For dietplainlite

The Accidental Bridegroom
Chapter One: Putting the 'Bride' in 'Hebrides'

When Molly arrived at his door two hours into his investigation, Sherlock didn't have to wonder how or why she'd found him. His mother's meddlesome machinations bore a brand of their own. He only spared a moment to consider the expense and manipulation Mummy had gone to in convincing a guileless Molly that her assistance was crucial to Sherlock, and necessary post-haste.

He stared at Molly for several seconds as she smiled sweetly at him from the Welcome mat. He childishly took a moment to wish that he'd thought to flip it over when he arrived, as if that would have stopped this particular houseguest. And then he took a moment to wish he had slammed the door the moment he realized who'd knocked.

Even then, kind, marvelous Molly Hooper would only take cruel dismissal as a sign that Mummy's concerns were legitimate, and then she'd probably muscle her way past him and start clucking over imagined ills.

But even with those fleeting regrets, he couldn't convince himself that he was unhappy to see her. Not when she smiled at him like that. He couldn't spout off caustic words in a vain attempt to prove the materfamilias wrong; not when the coastal wind had pulled loose several strands of hair around her face from her short ponytail and the cold air had turned the apples of her cheeks and the tip of her nose red. And most certainly not with the clenching belly, palpitating heart rate, and mortifying flush that flooded him each and every time he'd seen Molly in recent months.

Not when he'd actively sought her out so he could feel those horrid sensations even more.

So he just scowled and moved out of the way, waving her in impatiently.

"Are you okay?" she asked gently in greeting as she stepped inside. She brushed a concerned hand across his hip as she moved past, and he sucked in a quiet, surprised breath. "Your mother told me—"

"That I am in danger?" he interrupted with an eye roll, glad for the excuse to move away from thoughts about his body's reaction to her.

Molly actually looked sheepish. "Well, yes. She said that you had accepted a 'cockamamie' case that might well be the end of you."

Cockamamie. The end of me. It was even worse than Sherlock had initially thought. "How on earth would this case do me in?" he demanded. "I'm not after a seasoned, stone-cold assassin or anything dangerous."

"You're not?"

"No! I'm looking for some ridiculous holiday-makers who've gone missing."

"Oh." She shifted a little, uncomfortable. "Then why did your mother—"

"I have my suspicions." He didn't bother to expound.

They stared at each other for a beat and then, in a burst of frenetic energy, Molly whirled back to the door. The timid pattering of rain—deceptively idyllic, not hinting at an oncoming gale despite the certainty of storming—was the only thing that greeted them.

She deflated. "He left me. He just drove off."

Moving closer, Sherlock peered over her shoulder. "Who did?"

"My transfer car from Stornoway. He didn't even want to drive me all the way out here, but your mother paid him ahead of time. I hadn't realized it until I tried to hire a car for myself at the airport and he waylaid me."

"Thorough of her," Sherlock muttered.

"Thorough?"

He shook his head. "Never mind. You're here now, and you've just beaten the storm. Are you hungry?"

"You can't take me back to Stornoway?"

Sherlock snorted. "If you're content to camp at the airfield for half a week, then certainly."

"Oh." She chewed her lip in distress. "This is one of those places, is it?"

"If by 'those', you mean Monday-through-Wednesday-only air service, then yes."

"Brilliant." Her tone suggested it was anything but.

In a true Jekyll/Hyde moment, Sherlock mentally cursed what was to come even as glee swamped him over the unexpected turn of events. On one hand, Molly Hooper had been shoved onto a remote island because his mother was a matchmaking busybody who'd decided she was no longer content with her younger son's bachelorhood. On the other hand, Molly Hooper was stuck here with him for at least five nights and there was only one bed.

Turning away from the door, Molly actually looked at the room behind him for the first time. "Are you sure you're okay?" she insisted.

He glowered. It was quite easy to pretend upset, he was finding. Latching the door with firm emphasis, he scoffed at her. "Of course I'm okay. What makes you think otherwise?"

She waved a bewildered hand in a span of the round room and up to its billowing roof. "It's just… really, Sherlock? Glamping? In a yurt?"

