John hands Sherlock a squat glass filled two thirds full and receives a puzzled look in reply. "What's this?"
He'd got lucky. The publican, who was also their host, had been sympathetic, and generous. When John had asked for a bracer, he'd dusted off a fifteen year old Speyside single malt from his personal stash instead of the mid-priced blended he served to tourists in the bar, and poured generously.
"Whisky," he replies, although the warming scent of honey and heather makes it obvious. "I thought we'd get quietly pissed and then call it a night."
"Why?"
John shrugs, as if his reasons are self explanatory, and then clambers up to sit on the rough-hewn stone wall next to Sherlock. He takes a sip of scotch and holds it in his mouth, letting the flavours bloom on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. It's every bit as good as he'd anticipated it would be and he fervently hopes that Sherlock won't fight him on his plans for the remainder of the evening.
The night is cold and clear. Across the meadow, where sheep are sleeping amongst the erratically cropped grass, smoke curls out of the remains of what was once the ancestral home of Sir Roscoe Butterfield, financier. Occasionally an ember snaps to life, and a few moments later a weary fire fighter trains his hose, drowning the spark before it can do more damage. Not that there is much more damage that can be done.
"Oh, I see," Sherlock says slowly after several long moments where the only sounds are that of a dog barking and the sheep calling to one another. "You plan to get drunk enough to cause me concern. Then I, rather than striking out on my own and further endangering myself, will feel obligated to keep watch over you. That's clever! How long did it take you to think it up?"
John ignores the jibe. He takes another mouthful of whisky and lets it trickle down his throat. It's a little more peaty than he's used to, and reputedly a little more smoky flavoured. But after following Sherlock into a burning building and hauling him back out again, everything smells and tastes vaguely of smoke. What he does know for certain is it's warming a spot in his gut that had turned to ice when he heard a ceiling beam crack and then watched in horror as the splintered end hurtled towards Sherlock's head.
"Or do you hope I'll drink myself into oblivion and let the alcohol blunt the cold, hard truth that I wasn't fast enough or clever enough to stop a common embezzler and murderer?"
If it wasn't obvious before, it's painfully clear now that Sherlock is furious with himself. Not that he had any reason to be. He'd found the true solution to a case DI McPherson, as thorough and meticulous a policeman as the Scottish constabulary had ever produced, had deemed irrefutably solved.
"I just thought ... "
John hesitates for a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. He needs to halt Sherlock's downward spiralling mood before it becomes irredeemable. Bad things happen when Sherlock lets himself get consumed by self loathing. He's prone to lashing out in unpredictable ways and right now he's spoiling for a fight.
Glen Alba is a beautiful little highland village, the sort he would like to return to some day when they have the time to enjoy the fishing and the scenery properly. The locals, for the most part, have been welcoming, although there were a few rough lads in the bar the night they'd arrived. Those hard-eyed neds were the sort that Sherlock would seek out if left to his own devices. And if he did, then a punch up was the least of John's worries.
"It's been a tough night. I thought it would be a good way to knock away the rough edges. Maybe even put it behind us."
A few drinks generally caused Sherlock to unwind and open up. He needed to talk things through rather than retreat into his head to dissect the events of the past few days like a corpse on the autopsy table until there wasn't anything left to pick apart.
"I was too slow, John!" Sherlock says bitterly. "Too bloody slow. And because of it – " He uses his glass to point towards the remains of the smoking building and whisky sloshes over the rim. " – the proof that would exonerate Alexander Wilkes has gone to ash." He glances over and his face is dour. "In case you haven't noticed, it's quite difficult to get a corpse to testify."
"Is it though?" John's been thinking about this ever since he grabbed Sherlock around the waist and hauled him backwards away from certain death.
Alexander Wilkes' defence team had commissioned Sherlock to prove their client's innocence. Sherlock had taken the case, even though it had seemed that the police had brought the right man to book. He was bored, and wanted a challenge.
But as it turned out, the police had got it wrong.
