footsteps against the pebbles scattered over the ground, making a harmonious melody while they scrape together beneath my leather shoes. No one is with me; I don't want anyone with me. Even in my short years of life, I never found much interest in paying attention to my own kind, let alone talking to someone.

Perhaps it's because they're all stupid or it's the fact that I am a genius. I have the most scientific mind of anyone I know. I can think more clearly than most of the withered adults in my neighborhood; I even outsmarted a young man once when he made a dumb mistake and I was able to fool him by making a few minor deductions, resulting in me snatching up a full loaf of bread for dinner that night.

Most people call me weird, a freak even. Children wonder down the roads, finding whatever scraps of food they can to bring back home to their families. I pass them by and they all exchange sneers with me, including the teenagers. No one appreciates me around here. Nobody. Well, with the one exception of my brother and my mother, but even then my older sibling despises me most of the time.

In the nation of Panem, of the country once known as North America, twelve districts are split up among the people. There used to be thirteen, but I heard a rumor that it was bombed and the entire population was annihilated. Lucky for me, my family and I have just so happened to land in the vast area of District 1, which thankfully is the wealthiest district, besides the Capitol.

I find it best to get some fresh air while I walk down the winding street, as it may be my last time I'm able to observe and capture the details of home. One step further on, just one step closer in time to the most dreadful day of the year. And even I, the boy who shows no emotions nor feelings whatsoever, cannot help but express a little fear for the next couple hours.

A light breeze cuts through the brown curls in my hair, yet I shiver even with a white buttoned-down shirt on. Being the baby of the family, I always got the least amount of clothing, until my older brother wears his out and they're passed down to me. I pass the marketplace, which very few people were there, and I head to my favorite place that I've known since I was born. A few older women are exchanging some sheets of cloth for a bit of meat, and I can't help but hear my stomach grumble at the thought of food.

Food is scarce around here. You want food, you have to fight to get a meal on the dinner table. Sometimes people trade old artifacts for things they can munch on, but still some kids where I live have torsos with ribs showing significantly.

Our house is nothing more than a one floored terrace, with five rooms total and three people sharing the space. I share a bedroom with my brother, which we each have our own mattress with one blanket for warmth. Water supply is limited, as I only end up bathing myself once a week; twice if I'm lucky.

My brother does absolutely nothing for a living. He applied for a job in the Capitol but was rejected, and thus he remains at home with myself and our mother. He never leaves the house and he's six years older than me. Occasionally he helps Mom out with scrubbing the dishes or cooking game that I may have caught, but other than that he remains in our bedroom and does nothing for the rest of the day.

Since my own family is boring, I usually find myself drifting off into the forest or meandering along the never ending roads. Nobody bothers me; they just let me mind my own business.

But you know what? Alone is what I have, and alone protects me.

Why am I walking alone? Why might this be my last day to see my home? It's all the Capitol's fault.

Every year, the people of all twelve districts are summoned to a reaping, in which a young man and woman are chosen to represent their district for an annual event. All 24 tributes are then deported to the Capitol, where they must be trained and placed in an arena to fight to the death.

And once your name is chosen, there's no turning back.

This event takes place every year as a punishment for the all-out war that occurred hundreds of years ago, firing up ashes and causing the human population to become extinct. Miraculously, a new race of people rose up from the fields of the war, and some moron thought it would be a brilliant idea to kill them all off again slowly for what happened in the past. And each year, it is the president's job in the Capitol to come up with a new vicious way to kill off his own people.

And thus The Hunger Games began.

Today is reaping day. Being fifteen years old, my name is up for grabs and in the selection bowl over forty times, increasing my chances of becoming a tribute. I have a few hours to kill before the entire district will assemble together to witness the selection process, so I find the only comfort I'll have is sitting by the stream in the woods as I once did as a child.

A luminous sunshine glows over my head, making my shadow elongate on the ground while it creeps over the treetops. I tap a steady rhythm with my fingers to a beat, keeping myself entertained while I walk in silence.

In no time at all, I come to find myself at the border of the woods, growing at the very end of a deserted street. Just inside, hidden in one of the cracked trees, is a small knife I use to hunt animals. My family relies on me to catch our supper most of the time, so I've developed a few tricks and skills over the past few months.