Maurice Stonebridge had appeared at Baker Street on a gloomy, October morning. Sherlock had only just managed enough interest in the day to shower and dress when Mrs. Hudson led the desperate university student into Sherlock's lounge. He'd scowled uninvitingly at both of them while he continued to blot at his wet hair with a towel, but his landlady had merely moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Deciding someone's nattering might be better than his planned morning of research, Sherlock had thrown himself into his chair and waved an imperious hand at the young man, directing him towards John's old chair. As soon as the tea had appeared, he'd politely asked the boy to speak. Or at least somewhat politely. Or at least he'd asked.

What had come out was story of four, foolish twenty-somethings eager to take in the sights of the Outer Hebrides; namely, the western-most Isles of Lewis and Harris. Privileged students of the Cambridge set, they'd decided that only way to experience the true wilds of Scotland was to try their hand at that most time-honored (meaning new and stupid) tradition of glamourous camping, or 'glamping'.

Armed with ingenuity (read: more foolishness), they'd set out. They'd only brought with them the necessities, as well as several thousand pounds' worth of frivolous décor and ninety quid bedrolls that might offer padding to a falling leaf and little else.

Stonebridge had explained to an increasingly impatient consulting detective that he and his three friends spent the first three days of their holiday exploring the uninhabited islands that dotted the shores of Lewis, only retiring to their rented broch late each night for—Sherlock could only assume—meals of organic highland cow pies, micro-brewed IPA beers, and exotic fruit compotes. He imagined the pretentious travelers disaffectedly singing a few verses of Lumineers songs before bed.

And then, on the morning of the fourth day, Stonebridge woke to find that Posy Whitehall, Brooks Flannery, and Theo Blackburn had disappeared in the night with their clothes, leaving little trace behind. Not even their £90 bedrolls remained.

Mrs. Hudson had smacked the back of Sherlock's head when he'd lamented aloud that the lost, expensive bedding was the greatest pity of the disappearance of Stonebridge's friends.

The islands constabulary had issued an all-points bulletin and sought the missing students, but they'd ultimately called off the search when four weeks passed and their efforts yielded no results. They then turned suspicious eyes on Stonebridge. Despite an utter dearth of evidence, the young man became their prime suspect. Insisting on his innocence, Stonebridge wanted Sherlock to prove it.

Not enthusiastic, per se, Sherlock had packed up a week's supply of warm clothes (he'd made sure to inform the younger man of just what he thought about making camp at the height of autumn) and had set off for the Scottish Isles. Stonebridge expressed a wish to come with him, but Sherlock had sniffed and suggested that the boy might consider it in his best interests to return to Cambridge, where term was just beginning. As a parting shot, he'd also suggested that Stonebridge confront his father about his compulsive gambling habit, but that had honestly been more for Sherlock's entertainment than any need to dissuade company.

The broch the students had let for their holiday was now occupied by another party, so Sherlock had grudgingly allowed the boutique camping agent to book him in a nearby lodging. When he'd pulled up in front of the large, cream yurt, Sherlock's first instinct had been to turn around and fly back to London. Upon entering the structure and taking in the plush bed, the tasteful artwork, and the (possibly Yeti) fur rug in front of a wood-burning stove, however, he'd decided it would actually suit him rather well.

Despite the mawkishness that plagued him whenever he looked at Molly Hooper in recent weeks, and an admitted happiness in having her there now, Sherlock did admit that he should have withheld his candor when his mother had called him while he made his way to Heathrow the next morning. She'd expressed interest in his attending the theatre with her—Billy Elliott, dear science—and Sherlock had feigned regret over his impending trip.

He should have thought long and hard about the piqued interest in Mummy's voice when she'd casually asked him if he was dragging John along with him. Especially when said interest became downright avid as soon as he'd explained John's decision to remain behind with his wife and daughter. She'd slyly suggested that he shouldn't go it alone, and then huffed and puffed when he snippily told her that he'd be fine on his own, thank you very much. Ultimately, though, she'd stood down. Far, far too easily, as it turned out.

It was like he'd never encountered her calculating ways before.

The fruit of that calculation was currently looking around with a curled lip at the sheepskin rug and expensive accoutrements. The very things that Sherlock had relished on arrival did not impress her.

