W.S.S.H.

A Face From the Past

I thought Sherlock was behind me until I heard him clear his throat behind me, making me turn in surprise. He was standing exactly where I left him, pretending to be studying the wall in front of him as if he hadn't made a move to get my attention.

"Well, are you going to let me get lost by myself?" I asked, kind of annoyed but kind of trying to return that certain charm.

"You're not a very good escort Mr. Watson." He pointed out. I groaned, wandering up to him and thrusting out my arm with annoyance. He smiled thankfully, taking my arm and letting me lead him away from the door. As we were walking (annoyingly slowly) his hand started to snake its way down my arm. At first I was rather taken aback because I thought he was feeling my arm for some reason, which was another level of creepy, but he took my hand, interlocking our fingers and letting both our arms swing by our sides. I looked over with surprise, but once again he wasn't looking at me, simply looking ahead. He may be pretending to not notice what he was doing, but he couldn't hide the blush in his cheeks or the stiffness he now walked with. Of course neither could I, my entire face glowing but I would never dream of taking my hand away. It was the first proper time we held hands; the dance didn't count just because it was required, but side by side it felt like our hands were made to be in each other's. Funny how that worked. I led us down halls I had never even seen, looking for a painting of a fat lady. In one seemingly deserted corridor there was a portrait of a lady that had obviously raided the kitchens one too many times, but after I threw random words at her she exchanged her own set of choice words and disappeared out of the frame.

"Ah well, paintings these days." Sherlock said with a slight chuckle. We moved on, and it seemed like forever that I stopped in the staircases to take a quick breather. I sat on the stone banister, not letting go of his hand which made for some complicated positioning, but after a while we were comfortably arranged.

"I've looked all night; I haven't the faintest where that bloody fat lady is." I grumbled.

"So you're giving up?" Sherlock asked.

"By the time I actually find her it'll be midnight." I pointed out.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, his voice very high, as if he was trying to point the obvious out to me.

"Quite sure, yes." I sighed.

"Well then, Mr. Watson, I'm afraid your eyesight might be faulty." He shrugged, pointing directly behind him to a large mural of a lady in a pink dress.

"You said she was fat!" I defended, seeing as she looked like a normal human.

"Well I guess in your world she would be considered thin, since everyone there weighs no less than three hundred pounds..." Sherlock said.

"Oh shut up!" I hissed, jumping off the banister and walking over to the painting. The Fat Lady looked at us with a slight frown, as if she was tired and not wanting to be bothered.

"Can you let us in?" I asked, the first thing I decided to try.

"Do you have the password?" She asked simply.

"I don't think anyone does anymore." I pointed out.

"Dumbledore gave me strict instructions not to let anyone in if they don't have the password." It was like she was mocking us now.

"No one in this castle knows the password, so how about we make a new one?" I decided.

"What's the password?" she asked once again.

"Oh for god's sake, Dumbledore isn't here either! So let us in!" Sherlock demanded. The Fat Lady didn't budge at his anger; in fact she didn't look affected at all.