Story number four. I just had to pick this one up and cobble the rest of it together. If I do the next one, I'll be starting from scratch and it may be a while. Just a friendly warning. A bit more lore snuck in here, but I'm afraid it may raise more questions than it answers. On the bright side, the next one would be the Holmes Discovery chapter, in which Holmes plays Watson to Watson ("Extraordinary! Whatever does it all mean, Watson?" "Elementary, Holmes. I shall endeavor to explain everything in simple words so your little mind can understand." *snicker*). This takes place a few days after the events of "Wraith," and therefore, something like 18 months after Holmes and Watson's first meeting.

"A storm wraith?!" The face in the hand mirror cocked a navy eyebrow at Watson, giving him her very best am-I-sure-these-foolish-mortals-know-what-they're-doing expression. "Sounds like you're living rather dangerously. You're lucky you weren't killed, and your siren."

Watson nodded, flashing a weak grin. "Trust me, Godmother. I am very aware of how close we came to death." He sat on his bed, taking the mirror in both hands. This was his favorite face—the most frightening and other-worldly to look upon, but the most human and understanding personality. Like an eccentric but devoted older sibling. Strange as it felt, he could relax around the Hag that called herself Aednat like he could no one else, not even Holmes.

Of course, he wasn't keeping any secrets from Aednat.

She shook her head, chuckling. "I don't suppose you'd reconsider your living arrangements after just one incident, either," she said, voice dry.

He cracked another smile. "Of course not. I like Holmes. And if he's got enough song in him to attract a wraith, who knows what else could find him? He needs me."

"Even with you, I'm surprised he's lasted this long." Her white, cat-like pupils narrowed into slits. "Are you ever going to tell him?"

The doctor shuffled uncomfortably, refusing to meet her eyes. "Yes. Eventually. Perhaps."

"How very reassuring. If he's as observant as you say, he'll start picking up on your…vices…before very much longer." She held up her hands and started ticking items off on her fingers. "The full-moon disappearances, the starting awake at all hours, the insane winking, the thumb clasping, the foreign muttering, the cleaning that happens in an empty house, the—"

"All right, all right. I understand. I'm obvious."

"No, I've seen obvious. You're surprisingly subtle. But if your Holmes is trained to see peculiarities—"

Watson gave a short bark of laughter. "What, Holmes? With a little luck, it'll be ages before he notices anything, and if he does, he'll just blame it on something mundane. Probably the war. He's so firmly grounded in his own little reality, nothing could ever shake him. He just observes. He doesn't see. "

Aednat sighed. "So you say…"

Whist was in his true form during this meeting, standing on his hind legs, massive paws resting against the window pane. Now he chuffed loudly and transformed into the bull pup shape Watson was growing to detest—it was easier to draw comfort from a dog more than four feet tall at the shoulders than a wrinkly, roly-poly puppy you had to be careful not to step on. Watson knew Whist didn't like the shape any more than he did, and took the change as a warning. "Holmes is coming down the street now, Godmother," he told the mirror.

"So you're dismissing me, are you?" A cold shiver ran down his spine at her words and tone, but her eyes were smiling. "No worries. I can tell when I've worn out your welcome. I'll come for you at moonrise." The image in the mirror vanished.

Watson dropped the mirror onto his bed and headed into the sitting room. Whist waddled along behind him, releasing an unhappy grunt with every step. "If you're in a temper, you can go sit in the kitchen and wait for Mrs. Hudson. I've no patience to pamper you today," the doctor said, unwilling to take pity on the beast and knowing he could never let Watson out of his sight anyway. The two made their way to the doctor's desk where Whist curled up by the wall and Watson himself shuffled around in an attempt to look busy. It was best to let Holmes think that writing was all his flatmate did in his spare time.

The door opened. "Hello, Holmes," Watson called without looking up.

Holmes paused on the landing before giving a slight smile. Watson could practically feel it from across the room. "You're getting better. May I assume it was my footsteps that told you I was myself and not Mrs. Hudson or the new maid?"

Watson ducked further to hide his grin. "You may assume that, yes." If it makes you feel any better. He flexed the hand closest to the door. If the detective took better care of himself, perhaps the doctor's healing fingers wouldn't twitch every time he was near. "How was your meeting at the Yard?"

A sigh, then a long rustle of cloth. Holmes had eased himself onto the settee. "No one had any interesting cases for me. I helped Lestrade solve a robbery and came straight home. Blast it all, I'm tired."

Watson frowned and hesitated. For Holmes to admit something like that, it had to be serious. "It's barely seven in the evening, Holmes."

