SEVEN

9\8 Central

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Sherlock was perched in John's chair, his legs crossed underneath him, watching the two glaziers banging and hammering at the window frame. They chatted away to John and Mrs Hudson, who were only too happy to explain that the faster the men produced new double-glazing, the more their call-out fee would be embellished with a tip.

Sherlock's elbows went into the cushioned armrests and his fingers steepled themselves under his chin. He continued to watch, his eyes sinking half closed, until the men began to clear up tools. The taller, dark-haired one was wiping the edge of some sealant with a rag, advising against touching anything for a few hours, whilst the other was totting up an invoice on a hand-held card reading device.

Sam came in through the door but stopped dead when he saw the number of people in the room. He looked at Sherlock and found him already scrutinising him. Sam gestured to the open door with his head before turning and leaving. Sherlock got up abruptly. He crossed the room and was out, closing the door quietly behind him.

John took the card reader from the glazier and put a Visa card into it, pressing the requisite buttons. "Look, you've been amazing - even clearing up the other broken glass for us. And I've got to say, I thought you'd be more expensive for such a call-out."

The man took the device back, waiting for the receipt to print. "Nah. We can always bump someone for Mr Holmes."

"Do you know Sherlock then?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"He found our accountant was siphoning funds into his own pocket," the man smiled. "Funny really, now I come to think of it - it took him less than half an hour to work out who was nicking our money, when it had gone and how we should break it to the police. Saved us a few thousand, did Mr Holmes. Always happy to fix his windows on the cheap side."

"Oh well then," Mrs Hudson said with a smile. "Can I get you another cup of tea before you go?"

The other man backed up from the window, pulling the beanie hat a little further down his blonde hair. "We'll be off, if you don't mind. We bumped two jobs to get over this side of the city."

"Yeah - sorry about that," John said. "You could have just made us wait."

"No trouble," the man grinned.

The door burst open and Sherlock stopped by John's chair. He clapped his hands. "Alright! Time to go! Clear up, come on, be gone with you!" he ordered.

Mrs Hudson scowled at him, but the two glaziers seemed to take it all in their stride. They hauled up their duffle bags of tools and got in friendly partings with John and Mrs Hudson before nodding to Sherlock and going for the door.

Sherlock followed and then grasped the door handle. "You too please, Mrs Hudson."

"I was already going," she said defensively. "I just had to check the windows were done right. For my house insurance, you know. They have to be a certain grade or my coverage is all—"

"Yes yes - go and be boring somewhere else," he commanded. John smacked a hand into his arm but he ignored him.

Mrs Hudson looked at John. "You be careful, you two. Even with all this mess, I'd rather the windows were broken than you."

"Thanks," John said with a warm smile. She turned and fled.

Sherlock closed the door. "Finally," he heaved. "Now, we need to get to a place where we can get you struck off Skalmöld's list."

"What?"

"Keep up, John. Dean said it and he was right - the only way to make sure that Skalmöld won't come for you is to get you taken off the list. Sam has a ritual he wants to do. He predicts with a ninety percent probability that it will remove you from the hit-list."

"He said that? He said ninety percent?" John scoffed.

"Not until pressed." Sherlock went to his chair, snatching his phone from the arm. He began to hastily touch at it with his thumbs.

"Where are we going? Did he say?" John asked, folding his arms and watching Sherlock with curiosity.

"Not… yet. He's… looking," he muttered, wholly pre-occupied.

The door opened again and Sam's head poked in. "Hey. Uhm - I have a list of ingredients for the ritual. Me and Dean would normally carry half of it in the trunk of the car… but we couldn't get it out of the States."

Sherlock flapped a hand to summon him. "Give me the list. I may have some of it here."

Sam went into the room carrying his duffle. "So… Dean's awake. Mrs Hudson's noticed and she's trying to get him to eat a… a 'bacon buttie', I think she called it."

"That'll wake him up," John grinned.

"Actually, I think it was the smell of her coffee that woke him in the first place," Sam said apologetically. He fished inside the bag and brought out a notebook. After leafing through, he tore one page free and handed it to Sherlock.

"So what is this ritual? What do we do? Get painted up and dance in the rain?" John asked with a whimsical smile.

"Thankfully, no," Sam grinned. "We need to find a suitable place first, then lay this stuff on the ground. You stand in it and we use it to… uh… brand you."

"Brand me?" John asked. "Like a real burning iron pressed into my skin until it painfully burns a shape in it?"

"What? No!" Sam said, horrified. "It's like a spiritual marker. These valkyries go off your life force, or your soul, whatever. We just put a brand on that to show you're not marked for Valhalla. Kind of like a stamp that says 'void' on an envelope - you're just the letter."

