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.
"I will not let you use my common room as a love nest Mr. Holmes." She snapped. Whatever Sherlock was expecting it wasn't that, he took a small step back and started to blush furiously, but half of the blush was from pure rage.
"You will let us in!" he screamed. "I will cut you out of the painting!"
"Then you'll have no one to open it. Sorry to say but us Gryffindors take more pride than a stone wall." It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about the Slytherin common room. Sherlock's free hand turned into a fist and for a moment I thought he was actually going to attack her, but then he turned away.
"Mr. Watson, we're leaving." He decided.
"Yep." I agreed, glaring at her one last time. He started leading me away, in a sort of angry pout thing that put things around him at risk.
"You be careful with him okay dear?" the Fat Lady called. "I don't want you to..."
"Oh shut up!" Sherlock said in a loud almost scream voice, cutting off whatever the Fat Lady was going to tell me. He lead me through the hallways, down the stairs, and back into the Slytherin Common room through the wall/door. There was a password on this one, but, being a Slytherin, I'm guessing that he knew it beforehand.
"Every time it's 'I can't let you in, I need the password.'" He did a very awful, high pitched impression of the Fat Lady. I sat in an armchair while Sherlock paced in front of the fire, looking very disturbed at not being able to figure something out.
"It's fine, not like there's anything in there you need." I pointed out.
"God I want to strangle her." Sherlock growled, not seeming to hear me.
"What did she mean by love nest?" I asked, making Sherlock pause a little bit.
"What do you think? She's trying to drive you away as well, as if I'm some playboy or something." he said with boredom.
"You're...not right?" I asked nervously. He looked at me with a slightly crooked smile but didn't answer. I think we both knew he wasn't, but it was better to make sure. After all he's told me, he's only had one crush and no girlfriend.
"We could sneak in through the windows!" He said excitedly, looking to the watery windows near the ceiling.
"No way, I am not going swimming to get into another common room." I defended.
"I know that, but there are other windows in this place." He pointed out.
"Wait, what time is it?" I asked suddenly. Sherlock groaned.
"Maybe eleven, but that's not..."
"Eleven! I need to go back Sherlock, I need to sleep!" I pointed out.
"Oh come on, just stay until midnight, I need to figure this out." he pleaded.
"You've got the rest of your life, but at the moment I don't, so please let me go home." I decided.
"Oh fine, have a nice night Mr. Watson." He decided, not bothering to glance over for more than a second before the light started to glow all around me, making me appear in my bedroom once again. The lights were off again and the door was closed, once again mom thought I was already asleep. I looked at the clock, like he had said, around eleven. I sighed, putting the pencil down but holding the book protectively against my chest. Poor Sherlock, he had really lost it hadn't he? I wanted to do something to help; I didn't want him playing Batman all alone. What if he fell off the roof or something? And what the Fat Lady had said, warning me to be careful with him, as if he's had a past of hurting people or something. He's never hurt me, as he said that was the first promise he gave me and I believed him. Maybe he did have a thing for twisted spells and revenge, but I never did anything to him and I'd expect he'd never do anything to me. I sighed, but closed my eyes eventually, wondering when I could see him again.
The morning routine, as usual, alarm, get dressed, bathroom, breakfast, packing, saying goodbye. Bus stop, school bus, Greg, locker, algebra. My life was the same boring thin over and over again apparently. But in the first couple of minute of algebra I was able to get the book out again.
How'd you make out?
Got in through the window and scared the Fat Lady to death by walking out the door.
What did she say? I'm not quite sure; she's not allowed to swear so I think she made up her own dictionary. That's good. Are you happy now? Happy? No. Satisfied? For now. That's good, I guess. Well once again I'm stuck in this hell hole, I'd do anything to be with you right now. Same here Mr. Watson, it's quite boring during the day here.
Sorry to hear that but at least you don't get homework. It feels like house arrest. Ya, house arrest in a castle, you poor thing. No need to get all sarcastic Mr. Watson. Dang it, got to go. I frowned as the teacher started talking, closing the book but wanting so badly to open it back up again and let the light take me. Part of me was thinking it could be fun to scare everyone, make them think I had died or something, but then again I didn't want to wake up in a coffin or something. All through school there was only one thought on my mind, and that was Sherlock. Anything seemed to relate back to him, Algebra, how we met, English, how he talks so grammatically, science, how smart he was to even invent that, history, Hogwarts history, even lunch makes me wonder about what he's eating at the moment. When I was finally allowed to get on the bus and leave it was like a dream come true because I knew the book was tucked away safely in my backpack, ready for another visit.
