A/N: Hello all! This year has been a bit skew whiff owing to my own forgetfulness (thanks Cjnwriter for reminding me the of my own Challenge's existence and of the month!) and some WiFi issues. Please forgive any repeated prompts, scattered responses, etc. And if you want to take part please just drop me a line.

From mrspencil - the warmest blanket

1.

It was the first of many Decembers Doctor John Watson would come to spend in London and it was cold. The Scot in him* should have been accustomed to such chilly weather; long winters spent huddled around fires in their highland holiday home as his brother told him made-up stories were among the most cherished of his memories. It was just another sign of how much his time in the army had changed him. His brother was gone, his body was wrecked and, with it, his born and bred immunity to cold.

He burrowed deeper beneath a too-thin blanket, wishing he had not wasted the last installment of his army pension. The last hotel he had been staying in at least had decent bedding! Squeezing his eyes shut he fought hard not to revisit unwanted memories, and wished for better times.

2.

"Here."

Watson's head snapped towards me. Heavens knew what he had been thinking about - even my renowned deductive capabilities had their limitations - but it was plain to see the man was suffering with the cold. He had been shivering and looking positively miserable all night, curled beneath the old afghan on the sofa with a reflective look.

"What is it?"

I pushed back the derisive snort that bubbled to by lips - I had gotten better at that recently. "Really, Doctor? I think it's quite obvious."

"Yes but..."

"Mrs Hudson says it's the warmest we have." He made no move to accept the blanket from me, so I dropped it into his lap. "Please Doctor, it's no great leap to assume an man recently returned from more temperate climes will be feeling the British weather with more intensity than most."

He chuckled softly and finally picked the blanket up. By the time I had returned to my armchair he was huddled beneath it with such an intense expression of gratitude I hardly knew how to react.

"Holmes-"

I picked up my violin and burst into an impromptu performance. Giving the fellow a blanket was one thing, but I did not fancy partaking in some emotional exchange. I pointedly ignored his smug and knowing grin, concentrating only on the music.