TEN

Possibly the Longest Thursday in History

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Sherlock went straight back to the computer in Morrison's office. He threw himself into the chair as Skalmöld and Morrison caught him up. "Here," he said, turning the monitor for them to see.

John, Sam and Dean arrived through the door too, leading Sherlock to swivel the monitor right round on its base to look out at the room. Everyone crowded round, peering at the screen.

"So… this Reginleif is some kind of… superior valkyrie," John mused as his eyes danced along the lines of text.

"She is above the rest of us. She is the superior valkyrie," Skalmöld said from behind them. Of them all, only she appeared to have no interest in the screen.

"Great. Does it say how to kill her?" Dean asked even as he read.

Sam pushed him to one side to see better. He leant over to see the text. "Ashishibelde," he read out.

"Bless you," Dean said off-hand.

Sam's face scrunched up in abrupt annoyance but then it smoothed out again. "It's a kind of blade."

"Oh," Dean managed. He looked up to notice Morrison smiling at him. It took him about a quarter of a nano-second to let a sly, answering smile cover his own face.

Sam straightened up, directly in Dean's line of sight. "We just need a substantial blade of our own and then we can put something together that can kill her. We'd better hurry."

John backed up, looking around. "Where do we get a giant knife?" he scoffed. "I don't suppose anyone here has anything that'll do the job? —Where's the kitchen?"

"Wait," Morrison said. She turned and strode from the room.

Sherlock got to his feet. "Sam - tell us what you need to make this work."

"We'll need… some tree root…" He bent closer to the screen to read again. "Pepper. Sulphur. Dust from a blacksmith's anvil. Sage."

"Where are we going to find all that?" John sighed.

Dean bent over and squinted at the type. "It says it has to be moist, like a pulp. How do we make it wet?"

Sherlock elbowed his way in front, and everyone else stood back. "Well according to this, we need 'fluid of nature, encompassing all that a person is and was'."

"I don't get it," Sam said, attempting to fold his arms until the cast made it impossible. His hands dropped again.

"Urine," Sherlock announced, snapping upright. He turned on them. "Obviously."

"Dude," Dean said, his face one of clear distaste. He looked at Sam. "Seriously?"

Sam's head tilted as he thought it over. "Sounds like it'd tick all the boxes."

"Are you sure?" John pressed. "I'd hate to have to get someone to donate some and then have it not work. Or worse, have to touch it."

Sam's mouth opened but Morrison appeared through the door - carrying a large sword in two hands. "This do you?" she asked. "That other valkyrie dropped it."

Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed violently, grinning from ear to ear. "Major, you are a singularly useful individual!"

"Right. Because I live for your validation," she said with ultimate sarcasm. Dean grinned at her until she noticed him doing it. Then he looked at his feet. Sherlock, oblivious, took the sword from her, looking along its blade and then scrutinising the hilt.

John looked at the Winchesters in turn. "Any idea how we get those ingredients?"

"If we divided our efforts the search would be faster," Skalmöld said.

"Agreed," Morrison nodded. "What are we looking for?"

Sam reached over her desk and picked up a notepad and a pen. "So… who's going to the kitchen?" he asked. "We'll need sage and pepper." He held the pad awkwardly in the fingers of his left hand and began to scribble down notes.

John put his hand out. "I'll go."

"I shall help," Skalmöld said.

"Any particular kind of pepper?" John asked with a whimsical smile.

Sam ripped the page off and handed it to him. "It's all there."

"Right." John tipped two fingers to his forehead and left the room. Skalmöld nodded to Sam before she too aimed for the soldiers' mess.

"Major - do we have anything that would pass for dust from a blacksmith's anvil?" Sam asked.

"There's… Wait." She thought for a moment. "We have an armoury - there must be weapons-grade filings in there; we use it for target practice and ballistics checks."

"Ok - can you collect as much as you can find? Bring it back here?" he asked.

"On it." She turned and left the room.

"Where do we get sulphur?" Sherlock asked.

Dean folded his arms. "There's never a demon around when you need one. We should get one on a leash, like that chick and her zombies from 'Walking Dead'."

"That's just asking for trouble," Sam tutted. "How about…"

"Gunpowder," Sherlock interrupted. "It contains sulphur. As well as charcoal and a nitrate - usually potassium nitrate."