"Can you come over?" Greg asked hopefully.
"Sorry, I've got loads of homework." I lied.
"Come on, homework is all you do anymore, besides this is really important." Greg debated, trying puppy eyes, which didn't work very well.
"What's so important then?" I asked, knowing that even if the world was about to explode, nothing was going to change my mind.
"It's about, uh," he looked suspiciously around us, making sure no one was tuning in, "About the book." He said in a whisper. I was definitely not expecting that answer, trying not to look too obsessive over it or anything.
"What about it?" I hissed.
"Well I guess you'll have to come over and find out." Greg said in an almost sing song voice.
"Sounds like creepy online dating." I decided.
"Seriously though, you need to see this." He pointed out as the bus brakes hissed, announcing the arrival at his stop.
"Okay, fine." I decided, deciding maybe Sherlock can wait. What could he possibly have found out about the whole thing? I doubted it was very well documented, if anyone knew about the book then it would be in a science lab undergoing every test known to man. I followed him off the bus, breathing in the fresh, chilly fall air, a very good substitute to the stinky bus. We waited for it to leave before crossing back over the road, walking up to his house as I sent a quick explanatory text to mom. I followed him upstairs to his room, politely saying hello to his mom and baby sister, who was currently getting force fed mashed peas or something. Greg grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen and ran to meet me, closing the door and sitting at his desk.
"So what's so important?" I asked.
"Do you have the book?" he asked.
"Ya."
"Give it here." Greg said, booting up the laptop and holding out his hand. I debated whether or not to give it to him, would he mess it up, get chip grease on the pages?
"Why do you need it?" I asked nervously.
"Just give it!" he demanded, and, very cautiously, I pulled the book out of my backpack and handed it over. He pulled up a page online, scrolling through what looked like a news article.
"So I decided to do a little bit more research on this psycho guy, just to see if he actually was real, and check this out." he moved aside for me to see, and my heart almost stopped. It was Sherlock, some school picture or something, scowling with boredom at the camera. It was one of those grainy brown pictures from who knows when, but I was absolutely positive.
"No way..." I muttered.
"I know right? I guess he was real, a dropout of some boarding school but he had to go for a couple of years in high school, then he went crazy, killing all these kids and one teacher, then crawling into the caves with one of the bodies and shooting himself in the head." Greg mimicked a pistol under his chin, but there was a wide smile on his face. But I wouldn't smile, not once, it couldn't be Sherlock, he wasn't a murderer, he was perfectly innocent, but why was he in this article?
"When was this?" I asked in a weak voice, looking at the book as if he would pop out and start shooting.
"Sometime in the late 1800's I think, but that's not the best part, look at the letters on the book." He held it up, as if I hadn't already memorized every inch of that book, "W.S.S.H., the killer's name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes. We found the diary of a psychopath!" he said excitedly. I didn't know what to think, whether to cry, to scream, to go to Sherlock or to burn the book where it lies. Sherlock, my Sherlock, the gentleman that had seemed so innocent, killing six people? Not possible, there was some type of mix-up, there had to be.
"I need to go." I decided at once, grabbing the book off the desk and running out the door, my backpack bouncing off one shoulder and hitting the door as I ran out. This couldn't be, it just couldn't, but I guess I was going to find out one way or another. I ran out the door without a goodbye or explanation, knowing Greg might run after me, but I'd just lock him out. I sprinted faster than I've ever before, soon at my house and practically breaking down the door, scaring my mom, who was in the kitchen, out of her wits.
"John! I thought you were going to be at Greg's!" she pointed out. I didn't answer, running to my room and throwing my backpack to the floor. I locked the door and pushed a chair in front to the handle, it would take some force to get in, hopefully sending the message to get the heck out of my room. I sat in my bed, holding my pencil and staring at the book nervously. What would he do, should I even go or should I get rid of the book as fast as possible? I decided I'd take my chances, he said he wouldn't hurt me, and I guess I have to count on him to hold that promise. I opened it ever so slightly, the seam creaking ever so slightly from over use.
Sherlock, let me in. My handwriting was shaky, something he'd be sure to notice, but I didn't care.
Very well Mr. Watson. The light started to glow again, no second chances now.