Please note: All prompts will be at the end of the stories.

"Believe me, Doctor Watson," Sir Henry Baskerville said, "this is absolutely nothing compared to Canada. I've seen snow so high men have to crawl out of their attics to go to their barns and feed their animals. And for a while, I was one of them!" He laughed, smiling at his guest.

Watson smiled back, wondering what that kind of snowfall would be like, for he'd never seen drifts more than a meter or two high. He accepted some more brandy from his host and ignored a glare from Holmes, who sat on the opposite side of the room wrapped in all the blankets the sitting room contained and then some.

"I saw your new barns when we arrived," Watson replied. "I thought it might have been a callback to your days as a younger man on the North American continent. Do you ever miss it? Being wild and free?"

"Some days, Watson," Sir Henry said with a sigh. "I don't regret coming back to England, of course. Becoming Lord of the hall took some time, but this is my ancestral home, and despite some sordid history, I'm proud to be a Baskerville. What I miss the most from those old days is simply having free time that belonged to me alone. I like to ride, and I like to farm. That's why I've expanded the barns. I have a magnificent stallion there now. Would you like to see him? It's still light yet."

"I'd be delighted!" Watson replied. "I, too, love a good gallop. Not in this weather, of course, but I'd still love to see him."

"Mr. Holmes, would you like to join us?" Baskerville asked.

Holmes turned his glare to his host. "You will be good enough, I'm sure, to lay a few more logs on the fire before you foolishly go out in a blizzard and let all the cold air into the hall."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Baskerville said. "We'll go out to the shed and fetch some more logs in for your room specifically. I apologize, I should have had Mr. and Mrs. Barrymore bring some more in before leaving for the Christmas holiday. You won't mind helping me carry some in, will you, Doctor?"

"Of course not. We'll do it before seeing your horse."

Watson donned his coat as Baskerville stoked the fire high for Holmes' sake. The two left together, and Watson couldn't keep up his air of deference around the young Lord of the manor, not when Baskerville started chuckling. Watson laughed, too, and the two of them stood outside the manor clutching their sides with laughter as the snow fell around them.

Sir Henry wiped his eyes, his smile large. "My goodness, Watson! Is he always such an old woman?"

"Only when he's cold," Watson replied. "Despite him having agreed to come, he's quite sore at me at the moment for bringing him here; he complained the whole way here that the hall will be old and cold and drafty. He's determined to have a miserable time."

"And are you?"

"Certainly not! It really is good to see you again. I admit, however, that when we received your invite I was shocked to hear you'd be spending some time alone after Christmas. I would have thought a man like you would be overwhelmed with invitations to every party in the county."

"I was! That was why I sent out my own to Baker Street. You're right about me, Watson. I really am, at heart, the same young man I've always been, and that young man doesn't like big to-dos!" He smiled warmly and clapped Watson on the back. "I'm especially glad to see you, Watson. You were my first real friend here in England and I owe my life to you."

"I'd argue that you owe your life to Sherlock Holmes, though I thank you. I've always considered you a friend, too."

"Watson… he's not upset, is he? I mean, I know the cold upsets him, but I know most people who don't make friends easily also don't like… sharing, I guess."

Watson hesitated. "Holmes shares me with many friends in London, but not ones who stay in Baker Street with us. Think of how much you don't like big to-dos, and that times ten is how much Holmes doesn't like pointless social interactions like small talk. He likes talking to me and Mrs. Hudson, but unless he's in his element or is master of the conversation, he doesn't necessarily enjoy the company of many others. But he agreed to come readily enough, and I know he holds you in a high regard."

Baskerville smiled again. "I'm so glad to hear it. Come on, then, let's get some logs for the old woman's fire. Here's the shed. You go in; it'll be warmer inside. Oh, and be careful: the stacks of logs are higher than your head. Hand me out some logs from and I'll take them to stack by the door."

"Very well," Watson agreed. He was shivering but not complaining. "This amount of snow certainly seems like a blizzard to us," he said, "though it's nowhere near what you've described seeing in America and Canada."

Suddenly, there was an odd creaking. The two men looked at each other.

"What was…"

With a crash, the wood shed collapsed atop them, the sides of it pushed outwards as the roof caved in from the weight of the snow atop.

Watson came back to himself first. For a moment, all was warmth and comfort and he blinked lazily through the darkness trying to focus on the light beyond him. Then, the pain hit him, and he realized any warmth he was feeling was from his own blood sliding down his face, the comfort not from a mound of blankets but from being crushed under the weight of the collapsed roof and piles of logs. He sucked in a breath, trying not to move. He was lucky, but he may not be so for long.