"Oh," John said, much relieved.

"These ingredients…" Sherlock began, reading the handwritten notes. "Some of them will be tricky."

"Let me see," John said. "Maybe I could get some from a surgery, if a pharmacy doesn't have it."

"I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said slyly, turning the page in his hand to bring it into John's eye line.

He read slowly. "Does that say 'powdered unicorn hair'?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again - you lot are nutters," John said flatly.

Dean knocked on the outside of the door even as he shoved his head round. "Hey. Are we collecting ingredients now?"

The three of them looked at him. John took the paper from Sherlock and brandished it at Dean. "This says powdered unicorn hair," he accused.

"Damn," Dean grunted. "We had like - what - a few ounces of that in the trunk of the Impala?" he asked Sam.

John stared. Then he turned and looked at Sherlock. "Where are we going to get this stuff? Ask a Princess Bride?"

"I think we need to pay a visit to the Atlantis Bookshop," Sherlock said. "They should have most of these ingredients."

"And then where do we go? You said we needed a 'suitable place' for this ritual thing," John pointed out.

"Sam?" Sherlock asked.

Sam picked up the notebook, flipping through it quickly. He stopped on a page to read. "Uh - right. According to what I found, we need a place that's made of 'brick from the land'… and… surrounded by trees old enough to have roots longer than John is tall… and iron on the roof. It's some kind of soul conductor thing."

"Great. Where are we going to find a place like that?" John asked.

Dean put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a white business card and his phone. He thumbed at the speed dial and put it to his ear. The others watched, but when Sam tried to ask, Dean held the card up in a plea for patience. Sam frowned at him with all the condemnation his eyebrows would lend - which was a shedload more than most people could handle. Dean, however, was less than perturbed. He waited as he listened to the phone line - then he cleared his throat. "Oh hi, yeah. Major Morrison, please. Yes you can - it's Captain Steve Walsh, on loan from RAF Molesworth. Thanks." He let the card and hand drop as he sniffed to himself.

Sam put his hands up in a question.

Dean shook his head dismissively. "Oh hey," he said suddenly, although his eyes went to Sherlock. "Yeah, me again. So guess what? I told you we'd find this guy whacking your troops, right? Well we did - except it's a woman. Yeah, what are the odds? We need a place to take her down, and your Hollyhedge House is perfect." He paused to listen. "Shipped out this afternoon? Awesome. How's the place fixed for spray paint and glass windows?" He paused. "Iron rods? Great. Yeah. We'll leave here soon, get to you ASAP. Any room in a bunkhouse for four?" He paused even as he nodded. "Yeah, four. That'd be great. Ok then. A coupla hours? Yeah. Thanks. We owe you one, Major." He let the phone drop and beamed at Sam. "Who's awesome? Huh? Huh?"

"What did she say?" Sam asked flatly.

"She said that not only have all of the soldiers' COs shipped out this afternoon, but we can bunk there while we sort all this crap out. She's even posting the place off limits to army traffic until we're done," he grinned.

"Wow," John said, surprised.

"Well she does think I'm an intelligence officer for the joint USAF RAF thing," Dean shrugged.

"I'm still surprised she fell for that," Sam snorted.

Dean frowned at him. "Can we get our crap packed and go now, please?"

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ooOoo

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The ride back to Hollyhedge House was more in the vein of a hastily convened planning session on wheels. The same large saloon whisked them along, whilst the driver, a woman of indeterminate age and apparently no social skills whatsoever, was more intent on the road than her chatty passengers.

"So we mix this stuff, spread it in like a small circle, and John stands on it," Sam was saying. He was turned in the front passenger seat, watching the three of them in the back. John was in the middle, a notepad and pencil in his hand, as he tried to get scratchings down on paper to aid his memory.

"And you have to say a few words," Dean said, his nose buried in a familiar leather bound book. "That's it. Job done." He looked up at John. "We'll be watching you. If anyone tries anything, we'll keep 'em off you long enough for you to finish. Whatever happens, you do not get off that stuff, and you say all the words before you even think about pausing for breath. Got it?"

"Yes yes, I understand," John said irritably. "What are these words I have to say?"

Dean showed him a page in the journal. John muttered them to himself, over and over. Then he wrote them on the notepad carefully. He repeated them under his breath a few times.

"Think you can remember them?" Dean asked. "Cos you can just take the paper if you—"

"Oh I'm taking the paper, don't you worry about that," John scoffed. "I'm just trying to remember them. You lot carry on."

"That's it, man," Dean said, closing the journal and pushing it back inside his jacket. "That's all you have to do."