"People actually consider this camping?" she asked, adjusting the straps on her rucksack.

Sherlock bristled. "Yes." He didn't mean for his tone to sound quite so defensive. But still, "What else would it be?"

Her eyes moved pointedly around the yurt's plush interior. "Staying in a hotel. A fancy hotel."

Desperately, he wondered if he could keep her from going into the partitioned water closet, where the giant copper tub and expensive toiletries awaited use. Perhaps he could tell her that she had to bathe in the brackish water of the loch. That's not such a bad idea, chimed in his libido, as the kitchen area's window overlooked the small, nearby beach. He stored that idea temporarily. He had an argument to win and his pride to maintain.

"Hotels aren't self-catering," he crowed triumphantly. He felt pleased with his irrefutable point.

"Oh ho!" Her eyes actually twinkled with mirth, and it was annoying and distracting and made his heartbeat hitch a little. "Are you going to have a fry-up at the wood-burning hob?"

He'd planned to go to a nearby bothy for any meals, but pride had him sneering, "Maybe I was. They provided me a basket of food for just that purpose at check-in."

"Food delivery, eh? Just like the Mongolian nomads of yore," Molly sing-songed.

"We're in Scotland," he hissed, eyes narrowed. "Enthusiasts of carbon-neutral camping have merely borrowed the concept."

She only grinned in reply.

With a frustrated growl, he moved to her, stepping into her space and trying to look stern. But the problem with Molly being aware of his regard for her was her utter lack of intimidation at his feigned superiority. She just blinked up at him, doe-eyed and still smiling. She even swayed towards him a little to the delight of his boyish hormones, her breasts brushing lightly against his stomach.

He could do one of two things: stick his nose in the air and maintain the status quo, or he could kiss that smile right off of her mouth. Utilizing a stony silence, he could reinforce that Sherlock Holmes was most certainly not a glamper. Or he could prove her judging ways wrong by showing her the benefits of having a real bed and not, say, a £90 bedroll.

His struggle was real, but a small gurgle from Molly's stomach decided it for him. Temporarily. Mummy may have been heavy-handed, but he was quickly making peace with the situation, and anticipating it.

"I'm going to make a Cullen skink for supper," he announced decidedly. Take that, Hooper, with your doubting ways and pretty eyes. "Feel free to freshen up in the loch."

"Loch?" she asked.

It was Sherlock's turn to smile evilly. "Loch Ceann Hulabhaig. Nature's bathtub. It'll be a bit nippy. Do be sure to be back before the sky opens up. I'd hate for you to get caught out in the storm."

Molly looked at the door, looked at Sherlock, and then back to the door. "Or," she drawled, "I could freshen up in the bathroom right here in the yurt." And she swiveled to face the carved wood partition that disguised a toilet and said copper tub.

Damn it.

"Or you could do that," he sniffed in uncaring agreement. "Enjoy the unreliable pipes. Such remote camping sites aren't friends to frequent bathers."

"Most camping sites don't even have plumbing, so I'm sure this'll be downright luxurious," Molly said breezily. "I can't wait to see how the other half 'camps'." And then, darting up to peck him on the cheek, she moved away.

Sherlock fought the impulse to stick his tongue out at her retreating back and the quotation marks he didn't think he was imagining around her parting shot (also, he wondered if cheek kisses could be sarcastic, because that buss of hers was suspect). Instead, he heaved an aggrieved sigh and moved to the fridge, where he'd stored his basket of vegetables, milk, fish, and bread. He'd never actually made a Cullen skink before, but it couldn't be too difficult.

He even worked heroically not to look through the slivers of the wood partition, though he could see Molly moving around. Pale strips of skin caught the corner of his eye as she disrobed and muttered at the creaking plumbing when she turned on the tub faucet.

Later, Sherlock would wish that he'd had the prescience to know that he and Molly would be married in less than forty-eight hours. Instead of the least edible Cullen skink in the history of Cullen skinks, he could have baked a wedding cake.

...

A/N: Hi everyone! Thanks for taking the time to read this! I can promise that, from start to finish, the story will be ridiculous. I hope you like it.

Chapter Two: "Ain't Misbehavin'" will be up next week!