Sam and Dean looked at each other. "I'll go to the armoury," Dean shrugged. "How many bullets or shells are we gonna need?"

"A lot," Sam warned. "Be quick."

Dean waved a hand in negation. "While I'm doing that, Sherlock can get the tree root, right?"

"I'll need a spade," Sherlock mused.

Dean gestured to the far wall with his head. "Plenty of trees out back - but we're losing light."

"Then I'm on my way," the consulting detective said. He disappeared from the room just as Dean turned on his brother.

Sam frowned. "What?"

Dean was already smirking. "So… we got the sulphur, and the anvil dust and the herbs. We just need one more thing."

"What?" Sam said, going back to the screen.

"You gotta pee in a jar, Sammy."

Sam straightened and his lungs filled to capacity. The very molecules in the air sensed the impending disturbance and clenched together in horror, in the knowledge that they were about to be buffeted, bullied and broken by the ultimate in oncoming storms: Sam huffed.

Dean chuckled, reaching out and slapping at Sam's elbow. "Better get to it. We got work to do." He turned and walked out. Sam swore he could hear a snigger as his brother turned left and went down the corridor toward the armoury.

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ooOoo

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Morrison crouched and dusted off her hands, looking rather critically at the mess of black and grey dust glinting in the overhead lights. She picked up the corners of the cloth, shaking the dust into the centre, as she heard someone else enter the room. She looked over her shoulder. "Mister Walsh," she said with a smile.

Dean looked around the room, spotting the large lockers on the opposite wall. "Yeah - about that," he said, going to the storage containers and attempting to open the first one. "That's not actually my name." The door would not budge.

"I know," she said, leaving the metal filings on the cloth and walking over to him. "Next you're going to tell me you're not even in the army, US or otherwise."

"Actually… that wasn't what I gonna say."

She produced a large metal ring from the thigh pocket on her combats and began to sift through the keys thereon. "Oh come on."

"Honest. I was kinda hoping me and Mister Livgren would be out of here before you find out who we really are."

Morrison spared him an amused glance before slotting a key into the lock of the nearest door, turning it. "Skalmöld called him your brother. Is he?"

"Yep."

"And how does she know that?"

"Valkyrie hoodoo," Dean said flatly.

Morrison paused to look at him. "Really?"

"I have no idea," he shrugged.

She grinned and went back to the locker. She pulled the door open. "What do I call you?"

"Dean. My brother's Sam."

She looked the shelves of the locker up and down. "What do you need from here anyway?"

"Shells," he said. "Bullets will do. We need the sulphur."

"Then… hang on." She turned with a large rack of shells in her hands. "Hold this."

Dean took it from her and she opened the next locker, rifling through the contents. She turned with two sets of pliers in her hand. Closing the locker, she indicated the workbench a few yards away.

He carried the rack over as she locked the containers and stowed her keys. She went over and placed a pair of pliers in front of him before she went for her square of cloth on the floorboards. She retrieved it and set it down on the workbench carefully.

"What did you get?" Dean asked.

She picked up the first shell, gripping her pliers firmly to bite into the head of the shell. She began to twist it loose. "Metal filings from gun barrels. It's weapons-grade filings. That should do for blacksmith dust, right?"

"Should do," he nodded. He picked up a shell and his pliers, similarly beheading it. He set it down again to find a few rags on the counter. He spread one out and then picked up his shell and tipped the powdery contents into the middle. She did likewise to her cloth, stealing a glance at him every so often.

He paused in his work and waited, and suddenly she looked at him again. "Ok, what?" he asked.

"Nothing." She went back to work. "Other than… That woman - Skalmöld. She didn't kill any soldiers at all, did she?"

Dean watched her. "No. But this other valkyrie did."

"You're taking all this in your stride," she mused. "It's taken me all afternoon to accept that we have two valkyrie on the loose, and one of them is helping us."

"It's Thursday," he shrugged.

She grinned, sparing him a glance before she concentrated on her hands again. "You've done this before," she said. "You and… your brother."

"A few times."

She looked up, but he wasn't smiling. Her attention went back to the shell in her hand. "You don't enjoy it," she said. "But you can't leave it to someone else."