Normally people watch me run into the depths of the trees, but they don't care and let me go off on my own. Either they believe I'm finding a way to escape from the district boundary or I just do my own 'weird' business while I'm in there. And yes, I am aware that eventually I will get caught by the Capitol; if and when I reach the district border one day, surely I will be murdered on the spot in a matter of days.

As part of my daily routine, I grab my knife hidden in safety and I head out into the woods, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of life. The trees don't expand very far; when you get to about a half a mile or so they come to a stop, so I am able to look out on an open field and sometimes watch a beautiful sunset.

I spotted no sign of a deer or rabbit anywhere, so I stuffed my weapon in my belt for safe keeping. It was rare when I found a deer lollygagging around District 1, but the goods news was it stored food for us for about a week.

I broke through the edge of the line of trees and found myself at the top of the well-known hill, blur sky spreading over 3/4 of my visual surroundings. The stream I sometimes swam in was at the bottom of the slope, which had a range in temperature depending on the season. We rarely get winter here; when it snows we only get a few centimeters and the children stay inside because their clothes can't protect them from the bitter cold. It is common for us to wake up in the mornings to find frost covering the crusty grass, but as the day goes on the heat picks up rapidly.

I let my legs skip down the steep hill as I come closer to the water's rushing currents. Today the liquid may be a bit chilly with the wind, but I have no worries about it effecting me at all.

Over the years I have collected heavy stones to place around the river's outer walls, so that when I come on a rainy day my feet won't slide on damp puddles that soaked into the blades of grass. It also helps to limit the amount of water that comes pouring over the edge in strong storms, but then again I always come back to find a few rocks are missing.

I stop pacing when I reach the riverbed, and I watch the currents flow by and carrying mud and twigs while it runs along undisturbed. All I take in is the steady sound of the river washing over rocks, mixed with leaves blowing in the wind from the trees. I breathe in to receive a fresh scent of grass, and I watch a few grasshoppers leap from one blade to the next.

A buzzing noise suddenly cuts through my hearing and I use my observation skills to discover a bees nest hidden under a rose bush. I don't fancy being stung, so I leave the bugs to their own business to produce honey; perhaps later I can use my hunting tricks to snatch up some for breakfast.

It's not long before I hear thumping footprints sinking into the dirt behind me, and I turn on the spot to find my older brother coming to comfort me. He doesn't stop till he comes to link his shoulder with mine, and we both stare at the horizon line beyond for a long while before he gets up the courage to speak out loud.

"You okay?" he asks, clearly knowing perfectly well that I am not. His presence here is new to me; no one has ever followed me while I walked.

"No," I flat out tell him. Somehow he finds a way to shift his weight without bumping into me.

My brother heaved a great sigh and bounced on his feet, feeling uncomfortable; just like he must have felt the day he was rejected by the Capitol. "You know you can't get avoid it; you can't back out, Sherlock."

It was the first time he'd said my name that day, and I couldn't avoid his eyes any longer. I lifted my head, which came to stop just below his nose, and stared into his stormy grey eyes.

"I know. But I want to..."

I lose the strength in my skull and let it fall into Mycroft's chest, and he grabs me around the collar and brings me in close. "Why do we have to put up with this My?" That's the nickname I always use for him, because I am too lazy to say a few more letters.

"I don't know." That's the first time I've heard him admit something, ever. "Why are you out here anyway?" he asks, tilting his head to stare down upon me.

"I figured I should get a last look at my welcoming hiding place before I'm shut in the dark for several days."

"Now don't say that," Mycroft blabs, pulling his business tone into good use. "The more you think about it and blame yourself if you get chosen, the more likely it will happen. Just ignore the reaping and pretend like we have a full year left to go."

"Yeah well that doesn't work," I grumble, and I can tell from the tensing of his muscles in the air next to me that he's beginning to get pissed off. "It's like a bomb," I continue, and I don't think he's paying any attention to my words. "The moments lug by as the clock ticks every second, and then your name is chosen on the end of a tether that you wish never existed and boom. Nothing remains. You have nothing left to live for, because no matter if the bomb explodes or not, you'll still die in the end."

I have either silenced Mycroft so bad he doesn't know how to respond, or I just said some vicious words and he is finding the harshest way to punish me in a few minutes flat.