"I know that." He sounded rather cross. "I can't figure it out. I'm afraid I may be coming down with something. It came on so suddenly… Gregson's newest recruit had some sort of cold…"

Watson stretched and stood. "Would you like me to give you a professional opin—" The words stuck in his throat as he turned to look at his friend. The man looked fine—perhaps pale, and a bit worn, but fine. Yet he wasn't surrounded by his usual gathering of floating lights and soft colors, either. His swarm of piskies, cinderfoots, and fairies had all been replaced by a second shadow, darker than the real one. Probably draining him; the thing looked malevolent enough. As Watson watched, the shadow grew larger and sprouted claws, reaching out to rend the real shadow to pieces.

He swallowed a shout, forming a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He closed his right eye briefly and felt the blood drain from his face. It wasn't even the least bit fair. Why on earth did the siren have to drag home a Nightmare, and just days after the storm wraith incident?

"…Watson?" Holmes said, peering at his friend in concern. Watson shook his head, getting the feeling it wasn't the first time he had been called. "Are you all right? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

He tried to smile, but his lips wouldn't cooperate. "I…uh…I'm fine. You're looking…awful, is all. Were you feeling poorly before? You could have told me. You did eat today, didn't you?" Whist growled at the shadow, hackles rising. Watson nudged the Hound with his toe before he took it in his mind to change in front of Holmes.

"No, it just started this afternoon." Holmes frowned and stepped forward. The shadow followed. "And yes, I ate breakfast this morning. And tea, before I left. You were there. Is something the matter?"

Watson swallowed. "No, nothing's the matter at all."

"Right. I'm going to bed, then."

"NO!" The shout startled both mortal and magic—all heads, even Whist's, turned toward him in alarm. "I mean, it is early, yet. What do you think of dinner at Simpson's? My treat."

Holmes raised both eyebrows. "I'm afraid I'm just not up to it. Perhaps you should get some rest as well?" He gave Watson one last appraising glance and walked toward his bedroom.

As the detective passed by, Watson raised a foot and stamped, hard, on the second shadow, pinning it to the floor by the heel of his boot. Whist growled and snapped at it as it squirmed and took on a lion's shape. Holmes stopped and turned again, looking from Watson to Whist in growing alarm. Watson cleared his throat. "Roach," he muttered in explanation. "You go on to bed, Holmes. You'll feel better in the morning."

One last, curious look, and the detective disappeared into his room. Watson sighed and lifted his foot, clenching his right eye shut. As his lid closed, the newly freed Nightmare went from being a lion's shadow to its normal shape: a small, solid black pony with a panther's paws where hooves should have been, fiery eyes, and a cat's sharp teeth. It turned its back on the door, eyes shrinking into smoldering coals as it looked at the doctor within pouncing distance.

"Listen to me, you hideous, darkling beast," Watson said, voice low and dangerous. "You can't have him. I don't care where you found him or when you stuck yourself to him. You can't have him. Not over my dead body." Whist growled as if in agreement, already in mid-shift.

The Nightmare studied him a moment, nostrils flaring thoughtfully. Then it grinned, sliding its lips over its jaws, eyes flaring up once more. The threat behind the gesture was clear; the answering message, though the beast could not speak, was easily received.

That can be arranged.

Neither he nor Whist moved until the Nightmare sidled past them to curl up in front of the fire. Watson sank onto the settee, never opening his right eye and never looking away from the beast. This was dangerous. No, more than dangerous—insane. Suicidal. Hiding from the wraith had been bad enough. Storm wraiths were natural creatures with no real malice toward other beings; an existence that fed off of destruction and a taste for human flesh were really the only things separating them from normal storms. Nightmares were Unseelie monsters—cruel, heartless, evil by their very definition, whose only true pleasure in life came from inflicting pain on others. Once a Nightmare had attached itself to someone, it would not rest until that someone was broken or dead.

Watson could not let that happen to Holmes. He had to get rid of it before something terrible happened. And he had to get rid of it in tonight, before the full moon rose the next night and his Godmother swept him away.

What would it take to kill a Nightmare? Watson thought, fishing in his pockets for a handkerchief. As a death omen, Whist was doubtless powerful enough to finish the creature. The fight involved, however, would definitely raise more questions than was worth answering. While he was sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind so much herself, she had hinted that she wanted to keep this maid around longer than the last one and he had no doubt the sight of a the Death Hound alone would drive her to quit. And then there was Holmes, who would want to know where the bull dog was, why Watson wasn't shooting the enormous black devil hound in the sitting room, and why said hound was fighting air, as Nightmares were invisible to mortal eye. No, Whist was not an option while there were other people in the house.

