TWELVE

End of Days

.

The watch on Dean's wrist showed nearly three in the morning, but no-one was checking it. Instead, four men and two women stood at a wooden funeral pyre by a large, well-kept military house. The wood was more or less even, the cage underneath pretty much fixed to let the body atop drop into it when necessary. An earthen wall, barely a foot high and circling the pyre from a few feet away, was damp and smelt of old trees and petrichor.

Skalmöld lifted the sword, walking toward the pyre and placing it on top. The body had been wrapped in sheets carefully soaked in kerosene, and now lay larger than life in front of them all.

Sherlock had his arms folded, his head tilted to one side, as if cataloguing everything for further study. John was a few feet in front of him, until Skalmöld stepped back from the pyre and folded her arm through his. He looked down at their entwined arms in surprise, but then straightened up and kept his chin high to the pyre.

Sam, his arm now in a light sling to keep the cast on his wrist elevated somewhat, turned his attention down to the Zippo lighter in his free hand. "Does anybody - um - want to say anything?" he offered.

Morrison cleared her throat. She had her hands behind her back, her heavy military coat keeping the cold off in such wee hours. "I do." She paused. "She was a hell of a fighter, even if she was on the wrong side. Whatever happened to make her… like that - it was a shame. She worked hard, and did her job, followed orders, for a bloody long time. It's a waste that it's come to this." She didn't look to Dean, to her left, but something about the way he took a half step closer to her, turning slightly toward her, made her feel strangely unalone.

He stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets against the cold. "Harsh way to go out."

"So many of your years… She has been the symbol of right and duty since Odin's father first took the throne. And now…" Skalmöld sighed. She looked at the man next to her. "I am sorry, John Watson."

He looked at her. "Whatever for?"

"I did not understand before. I have never experienced someone - someone with whom I'm familiar - dying. I did not know what it felt like for them to… end. I did not know until now how it must have been for you to learn of your soldiers' mortal deaths. I did not work by her side, but she was… one of us. She was… a superior."

His mouth worked for a moment. Then he wet very dry lips and tugged his chin straight. "I understand." He paused, feeling everyone's eyes and ears on him. "What will you do now?"

"I will no longer collect," she whispered. "I do not think I can."

"Then what?" Sam asked gently. "What does a valkyrie do when they don't want to be a valkyrie?"

Skalmöld put her free hand out in silence. Sam looked at it, then heard Dean's tut. He looked at his brother to see Dean pointing to the lighter in his hand. Sam came forward and handed it over to Skalmöld.

She pushed her thumb on the wheel, trying to make it catch. John put his hand over hers, helping her. A bright flame appeared and she smiled him a thank you. She let go of his arm and went forward, bending to touch the flame to the side of the wooden pyre. She stepped back.

John shut the lid of the Zippo lighter for her, extinguishing the flame. Skalmöld put her arm through his again, holding tight to him as the flames spread around the pyre.

Morrison came closer. She stood next to John. The fire built and whipped around the wrapped body, scattering embers up around and into the night. The brittle cold air carried the tiny red flecks of heat away, across the lawn, past Sherlock's hole in the grass by the tree, and across to the building behind them. The flames snapped and hissed as they slowly began to eat at the remains.

John stood straighter. He lifted his right hand. He and Morrison, stiff-backed and heavy-hearted, saluted the pyre.

A cold minute passed. They let their hands down and John again captured Skalmöld's arm through his. Sam drifted back to be out of the way, finding himself next to Sherlock. The detective looked up at the taller Winchester, his eyes thoughtful, before his attention went back to the fire.

Morrison retreated to Dean's shoulder. She said nothing. He did nothing. But she felt the way his eyes desperately wanted to look anywhere but the flames. Her hand twitched, unsure of what it should - or could - do. He stirred and his head turned. She met his eyes; she saw a flicker of something, perhaps sorrow, perhaps helplessness, perhaps frustration. Then he lifted his chin and looked back at the fire.

