Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Part one of Two.

THE HEAT AND THE HEART IN THE WHISKY

The Isle of Skye

Somewhere to the left of The Arse of Nowhere

Now

By the time they see the bothy in the distance, Molly has accepted that Sherlock Holmes will be the death of her.

Of course, she had often thought in the past that the consulting detective would be the death of her, what with the bomb threats and the criminal genius vendettas, and the criminal genius-causing-vendettas (who also just happen to be his sister) making bomb threats, but this time is different.

This time, it's serious.

Because this time he'd dragged her to the middle of bloody nowhere, Scotland, in the middle of bloody winter, (November) on what was supposed to be a mere four of a case and which hadn't even been a two. (Turned out, the Butler did actually do it). This time he'd finagled her into using her holidays from Bart's to get dragged through the Lothians and all across both Glasgow and Edinburgh, being shot at at every turn.

And now, now, when they'd finally managed to bag their quarry and hand him over to the local police, now she nevertheless finds herself being dragged through the Isle of Skye in Baltic conditions, trying to find some mythical safe house she's not entirely certain exists, cursing Sherlock Holmes and detectives more generally. Wondering why on Earth she allowed this to happen to her. She's shivering. Soaking. Starving. Miserable and hopeless. Her teeth are chattering so loudly you could dance a rumba to them and she's trudging through snow up to her knees while Sherlock-

Well, Sherlock is being bloody Sherlock.

That is, he's unshaken. Determined. Dashing of profile and heroic of brow. He's forging ahead, his jacket collar up around his cheekbones and his hat pulled down low on his head; every so often a gust of wind swooshes about the Belstaff and makes it flare around him, reminding her of nothing so much as a sorcerer in a cape and every. Single. Time she feels a flare of annoyance. No, rage.

Because he's not miserable, oh no.

His teeth do not appear to be auditioning to take part in this year's Strictly Come Dancing.

No, with his rather longer legs he's making fine work of the snow, pulling well ahead of her, and merely throwing her the occasional cocked eyebrow over his shoulder. The occasional smug admonition to hurry up- "Come along and stop dawdling, Molly," he tells her, "you need to make those short little legs work harder-"

It's infuriating, Molly thinks. Infuriating. She should work her little legs by kicking the crap out of him. He doesn't even look cold: he looks windswept. Handsome. Un-bloody-believably romantic.

And possibly, possibly, not long for this earth if Molly gets her hands on him.

It is only with great difficulty that Molly reminds herself that murder is always considered a crime- And that, despite her suspicions, Mycroft probably wouldn't help her to hide his baby brother's corpse.

Drat.

Perhaps this murderous turn of mind shows in Molly's face, for once they get to the bothy's garden gate he pauses. Holds it open for her and, once she trundles awkwardly through, slows to walk beside her for the final stage of their journey.

When they reach the front door he fishes in his pocket and produces both a penlight and a bunch of keys, two of which he uses to open the front door. Once inside- he gestures for her to go first- he locks the doors. Tries the lights.

"Blast," he mutters when nothing happens. A smug look at Molly. "Good thing I came prepared then, isn't it?"

And, using the penlight he leads her towards the kitchen. Tries that door and, when it doesn't give, uses another of the keys to open it.

Inside Molly sees a single room, heavy curtains closed fast against the cold outside. There's a grammophon. An ancient-looking fridge and sink. An old-fashioned stoves set into the wall, a small pile of wood beside it, and atop it sits a basket of what looks like food. (God, she hopes it's food). A curtain has been hung up across the length of the room and when she pulls that back it reveals a large double bed, piled high with pillows and blankets.

A quickly scribbled note sits atop these linens, which Sherlock tries to snatch up to read.

Molly beats him to it.

"Apologies, Will," she reads aloud, "but this was the best I could do at such short notice. The crofter normally in residence is away, awaiting the birth of a lamb. You therefore have the place for the next three days, but please, please, don't set anything on fire-"

"It was just one time," Sherlock sniffs, but Molly rushes on rather than inquire.

Experience tells her she probably doesn't want to know.

"Your lady and you should be fine," the note continues. If there's a flutter in her chest at being referred to as Sherlock's lady, she sternly tamps it down. "There's wood for the stove and food in the kitchen. Stay away from the windows and you will avoid detection. Should you become snowed in, Auld Willie Slocombe will checks on the property every Tuesday: he will find your frozen corpses and see that you get a Christian burial which I will not pay for (but hopefully it won't come to that).

And as ever, this time you owe me, young man,

Yours,

Lettie McKenzie."

Molly looks at Sherlock. "Who's Lettie McKenzie?" She asks with mock innocence.

Lettie, of course, being a woman's name.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at her: Apparently even he can guess what she's getting at. His glower indicates he's not impressed with the teasing, but Molly is too bloody cold and pissed off to care. "Leticia McKenzie is an old friend of my mother's, if you must know," he says archly. "Owns half of Scotland, married herself an Earl. When the case looked like it was heading Northwards I got in touch." He gestures to the bothy's interior, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Though I must admit, I had rather assumed she would secure better accommodation that this…"

Molly shrugs. "It's warm and dry," she says. "Beggars can't be choosers, and all that."

Her eyes are drawn to the snow storm outside and she doesn't bother to suppress her shiver.

Sherlock shoots her an unreadable look.

For a moment he seems about to say something, but at the last second changes his mind. Molly can't help but suspect that that was wise, considering how much of a pain in the arse he's being.

"Yes, well," he hedges. "Why don't you start unpacking the food and I'll see if I can get the stove working?"

His cheeks have turned a rather surprising… pink colour and he appears to be fascinated by the carpet at Molly's right foot. Molly's mind boggles: Sometimes the workings of that Big Damn Brain of his really do defy belief. But at the mention of food her stomach rumbles loudly and that settles it. She walks over to the stove and starts sorting though the basket of food. It's mainly cheeses and bread, dried fish and fruit.

There is, however, an absolutely massive bottle of honey-gold scotch at the bottom of it.

Without stopping to think- and, indeed, feeling far too cold to believe it necessary- Molly opens the bottle. Takes a nip.

She feels the liquid burn its way down her throat and a little of the cold in her bones retreats from her.

It feels so good that she takes another sip.

As she does she watches Sherlock kneel down. Expertly clear the stove's main chamber and stuff it with wood and paper.

Of course it lights the first time he tries it. Of course it does.

By the time she's taken her third nip, Sherlock's coaxing the fire into life and asking her to leave him some of that whisky-

What she doesn't notice, of course, if where he's looking while he's saying that.

Because his eyes are fastened- as is his Big Damn Brain- on the fact that the bothy only has one bed…