"And so The Hunger Games commence," I explain, tapping my foot in the grass and feeling a glorious breeze brush over my cheekbones. "I can already see it; 24 tributes glued to platforms while a golden countdown blares in their eyes as they wait for the torturous alarm of their lives to blast out in the arena. One third tend to be killed at the opening of the cornucopia, and the rest flee for their lives, or what's left of them."

I think I'm making Mycroft uncomfortable, because he keeps shifting between the balls of his feet. I am done with my rant, so I suppose he's finding the right sentence to follow.

My brother's next remark is hurtful and I want to tell him that I don't need the negative advice right now. "The bad thing is, you still have a couple years after this reaping for you to get chosen; only, you'd be a more experienced fighter if you're selected at the age of 18."

"Thanks My..."

Off in the distance we hear a sort of bird calling out to it's children, and I am dying to throw my knife if it came into view and kill it for a meal.

"Come on," Mycroft says, squeezing my collarbone with his strong upper arm. "We'd better head back home so you can prepare for the ceremony."

"I really don't care," I snap back. "They have their vocabulary wrong; it's not a ceremony or an 'honored privilege' as they put it; it's an excuse to murder innocent people for fun."

I'm so frustrated I turn and take large strides back home alone, leaving my older brother contemplating about what I have become and how he'll deal with me when I'm all grown up; or perhaps when I'm possibly dead.

I reach our house twenty minutes before Mycroft does, and my mother is in the kitchen preparing a light soup for me to eat before I change my clothes. I thank her and take a seat at the wobbly table just as my brother walks in the front door. She plants a warm kiss on my cheek for a soothing touch, and she goes to look her best at the selection gathering as well, even though she definitely can't be chosen.

I have trouble gulping down the broth because the chunks of cooked chicken get stuck in the back of my throat. Mycroft passes by without taking one glance at me, and I don't care since he put me down while I was already in a state of misery. I get up from the table and place mu dishes in the sink, leaving them to sit on their own; I don't even bother to wash them off since my hands are shaking so badly.

I catch my mother exiting from her room as I come to get changed, and she rubs the knotted muscles in my back. I pat her hair, running my fingers through her silky locks; or maybe it's grease and I just can't tell the difference.

My mother leaves to let me change alone; for some reason everyone dresses as nicely as they can for the reaping ceremony. She's left me a clean shirt and a nice pair of dress pants for me to wear. A shiny pair of shoes is sitting on the foot of my bed, and I quickly dress myself and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

A tall, skinny boy looks back at me. High cheekbones line his pale face, and dark brown curls fall perfectly from an off center part. Shocking blue eyes look me up and down with a touch of green added to my irises. As I flatten the ruffles in my shirt I can't help thinking about all the other people up for selection during the reaping.

My brother is finished with his turn; he's too old to be entered into the games, so he goes to stand with my mother while I have to go through with hearing sacrificed names blared into a microphone, crossing my fingers every year that I don't get picked.

A hear a delicate knock on the door and I mumble for my only parent to come in. She opens the door a crack and peers her head around, staring at me through the mirror rather than at my actual self. I look into her eyes through the glassy surface, a frown permanently smeared on my face until this whole process is over and done.

Slowly her footsteps echo off the creaking wooden floorboards, and next second she's standing by my side and looking down on me; her youngest son.

"My boy," she whispers, and suddenly she breaks out in tears. I am pulled into a loving hug, burying my face in her chest and muttering soothing words so she calms down. Tears splotch my right shoulder as she weeps, and all too soon my sibling is lounging in the doorframe, no doubt coming to see what the commotion was about.

After a few long moments my mother breaks away from me, brushing off my collar and priming up my appearance. I turn my head to seek help or advice from my brother, but none comes. He simply frowned and gazed at the floor, shifting his weight between his two feet.

Before closing the door of my bedroom, I take in as much detail as I can about home. I collect the memories of all that happened in this house, never wanting to leave it's protection under the roof. Sadly, my fingers bring the handle to snap shut on the hinges, and I exhaled enormously as I have a strong gut feeling I'll never sleep in my bed again.