Presently it had eaten all but the ends of the logs around the base. There was a sliding crash and what was left of the body fell through the ashen bones of trees to land on the prepared earth underneath. Sherlock looked at his watch and then turned and walked away. Sam patted at Skalmöld's shoulder and followed. Morrison put an elbow up and nudged Dean in the ribs. He looked at her and she gestured back to the house. He turned and nodded to John, then Skalmöld. He began to walk away.

"John Watson," Skalmöld said firmly. "I would very much like to know what mortals do in times like these."

John's mouth opened but he had no answer.

Dean paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Drink."

She did not turn from the fire. "Do you have mead?"

"Hell no," Dean scoffed. "Whisky does it for me."

"Then I would very much like to try this 'wiss-kee'," she said.

Dean turned right round, to Morrison's amusement. "Sure?" he asked.

"Veygass munnie says it would be a suitable distraction," she replied.

"Well ok then," Dean said with a smile. "Whenever you're ready, it'll be in the officers' mess."

"I thank you," she said quietly.

Dean looked at Morrison. She regarded him for a long moment before she gestured back to the house with her head. He sniffed, as if stalling for time, but his eyebrow twitched upward just slightly. She smiled and put a hand out, pushing him round and back to the house.

Skalmöld took a deep breath of the night air. She looked up at the stars, prompting John to do the same. "So beautiful, this world of yours," she whispered.

"I like it."

"I can see why you did not want to go straight to Valhalla."

"Isn't that - well, like blasphemy?" he asked. "Valhalla is supposed to be the ultimate place to be."

"It is," she said. "But… it is not what I want. At least not yet. I think."

"Perhaps you need to figure out what it is you do want," John said.

She looked at him. "I do." Her gaze went back to the fire. "I have."

"And?"

"I want to try this 'wiss-kee'. Will you help me?"

"Absolutely."

.

ooOoo

.

Sam blinked open ready eyes, shoving a palm into his right one to give it a good scrub. He sniffed and pushed himself up in bed, finding the dorm empty save himself. He snorted with something like amusement before he flung back the sheets and went for a proper hot shower.

It was a while later, after he had managed to get dressed with only one good hand and a cast on the other, that he decided to find out where everyone else had got to. Hollyhedge House was silent, save the birds chittering away beyond the hole in the training room wall. Sam ducked his head in and found the gaping wound in the wood mostly covered with a couple of regimental flags. He smiled and and turned on his heel. Hearing the sound of metal on glass he frowned, and went down the corridor until he came to Major Morrison's office. He poked his head round the door.

"Sherlock," he blinked, surprised. "What are you doing, man?"

Sherlock was perched on Morrison's chair, an array of weird and wonderful accoutrements arranged on the desk. His elbows were firmly planted in the surface, his chin in his hands as he stared at a crude bunsen burner construction and the load on its makeshift tripod.

Sam ventured into the room and stopped opposite the contraption. He watched the dark grey liquid bubble in the obviously appropriated metal tea mug. "Are you testing stuff?" he marvelled.

"Studying," Sherlock mused. "I've been unable to find anything of any worth in either the mixture or the ashes."

"Ashes?" Sam asked. "Wait - that's - um - Reginleif? In there?"

"Yes. I've already tried the concoction we spread on the sword."

"Sherlock!" Sam spluttered. "Don't you think that's a little - kinda - wrong?"

Sherlock's eyes went from the tin cup up to Sam's - which was a long way. "Oh God," he heaved. "Not you as well. I thought with John out of the way I'd finally get some actual scientific data out of all this."

Sam gawped at him - just gawped. Finally he threw his unplastered hand in the air. "I'm going to find the kitchen," he said as he backed up to the door. "Do you want coffee?"

"No."

Sam's eyes rolled in a way that suggested they had first limbered up for the task. Then he turned and walked out of the room, determined to find the nearest coffee pot. He went down the corridor and around a few corners before he found what he wanted; he walked in and found an industrial coffee machine with the capacity of possibly the Atlantic ocean. He smiled and went about getting all the pieces together.

It was as he was collecting a large coffee mug from an overhead cupboard that he realised there was a low buzzing sound coming from somewhere to his left. He put the mug down and followed the noise toward a door at the far end. The buzzing turned to voices as he put his hand to the door handle and turned it.