Salt, iron, rich soil, holy water, silver…the list of things that could injure an Unseelie beast flitted slowly through Watson's mind. Salt and iron, at least, were easy to come by—iron from the fire poker and salt from Mrs. Hudson, if he could find a decent way to word a request for all the salt in the till without tipping off Holmes. He'd have to leave the flat to get the soil, however, and as a moon child, he couldn't touch holy water. He muttered a curse in ancient Scottish-Gaelic.

The shadow smiled wider, enjoying his frustration.

At last he found his handkerchief. He tied it over his right eye, tight enough that he could leave both eyes open and still use just his faery vision, but loose enough that he could rip it off in an instant if Holmes came down the stairs. He let his hand move to the scruff of Whist's neck. The Hound was tense, muscles taut and trembling, ready to leap at the Nightmare's throat at a single word from his master. Watson made a gentle, hushing sound, trying to fight off the tendrils of weariness the Nightmare was sending his way. He couldn't fall asleep and leave Holmes unprotected.

The thing smiled again. "What are you grinning at?" Watson snapped. "You can't get to him while I'm here, and you can't get me at all. I have a bullet-stop."

Once again the thing seem to speak with just a simple shifting of posture. I may not have access to your heart…but I can make it into your head… It sprang without any other warning, going from black pony to thick smoke in a split second, charging at Watson, diving through his skin, into his chest, bouncing off the bullet-stop, moving up into his head…

It wasn't a nightmare Watson experienced, but a memory, so vivid he could smell the sand and sweat and blood. He was in the middle of the battle of Maiwand. He fought like a man possessed for hours, fighting to concentrate only on the Arabs while sand dervishes and carrion beasts popped up out of nowhere. That had always been the worst part of the war—concentrating on his human enemies while avoiding the faeries that could never decide whether they wanted to save lives or end more than were necessary. Murray was suddenly next to him, blood on his face. It stained his teeth when he grinned at his superior. "Evening, sir," he said, the words sounding more like a growl.

Watson let out a harsh bark of laughter. Sunlight glinted off a barrel behind the orderly. "Murray!" he yelled, already moving. "Murray!" He knocked into the young man, shoving him to the ground with his shoulder in a move the Blackheath team would have been proud of. A horrible, white hot pain wracked his chest. He grabbed at his wound and screamed. He screamed for ages, sometimes wordless, sometimes calling for Murray, then his mother, then finally for his godmother—

The shade released him. Watson gasped for air, clutching his chest where the bullet had struck him, teetering. He would have fallen if not for Whist's steadying weight at his side. The Black Dog made a lunging feint at the Nightmare, which backed into the wall and hissed like a cat in return.

"Steady," the doctor wheezed, pulling at the loose skin on Whist's back as the Dog shifted in front of him. He took another deep, shaking breath and stood up straighter, fixing the shadow with a dark, threatening glare. "Nice try, but I'm made of stronger stuff than that." While Whist chuffed and growled at the monster, Watson glanced to the fire poker. It was only a few meters away, but it might as well have been on the moon. Whist couldn't defend against smoke; if Watson dove for the only functioning weapon in the room, his focus would be on the poker and his mind would be open for a second attack. His eyes went back to the shadow, then to the poker again. He squeezed Whist's fur, once, then dove. The Dog snarled and jumped at the Nightmare, but too late—the beast was already in the air, darting toward Watson, into him—

The three faces of his triple-being Godmother swirled before him: sisterly, comfortable Aednat with her terrifying eyes; young, selfish, possessive, beautiful, terrible Niele, digging her claws into everything that belonged to her; vile, hateful, violent Carrodyn and her disregard for life and love of scaring things until their hearts literally gave out. He never knew, when he called, which he would be speaking to, what mood she'd be in. Full moons were the worst, when he was at her mercy; the wrong words to the wrong face and he could find himself locked in the Shadow Realms for weeks, eating faery food, breathing faery air, his insides churning, turning, knowing if he stopped aging, he'd never be free.

The worst trip was when he turned seventeen and his birthday corresponded with a visit. She was…changeable, that day. Something about stars aligning and the weather turning cold all at once. She was one face one minute and a different one the next. Niele embraced him and kissed his forehead and gave him a gift. Aednat took it away before he had the chance to peek under the paper, because it was a trick to keep him underground. Carrodyn grabbed his arm before he could say another word and dragged him to a building, an arena, and forced him to watch as a human was slaughtered and eaten by a baobhan sith, and Niele told him that's what happens to humans who get too nosy for their own good. Then Aednat was there, tugging roughly on his arm, apologizing, telling him they were leaving, now, and half-way out, Carrodyn switched directions, dragging him to where the gladiators entered, smiling and snarling that he was boring her, she was tired of him now, and she was going to dispose of him, and it's a brollachan due next, won't it be terribly entertaining to watch him be ripped apart from the inside out?