He paused, about to look at her. But something stopped his gaze from getting closer than her hands on her work. He cleared his throat. "Sounds like something you'd know a little about."

"Well, you know," she said softly, as if to herself. "To start with it's exciting, it's cool, it's your calling. You think you're made for the career - for the life - because you're young and indestructible. But then… people around you start dying. You think you can handle it, because it's what you signed up for. I mean, no-one joins the army and thinks they won't get shot at." She paused. Dean's hands halted and he watched her. She kept her full concentration on the shell and pliers. "A certain percentage of people on the front lines - they're going to die. And you know that. You accept that bad things happen and sooner or later it'll be to someone you don't think deserves it." Her hands didn't move.

"Until you realise it doesn't matter who deserves it or not - it just happens and you've got to deal with it."

"Because no-one else will," she said. She looked at him suddenly. Her blue eyes latched onto his as if he were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. "I got into this because of my family - now I can't imagine any other life. But it's not everything I am. And yet… I wouldn't change it. For anything."

"It's just you, right? By yourself?"

"We don't all have brothers, Dean," she said with a tiny shrug, her eyes going back to the shell in her hands. "But I have my soldiers, my men and women."

"Yet you're a Major," he said. "There's a line they can't cross. You're always the superior officer - never a friend."

"It's what I signed up for." She yanked the head off the shell a little harshly.

"Heidi," he said quietly. She appeared to ignore him. He put down his pliers. "Heidi, I get it. Yeah, I've got Sam to look out for. Sometimes he even looks out for me," he said, attempting a teasing smile. "But when you've got nothing but the life… that kinda sucks."

"Do you want to get this gunpowder ready or do you want to talk about feelings?" she asked tonelessly.

He picked up his pliers. "Gunpowder."

"Good," she said firmly. She tipped up the shell in her hand, the powder avalanching out and onto the cloth. Dean watched it pour on the small heap she had already amassed. "Because the sooner this whole situation is sorted, the sooner you and I can have that reckless, slightly self-destructive sex your eyes have been promising me since this morning."

He stared at her profile for a whole three seconds. Then he collected himself. "Yes ma'am," he nodded, going back to his shell and screwing the head off with a definite twist.

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ooOoo

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Sam set the jam jar on the desk in Morrison's office, the yellowish liquid inside swishing round as if taunting its ex-owner. He heard boots and looked up to see Dean and the Major come into the room.

Dean spotted the urine sample on the table and a cheeky grin came out to play. "You did it. Knew you had it in you, Sam."

His brother rolled his eyes before he looked at Morrison. "How did you two get all that powder together without punching him?" he asked politely.

"I'll hurt him later," she said dismissively. "Valkyrie first."

Dean opened his mouth but John and Skalmöld appeared from the corridor. "We bring spices," she said cheerfully, indicating the bag in John's hand. He put it on the desk next to the jar, as Morrison set down the two bundles of cloth. They stood back and considered the line of ingredients.

"Don't we need a tree?" Dean asked.

"Tree root," Sam corrected. "Sherlock's on it."

Morrison looked at her watch. "It's already dark. He'll need help." She went to the cupboard at the far end of her office, taking a large black torch from the bookcase. "Sam, do you know how to mix all that stuff together?"

"Uh - yeah," he said, looking at his brother with uncertainty. 'Sam?' he mouthed at him.

"Dude, she knows. It's cool," Dean said.

"Right, well," she said. "I suggest Sam sorts out how to put all these things together whilst we go make sure Sherlock is actually digging up a tree root, and not being ripped to shreds by a valkyrie." She paused. "Which is the weirdest thing I've ever said."

"I have days like that all the time," Dean sniffed, turning for the door.

"Dean," she called.

He turned and she picked up another torch, tossing it under-arm across the room. He snatched it from the air and gestured to the door. "Anyone else coming?"

"Sam's only got one good hand," John said. "I'll stay and help."

Dean looked at Skalmöld. "Scaramouche?" he prompted.

"I will help John and Sam," she said. "Veygass munnie says two warriors are enough to keep Sherlock safe."

Dean grinned and then waved a hand out for Morrison to leave before him. She tested her torch as she walked past the others, Dean hot on her heels.