"Dean - do you want—. Oh. Um. Hi," he said, surprised for the second time that morning.

John and Skalmöld looked up from the long trestle table between them. "Hello," John said. "We weren't bothering you, were we?"

"Uh - no, of course not," Sam said, coming into the room and letting his hands go into his pockets. "Anyone want coffee?"

Skalmöld lifted a tin mug and wiggled it slightly. "We have been drinking this 'wiss-kee'," she said. "And John Watson is quite the conversationalist. Would you like to join us?"

"You been in here all night?" Sam blinked.

"Has it been all night?" John asked, looking at his watch.

Sam smiled. "I'll… um… get some coffee. You guys… have fun." He backed up and walked out of the room quickly, shutting the door. He went straight back to the coffee machine and played with the various parts of the pipes until he had a steaming mug of black gold in front of him. He grinned and picked it up, smelling at the rim and finding it better than he had expected from a British army barracks.

Then he went out of the kitchen and down the hall, deciding it was time to pull the shower towel on his brother.

.

ooOoo

.

Morrison's private quarters were a study in combat fallout. Pillows and clothes littered the floor, a half-empty whisky bottle and a black wristwatch occupied the small side table, and her dog tags hung on the bed post. She dug herself out of the giant, comfortable nest of sheets and duvets and arms to squirm around more into a hard, warm surface. She spread herself over it, stretching and giving a loud sigh of contentment. Her right eye opened and she rubbed it to find herself on top of Dean's chest. She smiled and let her eye close again. Her hand slid up to stroke through the hair over his ear.

"Why are you awake?" she asked lethargically.

Dean's eyes were fixed on the far corner of the ceiling, his left hand behind his head on the pillow. He slipped his right hand round her back and just enjoyed the warmth. "Had my four hours," he muttered.

She chuckled and then her eyes opened. She stood her chin on his chest to look up at him. "Shifts."

"What?"

"You sleep in shifts. You wake up about every three or four hours."

"Most of the time. Why?"

"I did it for… oh, a year or two, when I was in Afghanistan. And before that, Sierra Leone. And before that in Northern Ireland. Come to think of it, I think I did it before that, even." She laid her head down again, sliding her hand down his neck to his chest.

"You've seen a lot of crap, then."

"Yes. But days like this make up for some of it." She closed her eyes, concentrating on the warmth beneath her, the real live person with the heartbeat she could feel through living skin. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Nope."

"You sound happy about that."

"I'm far away. From everything back home."

"Something happened, right?" she asked quietly, her cheer retreating. "You lost someone. I saw you at the fire. You've done that before."

He hauled in a deep breath. "A few times."

"Family?" she dared. "Or friends?"

"Family." He cleared his throat. "Recently… the best family. Better than my real family, maybe."

"Ouch," she hissed, stroking at his skin in sympathy. "I hope you dealt with anyone who'd had a hand in it."

"Not yet," he said. "But I will." It was quiet for a long moment, with just the birds outside and the cricks and creaks of an old house around them. "But hey," he said, "no-one knows where I am right now. It's a relief."

"Off the radar?"

"Something like that." He paused. "And this is the most comfortable I've been in… I can't remember."

"You are very easy to be on top of," she winked.

He chuckled. "No, it's… There's no phone calls, no urgent messages, no-one calling you, no-one and nothing chasing you down. For anything." He sighed, and to her, it sounded somewhat uneasy.

"You need a holiday." She pushed on him to get her left elbow under her, shaking at his chest with her other hand. "You need more time off. Come back here when you do."

He looked at her. "Seriously? You want me to fly like nine hours on a plane to come back here? Why would I do that?" he smiled.

She grinned. "I'd make it worth your while."

"You already have."

She chuckled, then looked around the room. "What now?"

"How are you gonna explain the sword that's now lying in a heap of ash and burnt wood in the back yard?"

"That's what you're thinking about?"

He shrugged. "Practical first."

"Well… I'll lift the quarantine later this afternoon. The COs will return tomorrow morning. I have all day and all night to get it sorted." She paused. "But I suppose you can't stay that long."

