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Watson nudged Holmes with his left shoulder.
Holmes nodded, which Watson felt as the men were close-pressed in the rocky underhang, that shoulder-to-hip patch their only spot of warmth in a Highland cold that sneered at woolen coats. They'd swept out the snow but the icy, rocky ground was little better. They dared not light a fire, not even a match for a badly-needed smoke. Their hunger pangs were overpowered by the cold.
To anyone but Sherlock Holmes that nudge meant little. But the meaning was clear as the icy bitter night: Watson reminding him that he'd endured worse Christmases.
Just before they'd first met, Watson had spent that December still weak and recovering from his bout of typhus brought on by his bullet wound. He'd have been feverish in a tropical climate, the sun beating down. The exact opposite of these circumstances.
But some things were the same, such as Watson being in mortal danger. The men hunting them would not let the sentiment of the season stay their orders. Watson's revolver held two last bullets; though It was nearly midnight they must stay alert and ready.
They'd hardly known each other two years. Now they spent Christmas night cold and afraid, running for their lives.
How… traditional.
Watson laughed soundlessly when Holmes murmured, "Let's flee to Egypt, my boy."