<s>[INST] A short story based on Holmes and Watson in which they are caught in a snow storm and spend the night in a tent whilst following the trail of a criminal.

"Sherlock, I'm telling you, we should have stopped at the last village. This storm is going to be the death of us!" Watson exclaimed, his voice muffled by the howling of the wind and the snow that was coming down in thick, heavy flakes.

Holmes, his eyes fixed on the ground, his face a picture of intensity, barely acknowledged Watson's words. "Just a little farther, Watson. Our man may be trying to escape, and I must see that he is caught."

But as the storm intensified, the snow falling so thickly that it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them, even Holmes was forced to admit defeat. "Very well, Watson, it seems we have no choice but to take shelter for the night."

As quickly as possible, they set up their small tent, the fabric flapping wildly in the wind as they struggled to secure it. Eventually, they managed to crawl inside, exhausted and soaked to the bone.

As they huddled together for warmth, Watson couldn't help but feel a little resentful towards Holmes. "You and your tracking skills, Sherlock. You always have to push the limits, don't you?[/INST]