#hungerlock

[gallantgabby]

Hungerlock

John volunteers in place of Sherlock when he is called. They haven't met each other, and there is very little chance John will come back alive. Sherlock spends the rest of the time trying to keep John alive in the games by donating all he can. 

[jawnderlust-blog]

Hungerlock fic thoughts

After the reaping Sherlock, an experimental physicist from District 3,  meets John Haymitch Watson, a tan grain harvester from District 9, during training and they can’t keep their eyes off of each other. In the arena John sneaks up on a tribute and almost kills him before he realizes it’s Sherlock. John can’t help but admire how gorgeous Sherlock’s body looks in the skin-tight arena suit. They stare at each other breathlessly before one of Sherlock’s traps kills a tribute that was about to attack John. John pulls Sherlock to his feet and tries to thank him but can’t stop stuttering and blushing with Sherlock’s calculating face so close to his. Sherlock leans in and they kiss. The kiss quickly turns passionate and desperate. A chorus of chiming breaks them apart as they are bombarded with sponsor gifts, eliciting joyous laughter from the pair. They become inseparable and save each other from other tributes’ attacks until Sherlock finally finds a way to escape from the arena. Mycroft collects them and they join the rebels to take down the Capital.

Written for aiwa-sensei's Hungerlock drawing :)

[socially-awkward-detective-blog]

//Would anyone be interested in doing a Hunger!Lock thread?

[sightkeeper]

I wish I had more time to put into this, but for now, here ya go! Thanks so much guys!

Hi Res

[sightkeeper]

Tell me your Hungerlock head canon. :)

And if you have a certain scene in mind, maybe I'll draw it if I can slip it in! 

[sightkeeper]

I'm going to be very disappointed in you lot that liked the first Hungerlock picture and then you ignore the second.

And I love you. Let's angst together. :)

[sightkeeper]

I am going to start tracking the Hungerlock tag and I really hope it just grows exponentially. And I'll probably be contributing a bunch if I can.

[deastrumquodvicis]

The longer Sherlock was off the screen, the better, according to Mycroft.  It meant nothing interesting (read: dangerous) was happening to him.  Simply by hiding, Sherlock had outlasted more than half of the tributes, which admittedly was odd for a career, but he was just a small boy, really, it was his safest bet.

Sherlock was slender and small, and easily sat in some of the highest branches of the tree, which was fortunate as something about the sixth day had given him a sensory overload.  He sat huddling, holding his ears, eyes shut, trying not to move or feel or anything, until the cannon went off and the boy from nine was finally killed.  Fortunately nothing else major happened that day.

A package from his district came in on day ten.  A gift of fruit from his mother, a few strawberries (his favourite), along with a note of encouragement from Mycroft and a stay safe from his father.  Sherlock smiled and put the capsule in his pocket before leaving the area.  After all, the packages were beacons and not exactly silent and invisible.

Day twelve and he was running for his life along the bank of a little stream, the boy from four and girl from two not far behind and several years older.  Mycroft watched in horror and Mr. Holmes was holding his wife.  "Come on, Sherlock, run," Mycroft muttered under his breath.  "Run!"  And Sherlock was running, trying to find a way to get out, but the banks were growing steeper and there was no way to turn around as he was now running in water up to his knees.  "Help," the little boy pleaded as he was struck from behind with an arrow, blood gushing from his chest and mixing with the water that was taking him downstream again, limp.

The cameras focused in on Sherlock's eyes, somehow from underwater, and then a cannon fired.