Skalmöld glanced at the two men as she unscrewed the lid on the jar of Sam's sample of 'fluid of nature'. "So," she said, dipping her finger straight into the contents and stirring it round as if testing the viscosity, "how do we mix these items? What consistency do we need? That of congealed blood, or fresh?"

The men looked at each other. Sam took the jar from her gently, offering a polite smile as he put it back on the table.

"Please don't touch me with that hand," John said quietly.

Skalmöld peered at her wet finger. Sam cleared his throat. "Tell you what," he said hastily, "why don't you find us a large mixing bowl?"

"I'll go," John blurted. He turned and walked out.

Skalmöld watched him leave, then turned and smiled at Sam.

He looked over at the computer monitor hastily, turning it to so they could both see it. "We need all the powders together first."

"Simple," Skalmöld said, reaching for the cloths.

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ooOoo

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Morrison clicked on her torch, walking across the large lawn at the back of Hollyhedge House. She heard boots in the grass behind her and then another beam of light followed hers. "Sounds like he's over there," she said, waving the torch round to her right.

Dean caught her up, his swathe of white crossing hers against the grass. "If this valkyrie does turn up again," he said, "you know you can't kill her without this charmed sword we're making, right?"

"Do you?" she countered. "I saw her throw you across the room. Next time learn to break a hold. Or duck."

"Y'know, I've done this kind of thing before, in case you forgot," he said, somewhat stiffly.

She smiled to herself in the evening gloom. "Had it occurred to you that I said that not because I was judging you, but because I don't want you to be hurt?"

"Oh," Dean said, mostly to himself.

"When you're quite done," came a new voice, "I would really appreciate a little help with this obstreperous root."

They swung their lights round to find Sherlock with his feet and knees in a slender hole. Both hands were apparently stuck between his sunken feet. They appeared to be yanking at something with most, if not all of, his strength.

Morrison crossed to him quickly. "Sherlock."

"Light, please, Major," he said, tugging still at something in the hole. Morrison shone the torch down at his hands, but Dean waved him up.

"Come on, my turn," he said impatiently. "You dug it up, now fresh arms can rip it out."

"I've already cut it mostly through," Sherlock said with some indignation.

"Then you loosened it for me. Thanks," Dean said, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

Sherlock reluctantly let go of the root, scrambling up and out of the tiny pit. Dean looked around, as if getting his bearings. Then he pulled up his t-shirt and shirt to unbuckle his belt.

"Really?" Morrison asked.

Dean smiled at her. "It grips better."

"Ah yes," Sherlock said as he wiped his hands together. "He's quite right."

Dean pulled the belt out of his jeans and knelt down to put a single boot in the hole. He grunted and struggled as he persuaded the leather item to wrap round the exposed root. Buckling it back up in a way that almost ripped the eyelet a new one, he sat back on the edge of the bank to put both boots to the edge. He grasped the end of the belt firmly, his hands wrapping round the end, forcing him to lean between his knees.

"Here we go." He took a deep breath.

Morrison's head tilted and her eyes shifted to one side, as Sherlock looked around the dark lawn. As Dean strained with all the effort he could muster, the other two looked up - and abruptly became very still.

"Nearly - got - it!" Dean spluttered. He adjusted his grip and heaved again.

"Do it faster," Sherlock snapped. "We don't have all night!"

"No - shit - Sherlock," Dean managed.

"No really," Morrison said. "Incoming!"

Dean was aware of a whoosh of air and a harsh war-cry. Sherlock snatched up the heavy spade. He brandished it over his shoulder as if waiting to strike. Morrison grabbed Dean's jacket in a pull.

"Nearly - got it!" he growled.

"Leave it - come on!" she cried.

He heaved again. The root snapped out and flew up out of the hole. Dean went over on his back. Morrison was thrown back onto the grass.

There was a loud dong! as Sherlock twirled round so fast he nearly screwed himself into the lawn. Dean looked up.

A circle of torch-light was framing a tall, imposing valkyrie standing ten feet from them. She had one hand firmly clutching her left temple. "What in the actual Hel?" she demanded angrily. She looked at Sherlock and his spade. "You dare hit me with a farm implement!"

Sherlock straightened up as tall as he could. "Dean. Major," he said calmly. "Take that root to Sam. Go now."

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