I've decided to make the December challenges a different thread than my regular drabbles. The first of these challenges is going to remain in the regular series because I already posted it, so if you're looking for that one it's Chapter 33. Today's prompt is:

Wordwielder (hullo m'dear, huge fan) - Holmes and Watson are on the case when it starts snowing

It was not quite November. The world was dreary and overcast, with a biting cold to the air that made most sensible people stay indoors. In London the shelter of buildings blocked most of the wind and the snow was ground to slush under foot and carriage. The country was another story: wind howled vengefully, sweeping its ice-laden gown along the frosted ground. Snow blanketed the earth in a mantle of pure, muffling white, rendering everything eerily still and similar. Dr. Watson thought the landscape was beautiful - white-laden trees with stark black branches, delicately frozen leaves, decorative icicles. Holmes thought that the snow would make for excellent tracking, if it didn't blow too hard or fall too fast. It would have been easier, and quicker, to take a carriage, but he couldn't risk losing a clue. So the two of them tramped along through knee-deep drifts and cunningly hidden patches of ice. With any luck their footprints would be left for the police to follow. If not they would have a rather uncomfortable time holding up the murderer whose trail they now pursued. Watson patted his revolver reflexively and Holmes, catching the gesture, smiled grimly.

At last the barren view gave way to a copse of trees and a decrepit house. The chimney, which along with the rest of the structure had obviously seen better days, leaked smoke into the dark sky. The pair did not have to speak to know what they must do. Holmes went first, creeping along as stealthily as it was possible to be against that unforgiving background. Watson followed, keeping his hand close to his gun just in case. They found the door of the house shut tight against the cold but not bolted. It creaked open, revealing a dank passage. Somewhere deep inside the house released the murmur of voices and a dim echo of heat. The doctor drew his gun, the detective steeled his wits, and they went onwards.

" - blinkin' loony," muttered a man's voice just around the corner. "Fink you've got what it takes to outsmart the p'lice, do ya? Heh. Bloody fool." The same man replied, "Oy! I 'ent failed yet. An' s'not my fault they called in that detective chap. You never said nuffin 'bout 'im!"

Watson tighted his grip on the firearm and exchanged a nod with Holmes. The two of them burst through the door ready for a fight. They very nearly got one. The man inside, a ragged specimen who could do with a wash, rose to his feet with a screech of dismay. This was followed by several loud and extremely vocal protests of innocence and many vicious curses. Holmes caught the villain as he lifted a hand to swing. The murderer writhed, shrieking. After a few moments the volume came down somewhat and Dr. Watson was able to make out the words. It appeared to be a conversation between the killer and some imaginary person possibly existing inside his head. Holmes caught his glance and shrugged. Between them they kept the creature pinned until the much-abused door creaked once more and the heavy tread of constables was heard in the hall.

"In here, lads," called Watson. "We've got him."

The constables and their local inspector burst through the door. The killer was handcuffed, read his rights, and hustled out the door before anything more was said (unless you counted his own deranged ramblings). Holmes, the doctor, and the bewildered but grateful inspector followed. Only then did Watson relax and holster his revolver. The inspector was busily writing notes on a pad of paper in response to whatever Holmes was telling him. It was cold, Watson was tired, and he found himself entirely fed up with the whole affair. So he did the only logical thing he could think of: picked up a handful of snow, packed it, and threw it straight into Holmes's head. Assailant then found that he barely had time to duck as his target's own missile sailed past him. The inspector goggled as the pair raced around, hurling snow and shouting comradely insults.

It was two very tired, winded, snow-encrusted men that returned to the inn that evening, satisfied with a neatly solved case and even more satisfied with a delightful snowball fight. They had even gotten one of the constables involved, though only when the inspector wasn't looking. They sat by a cheerily blazing fire. Holmes smoked his pipe and looked thoughtful; Watson scribbled avidly, chuckling to himself every now and then.

"What shall I call this one, Holmes? The Adventure of the Balford Lunatic, perhaps?"

Holmes chuckled. "More like the Adventure of the Balford Snowballers."

Note: no, Balford is not a real place. I made it up because I'm too lazy to get out my map of England and find a suitable town.

For some reason I had difficulty with this prompt - too many possibilities, and nothing that really struck my fancy. But, I'm reasonably satisfied with this and it's late, so I'm just going to post it and hope you all forgive me. Review! You know how much I love it ^_^