"Sir Henry!" He was trying to call, but his voice came out as a hoarse moan. "Sir Henry!"

Then, he saw him. The man was collapsed in the snow, his body thankfully clear of being crushed by the shed but his unresponsive form no less worrying. Watson watched him, prayed to see his chest moving, and let out a long breath when he realized it was.

"Sir Henry! Holmes!" Watson cried, though he knew his friends wouldn't hear him. He tried to move, to free at least a part of himself, but all that succeeded in doing was to make the logs shift and press harder into his legs.

There was a slight moaning from beyond him, and Watson hoped that meant Sir Henry wasn't as injured as he seemed. Still, it would be for nothing if they both died of the cold out here.

"Holmes," Watson groaned, "please have heard something."

Then, as if summoned, Watson heard his name being called. He let out another sigh of relief and closed his eyes for a moment. Holmes was coming for them. He never should have doubted it.

"Watson? Watson!" Holmes' cry was close and desperate now, and Watson opened his eyes in time to see Holmes step over Baskerville and begin clearing debris around the shed.

"I see you, Watson! Hang on!"

"Sir Henry!" Watson insisted.

"I see him, too, but I need…"

"Get Sir Henry," Watson ground out, "into the hall." His voice still ragged, but was insistent enough that Holmes hesitated, then obeyed.

"I'm coming back, Watson," Holmes said as he lifted the man onto one shoulder. "Stay awake, and don't move!"

Watson couldn't help but comply, trying not to panic as the logs slowly squeezed him tighter.

Holmes was back in record time. He had a large shovel in hand, and began to clear the snow from the collapsed roof, relieving much of the weight pressing down on Watson. That done, Holmes began to free Watson from his prison. Watson tried to help, but Holmes berated him to stay still.

"Trust me," he murmured. "I won't let it collapse atop you anymore. I'm very good at puzzles, Watson. You know I am. This is nothing more than a logic puzzle: how to pull an object free from a pile of sticks while keeping the whole standing. You'll be out of there soon. I promise."

Holmes was as good as his word, slowly moving logs here and there to keep the larger pile atop him from collapsing. Inch by inch, Watson was dragged away from the shed and out and into the fresh air. Watson tried his best to stay alert, but it was difficult. His senses were slow and dull, his limbs wouldn't do exactly what he wanted, and he was cold past the point of shivering. That should have alarmed him, but somehow it didn't.

He wasn't even quite aware of being completely free, his legs still feeling the phantom weight of the logs keeping him pinned. Or was it that he was too numb to be feeling anything at all? He didn't know, wasn't sure, and was a bit surprised when he noticed Baskerville was outside again, helping Holmes carry him to the hall. He closed his eyes, not noticing anything for a while.

"Why is it," Sir Henry was saying when Watson was awake enough to pay attention again, "that there always seems to be some danger when you are near?"

Sherlock Holmes didn't laugh, but there was amusement in his voice when he replied, "I assure you, Sir Henry, I was wondering the same thing. How are you?"

"Oh, fine, fine. I've had worse knocks than this before. Can't recall any at the moment, but I'm sure I have. How's the doctor?"

"Bruised, but not injured much more nefariously than that. He'll be alright when he warms up. Speaking of…"

There was a hand on Watson's shoulder, then, shaking him gently.

"Come on, Watson. Wake up, and don't keep us in suspense. Watson? There you are, old man. I thought you'd had enough time to warm. Feeling alright?"

Watson looked around, realizing he was in front of the fire in Baskerville Hall, piled with blankets and bandaged by a well-meaning but inexpert hand. Baskerville was reclining on the sofa and Holmes was sitting close to him on the floor, had presumably been lying close to him to lend him the warmth of his own body.

"I feel like a house fell in on me," Watson groaned, but smiled up at Baskerville. "You've no idea how glad I am to see that you're alright." He looked at Holmes. "And thank you for coming for us. You were brilliant."

"Don't be dramatic, Watson," Holmes said, ignoring the praise even though he smirked very quickly. "It was a shed, not a house. And now, if you're very much recovered, we will move you to the sofa with Sir Henry, and you can nurse your wounds together."

Despite his words, Holmes' actions were soft and gentle as he helped Watson to rise. He let Watson lean on him, grimacing in sympathy as Watson's bad leg refused to cooperate with him. He lingered next to him after depositing him on the sofa, checking the bandage on his forehead and holding his hand in his own.

When he was satisfied Watson really was alright, he rose and fetched the blankets they'd left on the floor, tossing one to Baskerville and tucking the rest securely around Watson.

"You will have to get better soon, Watson," he murmured. "It is still a blizzard outside, and I will soon want my blankets back."

For the prompt from cjnwriter: A roof collapses from snow.