My mother holds me hand all the way to the district's main square, and my brother follows close behind like a watchdog. Our walk took some time; the village center was two miles away and everyone needed to arrive early for checkin. All around us, families and parents held on to their children, squeezing the air out of them before they even had a chance to be up for death anyway. Fathers helped prepare their kids for the selection and mothers nervously rushed about, cleaning off dirt from their family members' faces. You could tell when we were getting close to the gathering place because dozens of groups were scattered around and pushed through the crowd to say their final goodbyes.

We stopped near a large shed that was used for storing resources and was always bolted up so my family could wish me luck. Reaping day was the one day of the year where I received a hug from my brother, and I could feel my mother pulling at my hair as I headed off to join the rest of the crowd.

The Capitol had sent many men to come and set up a large stage right in the center of town, acting as a platform so everyone could hear and see the tributes being selected. Two large television were wired high up on balconies, and I knew they were for showing the video message from the Capitol that always played before the tributes are chosen.

Many tables had been set up so the people of age could check in, and I looked around to find the desk for the older kids. I had to wait in line for a while, but I just kept stepping up further to come closer to the ceremony starting.

"Next." I blinked a few times before realizing it was my turn to step forward, and I held out my hand for the man dressed in all while. I felt a painful jab at my pointer finger as he took a sample of my blood, no doubt classifying my true identity. There was no lying while you were under the watch of the Capitol.

I suck my bleeding finger as I go to stand my ground, stationed in the third row of boys; alphabetical order by last name. The boy next to me is praying to himself, clearly from an old religious group of people since no one really practices this kind of thing anymore.

It takes a little less than an hour for everyone to be situated, and then the people from the Capitol up on the stage move around to announce the first speech. Three men in polished black suits sit in the chairs near the city hall, and one lone ranger steps forward to tap on the microphone. The noise from just one touch in contact scars most of the crowd, as the volume is blaring in some peoples' ears.

"Welcome, welcome!" The male's voice is deep when he speaks, and he is wearing makeup specially originated in the Capitol. I always found the Capitol citizens to be deranged in a way, since they all walk around in the most bizarre fashion sense I have ever witnessed. The man is wearing bright lilac eye shadow with blue eyeliner, and his eyebrows have been tinted a light shade of green. His light brown hair is cut short and his black suit goes quite well with his gold buttoned-down shirt.

"Happy Hunger Games!" No one moves, let alone smiles. The people of the Capitol believe this is a celebratory time of year, but they never consider what it feels like for the tributes. They watch the games with greedy eyes, betting on who will be the lone victor and shouting when one tribute is about to kill another.

The man up on the stage, whose name was Remus, paused before continuing with his lecture. "Now, let's not waste time. After all, we need two tributes for District 1." You could tell the level of sorrow increased in less than a second, just from a short sentence.

Remus Lupin snapped his fingers to get the staff's attention, and suddenly a fuzzy grey background appeared on the right television screen. It took a few moments for the second electronic device to kick in and match the first's actions, but soon both were up and running. The blurry message flickered and then switched hesitantly over to a familiar video, straight from the Capitol. I've heard and watched this same video since the first time my name was entered in the tournament; I'm even surprised how I don't have it memorized yet. All I know is the first line of the informative video, and I repeat it in my head as it blares out through the speakers to the audience.

War. Terrible war.

The message goes on for about four minutes, and clearly Remus knows it like the back of his hand, because I can see him muttering under his breath as his words are faintly absorbed into the microphone.

But when the video ends, Remus announces to the watching crowd about a new addition to the selection ceremony; only for this year. "I just love seeing that video, don't you?" We all look at him like he's a slug or something.

"Right…" he mumbles, fumbling with his groomed hands. "Well, as you may know or have heard, this year is the 100th anniversary of The Hunger Games, which means it's the fourth Quarter Quell. This next message is from the President himself, all the way from the Capitol!" Why he sounds like he's about to burst his excitement bubble, I don't know. Clearly he can't take in and absorb our sulking features.

And then the person I hate most in the world pops up on the biggest screen in the square…

President Moriarty.

"Greetings tributes." His teasing and frivolous voice echoes through my ears, and I feel my temperature rising while I stare at his perfectly washed face. He's pale and his cheeks have a touch of pink about them. His navy blue suit has no wrinkles around the trim or edges, and his jet black hair is slicked all the way against his scallop.