Dean's smile died. "Wish I could. But… you get any more problems that other people would think are nuts, and you call me."

"You mean you don't just take care of valkyries?" she teased.

"Ghosts, revenants, rakshasas, demons and even the occasional angel. Werewolves and vampires, too. Even faeries."

She grinned, sliding a hand up to his jaw. "You Americans do have a wonderful sense of humour." She shifted up to be closer. "Seriously, tell me how you know about all this—"

But he kissed her. And that was that.

.

ooOoo

.

Sam walked down the corridor until he came to the door marked 'S.O.' He cleared his throat and stopped to put his hand up to knock. Something caught his ear and he paused to hear his brother's voice.

"Wait - is it my turn to invade or surrender?"

"I've lost count. Surprise me," said a female voice. Then it shrieked in delight and laughed out loud.

Sam's hand dropped. He turned and began to walk away, but John appeared round the corner. "Oh. Hey," Sam said. He stepped further away from the door hastily, his face wearing the kind of smile that had too many teeth to be anything but apologetic.

John came up to him. "I was looking for Morrison. Thought I might help shift some of the mess we made out in the back garden," he smiled.

"Yeah - good idea," Sam said. "I'll help. Let's go."

The two of them walked round to the large rec room and ducked under the flags to get outside.

"Have you seen Sherlock this morning?" John asked.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said. "He was in Morrison's office. He seemed pretty busy."

"Don't tell me - experiments," John sighed, as they came to a stop. In front of them was a large, ashen circle, full of charcoal'd sticks and lumps of half-grey, half-black stumps of wood. In the middle were scraps of burnt cloth and the suggestion of metal.

"Something like that," Sam said. He put his one good hand in his pocket, looking at the mess. "So how do we do this?"

John sighed. "We'll have to separate that sword from the ashes - and all that armour she had. I suppose we could leave the sword for Morrison."

"Yeah." Sam twisted, looking off toward the far edge of the garden, and the trees standing to attention. "How about… we get as much of Reginleif's remains as possible under that tree. I mean, Sherlock left a hole there for us."

"Good idea." John crossed to the tree, looking down and finding where the root had been exposed so some of it could be hacked off for a spell the night before. He snorted, shaking his head. "Weird. This whole weekend has just been weird."

"It was one of the good ones," Sam said, looking at the blue sky. While it was cold, and he shrugged more into his jacket, he had to admit it was a fresh, clean breeze that ruffled his hair. A few fluffy white clouds were dawdling far toward the horizon, but the sky was so blue and so bold that it made him stare.

John was walking back toward him. "I'll get a spade."

"Get two," Sam said, following him back toward the house.

"Can you dig with one hand?"

"I can shovel," Sam said. "I'll cope."

"Where's Dean, by the way? I'd have thought he'd be out here wanting to hide evidence."

"Oh, he's… waking up Morrison," Sam said slowly. John paused. He looked at Sam. Then he shook his head and walked on. Sam smiled and followed.

.

ooOoo

.

Sherlock whisked a tea towel over Morrison's desk, as if to remove invisible specks of dust. The entire room was back to normal, as if his experiments had never happened. He stood back and nodded at his handiwork just as the door swung open.

"Ah. Good morning, Mr Holmes," Skalmöld said with a smile. "John Watson tells me you two are leaving."

"Yes we are," he said. He straightened up and turned to her. "What will you do? Where will you go?"

"I will take my leave of you," she said. "John Watson and I have discussed my options at length. I shall return to my sisters and see if there are others who need to be… checked."

"I see," Sherlock nodded. "Do you need help with that?"

"Are you offering?" she smiled.

"I could get more scientific evidence of DNA, human-to-valkyrie parallels, and record some data."

"I see," she grinned. "Alas, although I would value your help, I cannot transport more than one person with me."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You're taking John?"

"He has expressed a desire to see the great doors to Valhalla. Whilst he is not allowed entry - now - the doors are there for anyone to see. I believe it will ease his mind to know that his three friends entered them safely."