He was crying at this point, "big strong man" that he was, stiff upper lip be hanged. He was sobbing and begging her, please, just let me go home, please, I won't be boring again, please, not the brollachan, give me something I can fight at least, please, and suddenly Aednat was looking at him like he was dirt and scolding him for begging like a baby, but she was still leading him down stairs stained with blood, because she was Niele again, going to collect the money she'd won on a water demon she owned who'd fought that morning, and then she was Carrodyn, threatening to push him in with the beast because he couldn't stop crying—

Watson's cheeks were wet when the Nightmare left him, driven out by his hand curling around the solid iron of the fire poker. He jumped to his feet, holding the poker like a cudgel, his gaze darting to Holmes' door. There was no sound or motion from behind the door. Hopefully that meant he was asleep. The Nightmare was angry now, furious, it's fiery eyes fixed on him, claws flexing into the rug. Whist was silent, staring without blinking back at the monster, every hair on his body standing on end. A minute passed without a single move from any of them while Watson caught his breath and willed his left hand to stop shaking.

The Nightmare sprang at him again. Watson struck it with the poker in midair and it went flying back against the wall, incorporeal again. It bared its teeth at him. Whist bared his teeth back. Watson looked to the window next, in dread—it was getting darker. Not long until moonrise now. He didn't have time to waste playing chicken with a shadow.

"Scared of a bit of iron?" he taunted, swinging the poker again. "A great big Nightmare like you, frightened of a grade three changeling and his dog? You're the bottom of the heap, aren't you?"

The shadow snorted at him, tail swishing. It gave a soundless snarl and jumped. Watson jumped, too, meeting the beast in the middle of the room and ramming the fire poker into its chest, shouting for Whist. The death omen bounded forward and sank his jaws into the Nightmare's throat, growling, digging, pulling. Its mouth opened in a silent scream as shadows leaked from teethmarks to floor, glinting and reflecting the room around them like mirrors. A faint rumble sounded from the beast's belly, but it could not struggle with Watson's poker pinning it in place. It thrashed against the two, slinging Watson into the settee and trying to claw the poker out. Whist growled and closed his teeth deeper into the Nightmare's skin. At last the creature opened its mouth again, reared back on its hind paws, and fell to the floor with a surprisingly loud crash. It twitched for a moment, then went completely still.

Whist clung to the beast until the body began fading into the natural shadows cast by the fire in the grate. Then he trotted over to his trembling master, whining, sliding his massive head under Watson's arm. "Good…good boy, Whist," the changeling breathed, absently scratching a tattered black ear.

The door to Holmes' bedroom burst open, startling them both, and Whist jumped and changed to the twice-cursed bull-pup shape and darted under the settee, only his nose and eyes visible. "Watson? Watson?" Holmes asked, walking into the sitting room, attempting to rub his eyes and tie his dressing gown at the same time. "Good heavens, man, are you all right? I heard something—"

Watson swallowed and tried to stand, using the settee to lever himself up, his legs still shaking as the adrenaline left his body. "I'm…I'm fine, Holmes. You should go back to bed."

"You look horrible," Holmes said, ignoring the words and pulling his biographer to his feet . "What happened?"

He shrugged. "Must have nodded off, I suppose."

Holmes frowned, glancing at Watson's damp cheeks. "Bad dreams?"

Watson looked at him and chuckled darkly. "Yes, yes I suppose you could say that."

The detective glanced out the window at the darkening sky. "Do you want a drink before you go?"

"Go where?" Watson asked sharply, dread flooding through his stomach.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Holmes said with a shrug, releasing Watson's arm. "But it's the full moon tonight. You always vanish at the full moon."

Watson blinked and blushed, his mustache twitching. "Holmes, I—"

"You can explain everything when you get back," he interrupted. "Go on, and don't forget your puppy. Heavens knows I'd forget to feed him if you left him here." The detective yawned in a way that suggested he was still partially asleep—Nightmares did have a tendency to exhaust their intended victims before latching on, not that that was a problem anymore—and wandered back to his bedroom. The soft glow of a piskie darted out of the closet in the hall and followed him.

The doctor sighed and whistled for Whist, who crawled out from his hiding place, changing as he went. Leaning on the great Dog's shoulders to support his shaky legs, he headed down the steps and out of the flat to await the coming of his godmother. He had a horrible feeling this was the beginning of something.