"I suppose you may be wondering why I'm so thrilled to introduce myself this year. Since this is the 100th year of The Hunger Games, I am delighted to announce a…favor if I should put it that way, just for you all. Over the years, I have been watching each and every single one of you in secrecy, whether you like it or not." You could tell people were offended and made disgusted looks cross their faces; come on, even I thought it was mildly creepy. Having President Moriarty, the most murderous person in the world, spying on me? Perhaps he knows that I've been hunting in the woods…

If so, I'm sure to be punished soon.

The President combs his shiny hair back with his hand before carrying on, only showing off his power. "Before I drop the news on to you, I'd like to inform you that I have added a few members to my help team for this year's games…" A couple dozen people start whispering, thinking that this only meant more harm done to us.

Two figures merged in on the screen, taking a seat next to their evil and trusty master. One had matching hair that resembled the President's, which grew to stop at the back of his long neck. The other had short, blonde hair, specifically cut to swipe over his forehead. The darker haired man is wearing a long black and green cloak, and he has some crazy hat with horns curling over the back of his skull. The blonde was simply dressed in a fine black suit, with a matching tie that fell over his chest.

"My friends…" A lot of people snorted in the audience. I myself wouldn't call us, friends to the President. "Let me introduce my two colleagues; Loki and The Master." I have no idea who those two men are, but from both their wicked grins, I can tell they'll come up with some mischief in this year's Hunger Games.

"So, now that you've met my partners, it's time for the announcement I've been dying to tell you about all day."

What a bad joke…Not cool…

"Since this is the fourth Quarter Quell, while I've been observing you all, I have chosen 24 of you to represent your districts. 24 have already been chosen, and those are the only names that are lying in the bowls on the stages you're standing before. One lucky person is all that's in those bowls, and they will be the tributes in this year's Hunger Games. I have selected a various group of people who I believe will make a most…entertaining, event for the people of the Capitol."

Oh, stuff just got serious. Now everyone was wondering what one name remained in the selection bowls. Whoever it was, they had been selected especially by the President.

And now if you were picked, there really was no backing out. You were the only one would could be up for selection.

"So." The President took a long draw in his speech, and he bowed his head; perhaps to show his snickers for us. "I bid you all good luck and a happy Hunger Games. And remember," he sneered, "May the odds be ever in your favor." The screen squished into one thick wire, and then collapsed and became darkness once more.

Lupin stepped back up to the microphone to bellow out to the audience once more. "Well, it's that magical time!" The announcer flared his arms and bounced up and down excitedly, his bow tie swaying back and forth under the neck of his shirt. "Of course, ladies first."

He left to approach a large, crystal ball filled with pieces of paper. Each one of those slips has a name on it, and one unlucky person will be selected to fight in the games. Remus flexed his hand in the bowl and mixed around in the bucket before choosing his suitable name. He held it before his nose as he came back to announce the name to the entirety of the district; the name of the person the President had selected to compete.

"Nyota Uhura."

Whoever she was, I had didn't know. There were sighs of relief from the girls who hadn't been picked, and it took a while for the selected tribute to extract herself from the surrounding bodies. She was tall for seventeen, with darker skin and hard brown eyes. Her silky brown hair was pulled back in a right ponytail, and she looked as though her eyelashes would fall off at any second; they were so long they almost extended up to meet her eyebrows. Not bad for making all those deductions from seeing her walk up onto the stage.

Uhura fumbled with her hands as Lupin declared he would now select the boy tribute. The whole left side of people froze, even with inhaling, because this could've been the moment that would change their lives forever. I felt my stomach drop as he pulled out a familiar white sheet of paper with a name in black ink under the fold. Lupin's footsteps grew louder as he came back to the microphone, and he coughed, startling the audience before yelling out the words.

Off in the distance my mother must have covered her hand with her mouth she was so frightened, and maybe even my brother had tensed up muscles because of this day. I gathered up a large quantity of hot air that I swear I was on the verge of passing out; droplets of perspiration were beginning to line my forehead, and I shook from head to toe as my eyes went wide in terror.

Because the name he spoke to the audience, four syllables and all, was my own.

"Sherlock Holmes."