A/N: Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas! I am still playing catch-up, so my apologies once again if these do not appear in order, but each prompt hits me in different, unexpected ways.

Prompt 20: From Wordwielder – Twinkle. I think I stretched and bent this quite a bit. :-) After my angst-driven journey please accept this humble bit of humour and fluff, at poor Watson's expense.

Twinkle

They are at the docks, feet hitting rain-splattered pavements and disturbing puddles, the ocean shushing them from the right and buildings leaning across in an imposing manner from the left. The moon is a brilliant white, low and empowering, watching them keenly. The air is cool and the smell of water and metal rises to meet them.

The villain is in front of Holmes and Holmes is in front of Watson, coat tails swishing like black flags, a stark warning. Watson is concentrating on them, his chest hitching with every breath. He doesn't think his leg will tolerate this chase much longer. They have been tracking Hooper for two weeks, several nights of cultivated observation leading to this very moment. Watson has not slept for thirty-six hours and Holmes more than that.

The pain in his leg becomes too much. Watson realises he is going to have to stop and let Holmes finish this one, a tendril of agitation settling under his skin at the thought of leaving the detective alone to the task.

He doesn't have to worry about it, however, the decision made for him in the form of a shadowy figure that springs from the alleyway up ahead. He has a bar in one hand and lifts it to strike as Holmes draws near.

Watson does not think, shouts out in warning. He pushes his leg beyond its limit, a short burst of energy, and tackles the fiend to the ground, flesh and muscle thudding painfully together. The Doctor's head hits the pavement with a sickening thud and he thinks his brain rattles within. He passes out immediately, sees blackness for five minutes, twenty minutes, maybe more, and hears someone calling his name.

He opens his eyes to see Holmes knelt beside him. The detective has one cold hand against Watson's neck, coolness seeping into his skin, and Watson tries his hardest to concentrate on this. Fleetingly, the Doctor's mind splinters and absconds, and he has no idea what he is – or was – doing.

"Watson." Holmes's voice sounds mildly relieved. "Are you hurt?"

Watson nods, because it is pointless lying to Holmes; he is too intelligent for that.

Holmes helps him sit up, one hand keeping him steady. He tugs his handkerchief free from his coat pocket and presses it to a spot at the side of Watson's head. Pain blooms instantaneously and Watson grits his teeth, tries to pull away. Nausea curdles in his stomach, stems from the place where Holmes is touching him. He wants to tell Holmes to leave it alone and find his scattered thoughts instead.

"Easy, Watson," Holmes says, tugging him back. He clearly wishes to inflict discomfort on the poor Doctor and for a moment Watson dislikes him intensely.

Watson looks at his friend, sees double for a moment. A swift flicker of light passes over Holmes, catches on his face. Watson gasps and then frowns at him hard, tries to focus and wait for it to return.

Holmes is watching him, asks, "Are you alright?"

"You have a, a ..." Watson waves a hand, as though he can conjure the word by movement alone. The moon is shining brightly now, closing in on them, and suddenly he's got it. "A twinkle."

"A twinkle?" Holmes looks worried, moonlight glinting in his eyes. Watson clicks his fingers.

"Yes. There! A twinkle."

"I don't ..." Holmes looks confused for a moment, and then a flash of amusement comes to his gaze.

Watson gestures again. "A twinkle, Holmes. I saw it."

"Indeed." Holmes is smiling at him now, and Watson thinks it isn't that funny. He's acquired quite a serious head injury; there are pieces of him missing, for goodness sake. "My dear fellow," Holmes tells him with kindly affection. "I do believe you have done yourself a misfortune."

"Yes I have." Watson nods, then instantly decides that it is in poor taste, his brain loose and delicate. There are bits detaching, hanging limp somewhere in the recesses of his mind, threads of thought he cannot grasp. He takes in his surroundings, sees the form of their assailant lying face-down some metres away. He frowns when he realises they are missing someone. "Where did Hooper go?"

"He has gone to ground, Watson. We shall have to fight another day. For now, we need to get you medical assistance. Can you stand?" Holmes has already placed a hand beneath Watson's elbow, slowly brings him to his feet.

Watson staggers, his hand gripping Holmes's coat. He feels like a leaf clinging to a branch, the wind ripping through him, Holmes the only stable entity within reach. "I don't need medical assistance," he says. Then he adds, rather unnecessarily, "I'm a doctor."

"Physician, heal thyself," Holmes tells him. He is still smiling. "Are you able to walk?"

Watson replies in the affirmative, takes a bold step forwards and pitches head-first into the gutter.

He doesn't remember hitting the ground, Holmes evidently stopping his descent, nor does he remember the journey back to Baker Street. He does, however, remember the moon, an enormous circle of white, and Holmes's eyes, the grey smoothed like a calming sea, a permanent glint within that Watson witnesses throughout the night and well into the hours of the morning. He remembers Holmes talking to him about nothing in particular, keeping him awake until it was deemed safe he could sleep.

Fifteen hours later, head tender and greeting him with a mild concussion, he asks Holmes to tell him what he said, if anything, but Holmes is annoyingly reticent, tells Watson nothing.

Watson suspects that whatever he did or said was highly embarrassing and isn't sure if he wants to know, not when Holmes's eyes twinkle at him like that.

End