Happy New Year, and here, have the sequel to "Changeling." Set the summer after "A Study in Scarlet" takes place and features Changeling!Watson, Siren!Unaware!Holmes, several big scary dogs, and one heck of a monster. Written based on the prompts "Seasonal Storms," "'Is that (noun) supposed to be (verb)?'," and a picture prompt of a creepy cave, which turned into an eye.

I have to credit Jeffrey Adams and the Icebox Radio Theater for inspiring the monster in this story. If this gives you chills, google "The Thing on the Ice Icebox Radio" and click the video-like square, turn off the lights, and listen, and get the pants scared off of you. No joke. Shows like this are the reason I will remain, always, an audio drama junkie.

If anyone's confused about format or information or whatever, it's because the stories so far are written loosely in John's point of view, and thus, to someone who knows the lore. If I ever finish the story where Holmes finds out, things will become much more clear, and I have one more of these that explains a bit more on Death Hounds at the very least, but it is still intentionally vague.

And don't forget to drop me a review, if for no other reason than to let me know I'm not wasting time putting these up and making me think it wouldn't be a waste of Merlin time to finish the in-progress Changeling!Watson sequels.

Clouds were its territory. Clouds and endless miles of blue sky. Skies that so quickly could turn to white, then grey, then black. They were beautiful. They were terrible. They were home.

Flitting above a landmass the under-realmers called "England," it had never felt more at home. England was a lovely country for a creature like it was. They were so alike, England and it. Small, but capable of growth. Great, mighty, powerful. Not to be trifled with lightly. Not to be underestimated. Besides that, it liked England for the weather. So mild, yet able to turn unpredictable in instants. There were places in the States where the weather was less like a force of nature and more like a direct manifestation of God. Powerful, dreadful, uncontrollable. There were places south of the equator where nothing changed. Personally, it preferred mild, wonderful England. So much easier to manipulate.

Which was why when it felt the tug of something unusual pulling it ever so slightly away from its clouds and toward English soil, it was intrigued. England was nothing if not mild. And this was not blessed-Ireland or blood-bathed Scotland. It wasn't even Stonehenge or Wales. There were no creatures in England left powerful enough to send out a call that strong, not a call coming from the middle of nowhere like that.

It was confused. It was interested. It was also a little angry.

It decided to investigate. It wasn't often it got a chance to go off on its own, and admittedly, with good reason. Today it had no target, no disaster, no client, no master, and no job holding it down. It could do what it wanted. It had a right to know what was calling, and why.

And perhaps he might find someone to snack on.

"Get the door, Watson, get the door!"

"Sorry, Whist," the doctor murmured, all but tossing the bull-pup on the floor and slamming the door behind him, locking and bolting it. "Holmes, the chair—"

"Right here." He turned around to see Holmes behind him, pushing the armchair toward the door. Watson quickly moved out of the way and helped him rest the chair beneath the doorknob. Holmes leaned against the wall, eyes closed.

Watson slid down the wall onto the floor, urging Whist toward him with a soft voice and outstretched hand.

Holmes snorted at the movement. "You dote on that pup far too much. You could have kept up with me if you hadn't insisted on taking that thing everywhere."

The doctor only sighed and rubbed the pup's ears. "Are they still following us?"

A pause. Holmes sighed and went to a window. Watson stood and checked one on the other side of the cabin. "I think they've run themselves to a standstill. Wait…no…"

Watson shot Holmes a glance before focusing outside. He scanned the area quickly, but thoroughly. He couldn't see anyone. Thunder rolled in the distance. Loud thunder. He started, breath hitching almost painfully. His eyes leaped to the skyline. There was a thick layer of cloud cover where just five minutes ago was nothing but blue. "Holmes, I don't like the looks of those clouds…"

"Watson, don't worry." Holmes was walking around the single room, examining the walls and sparse furniture. "I wonder if our friends ran down Mr. Henry as they are trying to us."

"No. Henry was shot," Watson argued, never taking his eyes off the window. "These men weren't carrying guns. Just dogs. There's not anyone at my window."

Holmes nodded. "I think they're dispersing around the cabin. Henry was strangled before he was shot. The bullet wound was a dead end. I see three. How many were there?"

"Ah…five." Watson glanced out the last window, on the other side of the door. "There's one. Henry didn't bleed like a dead man, Holmes. There's another out mine now."

Holmes struck a match and began lighting candles around the room. "We are at odds as to how Lestrade's unfortunate landed in the morgue, then? Hmm, there are signs of a recent occupant here."

"I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm saying there was too much blood for your theory to work. Holmes, it's much too dark out there for summer—" his words caught in this throat as the thunder rolled, closer this time. Whist whined and rested his front paws on Watson's leg. He patted the dog's head.

"Watson, are you all right?" Holmes' voice was lighter than usual. It took Watson a second to recognize his friend's peculiar brand of concern.

He smiled. "I'm fine. Do you see the other one?"

"I can't tell. They're moving again—there's a dog. I say, Watson, will Whist be of any use in a scrap like this when he gets older?"