"Sounds like John wants to let you off the hook, but he needs to see the proof first," said a voice from behind her. The others turned and saw Dean in the doorway. "I would," he shrugged. "So everyone's heading out?"

"I shall leave now, and John Watson shall come with me," Skalmöld nodded. "Not for long. I will return him to his house shortly."

"Great." Dean looked at Sherlock. "You?"

"I need to get back to Baker Street," he said mildly, but something about the way his eyes flicked up and down Dean made the Winchester suspect he knew every single detail of Dean's morning without even asking.

"Right," Dean breathed.

"And where is Major Morrison?" Sherlock asked, ostensibly amiably.

Dean was not fooled. "She's in the back with John and Sam. They're making the place look presentable for when soldiers and their COs turn up here tomorrow."

Sherlock turned and went to the window, looking out. "Then perhaps we should all help."

.

ooOoo

.

Hollyhedge House stood tall, watching the men and women by the taxi in the gravel. Sherlock put his hands behind his back, watching as John and Morrison said goodbye.

"Thank you, Mr Watson, for all your help," the Major was saying. "It was good to have you home again."

"Nice to know I can always sneak back in," he smiled.

"Safe travels, sir."

"Major." He nodded and turned to Skalmöld.

She tilted her head at Morrison. "Valhalla would suit you very well," she said. "One day, if you wish it, you must contact me. I can still arrange for you to go on the list."

"I am honoured," Morrison managed. "But not eager. —But I wouldn't say never."

"I understand," Skalmöld said. "Thank you, Major. You are a fierce ally." The two women shared a handshake, and then Skalmöld stepped back. "John Watson? Are you ready?"

John looked at Sam and Dean. "Are you two sure I'll make it back?" he asked.

Dean grinned, folding his arms. "You trust Scaramouche, right?"

"I do."

"Then you'll make it back." Dean looked at Skalmöld. "But if it he doesn't… we know where you live."

Sam nudged him harshly, before smiling at Skalmöld. "He's joking. But yeah, we'll come and get John if you run into trouble."

"Thanks," John said, obviously relieved. He turned and faced Sherlock. "So… you'll have to get your own tea for a bit. I'll be back, though. Don't set fire to anything and don't be mean to Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock let out a very small smile play with his lips. "On the contrary, John - I think Mrs Hudson would enjoy listening to this particular tall tale, before it hits your blog."

John nodded at Sherlock, and then turned back to the Winchesters and Morrison. "Well then. Thanks, everyone, for helping to get this cleared up. We really should stop meeting like this." He raised a palm. "Uhm… bye."

Everyone nodded. Skalmöld put a hand on John's shoulder. He looked at her, unafraid and just a little bit keen. She grinned and patted.

And the two of them were gone.

Sherlock looked up to the sky, then back at Morrison. "Major," he nodded. "You've been most helpful. The easiest person I've dealt with."

"And you're pretty handy with a spade," she grinned. "Go on, go. I have paperwork to complete before the world returns to normal tomorrow."

Sherlock inclined his head and then opened the back door to the taxi. He slid onto the back seat, talking to the driver.

Sam turned to Morrison. "Thanks, Major. We couldn't have done any of this without you."

"Oh, Sam. Thank you for solving this whole thing. You two are welcome back here any time you like. Just make it not because of murderers, ok?"

Sam grinned. "See you round, Major." He went to the front door passenger door and folded himself in. He turned immediately to speak to Sherlock in the back seat.

Morrison closed on Dean. She put a hand to the open edge of his jacket. She didn't smile as she appraised the serious look on his face, the freckles that were a direct contrast to his years of hard work, the feeling that at any moment his mouth could burst into a cheeky grin or an angry rebuttal. "And you," she said quietly. "Look after yourself. And I mean it - you can come back here. To work, or just to play. Any time. But please, be in one piece."

"I always try," he admitted.

It was quiet for a long moment.

"What are you thinking?" she dared.

He opened his mouth, and then his eyes ranged all around her face, down her hair that hung free to the shoulders of her fatigues. "I'm trying to put into words how awesome you are. I keep coming up with 'hot', but that's like saying 'Impala - made of metal'."