It had been Ben Webster, the senior clerk, not their client Alexander Wilkes, who had struck the fatal blow. He had then pointed the finger of guilt, incriminating the junior clerk at every turn, seemingly without intending to do so. His had been a cleverly orchestrated performance from start to finish. Inspector McPherson had certainly been taken in, much to his chagrin.
Sherlock had seen straight through him. And then he had set a trap. He had let it be known that he had proof that the account books in the safe were forgeries and a handwriting expert would prove who the forger was. Since the combination was known only to the murdered man - and Webster, but he didn't know that they knew - a locksmith would be called out in the morning and then the proof would be in the hands of the police. All Webster had to do was sneak in and steal the books. They, in turn, would sweep in and catch him in the act.
It should have been simple, but they hadn't counted on the faulty wiring, and the resultant electrical fire. Or on Webster's determination to see the scheme through.
"It seems to me that Webster spoke loud and clear when he ran into the building even though the fire had already started," John replies. "He must have known the game was up, but he made a last ditch effort anyway, just in case the safe was fireproof."
Sherlock takes a sip of his drink at last and then he nods his head. "Perhaps you're right." He lapses into silence, his gaze alternating between the smouldering wreckage and his glass, which he steadily drains.
They drink without conversation, letting the night noises fill the void as the moon climbs higher in the sky.
From time to time John glances surreptitiously at his companion. Gradually Sherlock's conflicted expression softens. Some of the anger leaches away only to be replaced by something equally uncomfortable. He clears his throat, tries to speak, and then tries once more. "You saved my life tonight," he says at last. "Thank you."
John shrugs, and accidentally-on-purpose brushes his shoulder against Sherlock's. It's one of those delicate moments where it'd be easy to say the wrong words and make things even more awkward. He opts for a nonchalant approach and keeps the bollocking he wants to give Sherlock for putting Webster's confession over his personal safety to himself.
"So does this make us even?" he asks casually. "Or do you still owe me?" He frowns into his nearly empty glass, adding up the various times they've come to the other's rescue. "Or do I still owe you? I've lost track again."
Sherlock gives him a sidelong look and the ghost of a smile. "Does it matter?"
John shakes his head. "No, I suppose not. As long as we both make it out at the end of the day." It's a small slip up. A minor admonishment. But Sherlock seems to get the message. For a moment he appears chastened and then he bumps John's shoulder in the same accidentally-on-purpose sort of way.
They touch glasses, a silent promise that no matter what trouble they fall into they will always have one another's backs.
"Despite what happened," John says quietly, "you were brilliant tonight. I want you to know that. You blew the procurator fiscal's case against Alex Wilkes clean out of the water. Garvey is going to be ecstatic when he gets your report."
"I suppose Webster's actions do have a whiff of reasonable doubt about them," Sherlock concedes. He drinks the last of his scotch and seems lost in thought as he contemplates the empty glass.
The air is brisk. Sherlock, in his heavy wool greatcoat, doesn't seem to notice, but John does and he shivers as a chill breeze blows the scent of smoke over them. He drains his glass and hops off of the wall. The scotch hits his brain as his feet touch the cobbles and he sways.
Sherlock's reactions aren't the least bit affected. He catches John's arms and holds him steady until he can find his footing. "Better?"
He nods, glad to see the flash of concern in Sherlock's pale eyes. "I think I need something to eat. With all the excitement we've missed a few meals."
Sherlock stands. He loops his arm over John's shoulder and tips his head towards the pub. "Come on. The salmon in these parts is unparalleled. And it just so happens to be tonight's main course. If we're lucky, they'll have kept some aside for us."
The arm against his shoulders is comforting. The smile that lights Sherlock's eyes and makes them dance is a relief. The kiss Sherlock plants against the crown of his head is a surprise. "What was that for?" John asks, bemused by Sherlock's exuberance.
"You're my candle in the dark," Sherlock replies before he tugs John down the garden path. Sometimes it's hard to tell when he's being sarcastic, but now it seems obvious that he is being completely sincere.
A blush heats John's cheeks. He's warm all the way through to his core, and it has nothing to do with single malt whisky.