Watson laughed and looked at his dog. The liquid brown puppy-eyes flickered into a sickening death-yellow in response. "I'm quite sure he will. But—"

Thunder rolled again. This time Watson nearly choked in fear, a shiver wracking violently through his spine. Holmes moved closer and rested his hand on Watson's elbow. "Watson, it's only a summer thunderstorm. Heavens knows we've had enough of them in London this year—"

"No, there's something…" Watson cocked his head to one side, listening intently. "There's something not right with his storm. Do you hear that?"

A long, low hum had begun under the rolling of the thunder.

Holmes shook his head. "I don't hear anything but thunder and dogs barking." He looked out the window, first at the men, then at the sky. "Look how dark those clouds are. This will be interesting."

Watson swallowed, following Holmes' gaze. The sky was indeed turning a rich grey-black. Another chill swept through him. He closed his eyes for a moment before opening just one. His left.

The world took on garish colors no man was ever meant to see. Lofty shades of grey and white splashed over most of everything, somehow seeming more magnificent than they did with both eyes open. He could see searing reds through the grey cabin walls were the men were lying in wait, and the softer reds of their dogs. One of the dogs had splotches of blue—part fane-pup, faery temple dog. He'd have to be careful around that one. But the sky was white, a solid wall of white. Not the white of purity and truth, but a dangerous white, an ice-and-cold white. And in the middle of the white was a black figure, shaped a little like a…

"Bendith y Mamau," Watson breathed. "It's a storm wraith."

"Watson, you look like you've seen a ghost. Are you all right?"

He fought to swallow the bile rising in his throat. When next he spoke it was slow, soft, and deliberate. "Holmes, find a way to bar the windows. Now."

The detective chuckled. "I hardly think—"

"Now, Holmes. Just trust me. There's going to be a storm."

Holmes looked closely at the shaking doctor. Mixing in his eyes was unadulterated terror and pure focus, a kind of focus he had never seen before and never expected to see outside of himself. "All right. Whatever you say." He found a chink in the floorboards and starting prying them up with his cane.

"Thank you." Watson reached down and patted the dog's head, muttering softly. "Whist, I need you to watch the door. Please?" The pup huffed once and sat by the door. Satisfied with this, Watson began to pace the floor, thinking.

Just because there was a storm wraith in the big pillar of cloud didn't mean it had come to them. It was a very small chance. A long shot; Watson wouldn't bet with those odds, not in a thousand years. Yet it was still a chance. The wraith might pass right on by, watching the foolish humans and their petty struggles. It wasn't likely, and Watson found himself pushing the idea out of his head as soon as he thought of it. The clouds were low. Too low. Wraiths didn't swoop unless they were coming in for a kill.

Which one of them had the wraith come for? In all honesty, it could be any one of the seven men in that area. five outside and two in the cabin. The fact that a moon-child happened to be among them could be a coincidence…or not. He squeezed his eyes shut, panting as another peal of thunder rolled.

"Watson? I could use your assistance, if you're in a hurry to bar the windows…"

He shook his head, opening his eyes. "Right. Ah…What are the chances we could find a hammer and some nails?"

Holmes smiled. "It's a hunter's cabin, Watson." He held up a box of nails. "Found these already. I think there will be hammer in one of those drawers in the corner."

Ten minutes and several loud roars of thunder later, there were thick wooden crossbeams on each of the three windows. "I'm surprised our hunters haven't attempted to wrangle us further," Holmes noted as they drove the last nail in.

Watson closed his human eye and turned a circle, letting the Sighted one sweep over the field outside the cabin. The dogs were shifting around, he saw, smelling the storm before the men could. They were straining at their leashes, desperate to get away. It was all their pursuers could do to hold on. "I think they're the least of our problems right now."

"Right. Your storm." Thunder. "I don't know what all this fuss is about, really. It's only a summer thunderstorm. There's nothing to be frightened of or get worked up over. Some rain, some lightning, a flash-in-the-pan squall. Nothing serious. Nothing…Watson? Is that candle supposed to be sparking like that?"

Watson shivered and looked to where Holmes was pointing. The candle closest to the far window was throwing off sparks as though it were a firecracker. What's more, it seemed to be whining. The high-pitched tone carried to the next candle, which started spitting as well. Watson's heart pounded against his chest while ever candle in the room spluttered, fizzed,screamed…and went out.

It was June, and the middle of the afternoon, yet not a single ray of light shone in between the boards on the windows. Everything—the cabin, the field outside, the trees just beyond—everything had gone pitch black.

In the darkness, a dog growled.

Not a bull dog puppy.

A Death Hound.

"What was that?" Holmes whispered, now sounding as close to panic as Watson had ever heard.

"Uh…" Best play dumb. "I think it was one of the dogs outside. Sounds close."

"Sounds inside." The growling continued. "Please tell me Whist can make noises like that."