"Thank you - I think," she grinned. She leant on him as he slid a hand into her hair.

"I'll try to come back," he said quietly. "I mean - I'll really try. But I say that to friends we got, and something always comes up. If I don't come back, it's not because I don't want to."

She smiled, leaning on him just a little more. "I understand."

"You actually do." His mouth bent into a welcome smile. "That, right there? That's why I'll always try."

"Stop talking now," she grinned. She pulled on his jacket and kissed him.

The birds chirped in the trees around them, the beautiful blue sky let warm, intense sun beat down, and the taxi engine started up to add to the soundtrack. Eventually, Morrison eased Dean back and patted him in the chest. "Phew. Go now, before I change my mind."

He grinned, tossed her a wink that she would remember for all of her days, and opened the rear passenger door behind him. He climbed in and thunked it shut securely.

"Are you finally ready?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"As I'll ever be," Dean breathed.

The taxi pulled out down the gravel, breaking out onto the main road. As it waited to turn left and join the afternoon traffic, Dean twisted in the seat and looked back.

Morrison had moved to the end of the house. She raised a hand to point at him with a grin.

Then the taxi pulled away and the house, and Morrison, was gone.

Dean settled back into the seat. Sherlock folded his arms in impatience.

Sam looked in the side mirror, finding his brother's face. At first Dean looked lost, or perhaps just beaten down. But then a tiny, shiny whimsical smile ninja'd across his face and his eyes swivelled to look out of the window. Sam had no doubt at all that he had no conscious awareness of the trees and roads passing them by.

Sam looked back out of the front windscreen.

The taxi driver cleared his throat. "'Spect you don't remember me," he said cheerfully, "but I drove you out here a while back. 'Ere, Mr Holmes - did you find that serial killer then? For the army?"

Sherlock looked up at the back of his head. "Yes."

"Amazing. Y'know, I told my wife I drove for you - she was dead impressed."

"Fascinating," Sherlock said flatly.

"Funny thing though - she said on the net, like, they were speculating it wasn't even a person. A ghost, some said. Still, you can't believe all that guff on the internet, can you?"

"Not at all."

The driver grinned. "Want to hear something funny? My wife said she bumped into a friend of hers at the supermarket just yesterday - and she said that her husband was acting a bit funny. Coming home at weird times, doing odd stuff in the shed. I said I'd mention it to you if I ever saw you again."

"Really. Thank you," Sherlock said with enough sarcasm to sink the Titanic.

"Thing is," the driver went on, "she kept finding piles of sulphur everywhere. I mean - sulphur? Why not ashes like he'd burnt love notes from whichever woman he was havin' an affair with, right?"

"Piles of sulphur?" Sam asked. He twisted in the seat to find Dean already looking at him.

Sherlock looked at Dean. "Sulphur as in—"

"Could be," he nodded.

Sherlock looked at the driver again. "How many piles?"

"Oh I dunno, Mr Holmes. You'd have to speak to her. Well, if you wanted to 'o course," the driver said.

Sherlock turned deliberately to look at Dean. "When is your flight again?"

"Nine this evening," Dean said. "But…"

Sam cleared his throat. "We could maybe change it. Put it back a few hours."

"Or days," Dean nodded.

Sherlock began to smile. It was not a nice smile, in that it spoke of the ferocious need of a shark to rip open the underneath of a fishing net to get at the contents. He looked at the driver's headrest. "Where is this friend of your wife's? Does she live far from Marylebone?"

"Not far, guv," he said happily. "Want me to give her a bell, see if she's about this afternoon? It'll be a few hours back to London in this traffic anyway."

Dean looked at Sam. He nodded at his elder brother. Dean turned to Sherlock but already saw the fire in his eyes that had been lit by this strange gossip. "Do it," Dean said. "Tell her we'll be there in a few hours."

"Right-o, sir," the driver grinned.

The taxi drove on.

.

FIN

.

And that's a wrap, people. I know I said I'd have this done in November 2013, and it's now July 2014, but I moved from Hong Kong back to England and life kept getting in the way. Thanks for your patience and endurance - and thanks for being reading readers who read! It's all for you!