"And if it doesn't work?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Sam turned around in his seat to watch the road. Dean cleared his throat quietly. "It'll work," he said firmly. "But if it doesn't, then… We'll think of something else."

The car was ominously quiet for a good few minutes. Then John took a breath. "Sam," he asked. "Apart from the stuff we needed, what else did you buy in the Atlantis Bookshop?"

"Uh - goofer dust," Sam said, twisting as much as he could in his seat again.

"What's that used for?" Sherlock asked.

"Lots of things," Sam said innocently. Sherlock stared at him. Sam's eyes sloped down at the edges, yet pinched up at the bridge of his nose. The two of them attempted to stare each other out.

"Like what?" Sherlock asked politely.

Sam glanced at the driver, found her oblivious, and looked back at Sherlock. "Well… Stopping things from entering a room, casting spells on people if they tread in it…"

"Stopping what?"

"Hellhounds," Sam admitted. "Why?"

"Fascinating," Sherlock breathed, as if to himself. "Has anyone studied this dust?"

"Oh god," John moaned. "Don't say it's in any way similar to ash. He likes ash. Really likes it. Don't get him started on the studies he's done—"

"It's not ash," Sam blurted. "Really, it's not. It's made of like graveyard dirt and some spices. Really - not ash."

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked out of the window. Sam looked at Dean. He shook his head at him, so Sam turned and went back to looking out of the front windscreen.

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ooOoo

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The car pulled up at Hollyhedge House to the sounds of birdsong. The four men piled out of the car, Sam going straight to the boot and opening it up to empty it of their overnight bags and their ingredients.

"Ah, Major," Sherlock said.

Sam closed the boot lid and turned to see Major Morrison coming out of the front door. Her hands laced behind her back, she strode up to the three men standing near-side of the cab.

"Mr Holmes, Mr Watson," she nodded. She turned to Dean. "Mr Walsh. You made good time."

Sam crunched through the gravel round the car to Dean, handing him his duffle. Dean took it but kept his attention on Morrison. "Yeah well," he said. "We need to stow our gear and start prepping the place."

"I'll show you to your dorm," she said. "What do you need after that?"

"You've got like a large rec room, right?" Dean asked, as they walked toward the door. Sherlock followed obediently as John and Sam exchanged a look.

"And you're sure this is going to work?" John asked. "Because if anything happens to an army headquarters—"

"It'll work," Sam said confidently. "It'll work."

"Famous last words," John said. But he did follow Sherlock inside.

Sam hefted the canvas bag of ingredients as well as his own duffle. The door swung shut behind him as his longer legs made short work of catching the other four up.

"Power?" Dean asked at the front.

"Usual electric. Regulated and metered," Morrison was saying. She glanced at him, to her left, a small smile on her lips.

"Wooden floors?"

"Yes," she said.

"Windows?"

"Double glazed."

"And the roof still has iron in it, right?"

"Yes. All the framework in this old place has iron in it."

"Awesome."

They stopped at the end of the hallway. She turned to face them as she pointed off to her right. "Dorm is that way. Each room takes four. Take as many rooms as you need. Come find me when you're ready to brief me on what exactly we're doing tonight," she said. Dean nodded and took off.

John stopped in front of her. "Thanks for letting us in."

"Anything to get this done," she said.

Sam passed them, nodding his thanks, as he went after his brother. Sherlock was already weaving round them and heading after the Winchesters.

"Tell me," Major Morrison said, as the other three moved out of earshot, "do you trust Mr Walsh - or Mr Livgren?"

John frowned. "With my life."

"You've had cause to put your life in their hands?"

"Once - last year. They came through," he nodded. "Why are you asking?"

"I called RAF Molesworth. They don't have a Walsh or Livgren on file. In fact, there are no officers called Walsh or Livgren anywhere in the same department of the USAF." She paused. "Do you know where I have heard of them?" she smiled.

John swallowed. "Uhm… no. Can't say I do."

"Kansas," she said.

"Well they are from—"

"Not the state - the group."

"Look, Major Morrison—"

"Mr Watson, they were in possession of top level secret passwords that even I hadn't been cleared for before I checked. That means they either outrank me so highly it's embarrassing for me, or they're working on something else for the Americans. Either way, they're working in favour of this woman's army. That's more than this serial killer is doing - so I don't care who they really are until this assailant is put down and our soldiers are relatively safe. Then we'll talk about how they knew so much and whether I should be calling them Colonel or Special Agent."

John wiped his forehead with his fingers. "Right. Look, I should tell you—"

"Please don't," she said. "Not until this is dealt with."

John met her eyes but she stared him out. He nodded, looking at his feet, and she turned and walked off toward her office. John blew out a sigh. Then he turned left and went looking for the dorm rooms.

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