Watson remained silent, concentrating. For some reason, Whist wasn't a puppy anymore and he needed to know why. The growls didn't seem to be pointed at him, which was always a good thing. But if Whist wasn't turning on him, there was only one other option: the wraith had landed.

Thunder, like being trapped inside a bass drum. The very walls of the cabin shook. When it was over, there was dead silence. Then began the rain. More rain than either of them had ever heard, and harder. Pounding, driving into the ground, mixing with hail. Whist went quiet as the stones bounced off the roof. Thunder again. Silence, save the rain.

Then, the scream.

Watson threw one hand over his right eye and whirled around. There, at the far right corner. The colors were awful, but he could still make out the shapes. The wraith had lifted a man and taken him into the clouds. He breathed a guilty sigh of relief, but swallowed it when he saw the black form descend again. The rain came harder. Another scream. Watson's head whipped to the side in time to see another man's back arch before he fell, convulsing, to the ground, the black figure darting away from him. Probably a hailstone down his throat.

He heard a tiny whimper—he couldn't tell if it was his, Whist's, or Holmes'. He heard Holmes draw a shuddering breath nearby. "Watson, what—"

"Holmes," Watson whispered urgently, free hand darting to Holmes' arm. "For heaven's sake, don't make a sound!"

"But—" came the hissed response.

"Don't." He lead Holmes to the center of the room, as far from the windows as possible. "Stay put."

Another scream. Watson turned toward it only to gasp and cringe away. The fane-pup was angry and free of its master. He didn't want to watch that particular display.

"Watson, what's going on?"

"Whist," he hissed, out of instinct and habit more than anything else, doubting the Holmes would really understand the word. He saw the great glowing green shape of his loyal Hound stand, hearing the name. He laid a hand on Whist's head, trying to say without words that he'd been ordering Holmes rather than calling the dog. He looked to where he left Holmes. The brilliant red blot staining the center of a grey-and-ice-white room was shaking like a leaf. He prayed it was fear, not shock.

Another scream. Watson followed the sound. The wraith had just torn this one to bits. The dog, too. Whist whined as the rain came down harder. The wind picked up, too, howling and charging the cabin. A beam flew off the window nearest to Watson, shooting a nail into the opposite wall. Holmes flinched at the sound.

Watson flinched too, but only because the wraith was over the cabin. He watched it move slowly, excruciatingly slowly over the roof to the final man. It stretched out, in almost gentle movements, and took the man into its arms. The screams could barely be heard over the crashing thunder and the pounding hail, and the driving rain—

Watson's blood congealed. The thing had vanished. The storm was still raging on, but the thing…he couldn't see it anywhere. He moved closer to the window with the board missing. It didn't make sense. If the thing was gone, then the storm—

A half-strangled cry exploded from his throat. There was an eye. Its eye. In the window. Staring. Watching. It filled the gap, consumed it, yet the whole wraith couldn't be much larger than Whist at his most intimidating. He'd heard they couldsqueeze themselves into places, make themselves different sized, even fill entire churches, but this…it would have seemed almost harmless if not for the eye.

Up this close, it was shades of grey. The only black thing about it was the eye, in a hideous, stony socket, a single white speck for what he could only assume was the pupil. It never moved. Just stared inside. Watson couldn't hear it over the rain, but he could feel its breath against the cabin wall. He couldn't breathe, just stared at the eye. That horrible, awful, hideous…wide open eye…

Watson wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. The wraith wasn't after them! It wasn't after anything. A wraith on hunt has slits for eyes. It can hardly see then, but now? It was even blinder than poor Holmes was. If it wasn't on hunt, it had no reason to stay. It would leave if it couldn't see or hear prey. What in blazes had brought it—

Oh. Holmes. Song in the blood.

This self-appointed Siren-guardian job could be more difficult than Watson originally planned.

A horrible thought flashed through his mind. If it wasn't on hunt, there was no one to control it. No one to hold it back, to keep it from destroying half the countryside. It could tear up the cabin if it wanted to, especially so soon after feeding. The only hope Watson had in the world was it had burned itself out on thunder and rain and gorged itself too quickly. If it had, all they had to do was hold out another five minutes. No more than ten. Ten more minutes and it would all be over.

He stared at the eye, praying.

Nine minutes.

The rain abated, slowing almost to a halt.

Eight minutes.

The hail quit pounding entirely.

Seven minutes.

The thing let out a horrific scream drowned out by a last, mighty peal of thunder and sprang back, shooting into the sky where it belonged.

A bolt of lightning pierced the wall of cloud.

And, just as if nothing had happened, it was daylight. The skies were clear.

Watson leaned against the wall, removing his hand from his eye. Holmes was gasping, trying to push himself to his feet and failing. His knees wouldn't hold him. In fact, Watson felt his own legs giving out as the adrenaline left his system. Whist was a puppy again, tail shaking weakly, whimpering, crawling to his master.

He looked at Holmes and grinned. "Well," he began, swallowing. "If we ever do find out whether Henry was shot or strangled first, Holmes, I'm sure we can leave this part out of the police story."