Missing a Heart

“Castiel! You got the wrong girl! You got everything wrong!”
“What do you mean I got the wrong girl, Michael?! What do you mean I got everything wrong? You told me the girl was Lana Chambers!”
Michael sighed, rubbing his temples. “I know, I know, and I got it wrong. The right girl is a little known English girl who is currently in London. Her name is Arwen Holmes. You have to go retrieve her and bring her to Dean. In the mean time, I’ll work on Lana and Dean.” He shook his head. “Really? Telling her Dean is in love with her? He’s not, and you know it Cas. He just thinks of her as another person he has to take care of.”
Castiel sighed. “Look, I did whatever I had to so she wouldn’t die.” Turning on his heel, Cas stormed away and vanished. Reluctant to go straight to his task, he set out to go complain to Sam or someone before finding Arwen.

****
Arwen rolled over, her legs tangled in the sheets of her bed, and nearly fell out of it as she woke up. “Ugh, why can’t I sleep longer?” She mumbled into her pillow. “Why does there have to be a sun? I live in England, for God’s sake. Where the hell is the rain?” Sighing, she threw both legs over the edge of her bed and got up, going out the door and trudging up the steps to the flat above hers, 221B. “Hey Uncle Sherlock,” she yawned, looking through his fridge for something that wasn’t a human body part.
“Hello Arwen,” Sherlock answered from his perch at his microscope. “Did you sleep well?”
“Eh, comme ci comme ça,” she shrugged. “You?”
“I didn’t,” he replied. “Oh, I got a text from your father saying he wants to meet you for brunch today.”
Arwen made a face, pulling out a chair and sitting next to Sherlock. “What the hell does Mycroft want now?” she whined slightly.
“Hell if I should know. I already told him you weren’t interested though.”
“Thanks. Tea?” She asked, holding up his mug and started obnoxiously waving it in front of his face. “I’ll make it.”
Sherlock grinned. She was the only one who could do that to him and get away with it. “Yes please.”
“I’m on it.” Arwen hopped over to the stove and got the water to start boiling. “So, how was your last case? John told me you had to have some help from Americans. What was the case about anyway?”
“Well,” John butted in, suddenly appearing from the staircase. “It was something Sherlock doesn’t specialize in, and the Americans did. It was something supernatural. The idiotic spirit was killing these girls because he wanted his fiance back.”
“Mhm,” Arwen nodded. “That’s weird. But I believe you. Hey, did these Americans happen to be single?” She smirked seeing John’s expression.
Arwen had inherited some of her uncle’s sociopathic tendencies and had a very hard time getting attached to people, so obviously her remark was a joke. She had little care for her mother and none at all for Mycroft. When she was about 12 she realized that something was “wrong” with her, since she didn’t have any friends at school and preferred it to be that way. Earlier in the year she had cut off a girl’s braid in class, and showed no remorse for doing such a thing. The girl called her a psycho, so when Arwen got home that night she looked up characteristics of psychopaths and sociopaths, and saw that she checked the box for unreliability, lack of remorse, insincerity, untruthfulness, extreme intelligence, antisocial behavior, and poor judgement. Ever since she figured this out, she tried to behave herself for the sake of her mother, and the fact she didn’t want to be locked in a reform school. She didn’t care what others thought; she just didn’t want to be caged in a place full of delinquents.
“Um, I’m not sure. The older one, Dean, he seemed to be taking care of that one girl, but I don’t think that they were romantically involved. Either way, I think all of them would be happy to have a go at you.” John didn’t catch the joke.
“Even the girl?”
Sherlock did, giving her a small smirk. “Yes, even the girl,” he said, stretching and getting up to kiss John good morning. Arwen rolled her eyes at their PDA and continued fixing their tea. Sherlock and John weren’t quite finished greeting each other when she finished with their tea, so she awkwardly set down the mugs near them and flicked on the telly. The news was telling about some sad angel statues that had their faces covered. The news is really rubbish these days, she thought to herself as she flicked through the channels. The word angels had triggered something in her memory though, and she thought hard to remember what it was. She was sure it had something to do with a dream she had had that night, but so far she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. After ten minutes of kissing, Arwen thought it best to leave Sherlock and John to it, grabbed her tea and headed back down to her flat.
“Hello,” a deep, gruff voice greeted her.
“What the hell?” she asked, whipping around to see who was in her flat, her tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the mug.
“Arwen Holmes. My name is Castiel. I am an angel of the lord. You have to come with me.”
“What? Why? Wait.... You’re the angel I saw in my dream! How is this possible?”
Cas panicked a little, not sure what she was talking about dreams for. Dreams are comprised of memories and thoughts in the human subconscious. He was not in her subconscious. “Well, uh, I’m not sure. Come with me, and maybe it’ll make more sense.”
“Can I change first? I am just in my nightie, you know,” she giggled.
Castiel blushed, nodding for her to go change. She was back a few minutes later, outfitted in dark plaid trousers, black oxfords, a deep blue jumper, a belt with a large buckle that almost resembled a cowboy’s, and her uncle’s coat. “I hope Sherlock won’t mind if I borrow this. I think he and John are a little to busy to worry about going outside right now, anyway. Are you sure you’ll be warm enough?” Arwen asked, looking Castiel over. That trench coat looked pretty thin.
“Yes, I will be alright.” Cas held out his hand, which Arwen took, and the two were transported to Dean, Sam, and Lana’s hotel room.
“Wow! That was amazing!” Arwen giggled giddily, looking around the room. “You just... You just.... Wow!”
“Hey Cas! Who have we got here?” Dean asked in his usual cocky voice, but he stopped short when he laid eyes on Arwen. She was amazing. She was short, but it suited her. She had a pale complexion with rosy cheeks, a button nose, and dimples when she smiled. Her eyes were the color of milk chocolate, and were lined with onyx lashes. His favorite thing about her was her short hair. It was auburn, but it was a pixie cut with bangs that almost covered her eyebrows. She gave him a sly grin, almost like she was laughing at him.
Castiel pulled Dean out of his daydream by saying something that he didn’t catch. “What?” So she was laughing at him.
“The name’s Arwen. Arwen Holmes. I have a really hippie mom who loves Lord of the Rings, and so she thought it would be a good idea to name her baby girl after the Elf princess. What a wonderful blessing,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Because all little girls dream of being elven princesses.”
“Holmes? You mean like Sherlock Holmes?” Sam asked, looking up from the laptop.
“Well, that’s a change. Most people ask if I’m related to Mycroft, but yes, Sherlock is my uncle.”
“Who’s Mycroft?” Sam asked.
“Someone I hope you’ll never have the pleasure to meet. Sherlock’s brother. Also, he’s my father. He loves to boast about his “position in the British government.” She rolled her eyes. “Anyway, who are you?”
“Dean. Dean Winchester,” Dean introduced himself. “That’s my little brother Sammy-”
“Just Sam is fine-”
“- and Lana’s in the shower.”
“Wait, if you’re from America, how come you haven’t gone back yet? It’s almost Christmas! Don’t you have family there?” She knew the reason they were staying, she just said that to create small talk and not have it be awkward. She hated awkward situations. Using her deductive skills that Sherlock had taught her, she deduced from their clothes that they didn’t have much money and were living from hotel room to hotel room. Several mythology and demon related books were stacked on the table. So they were the supernatural hunters John had told her about.
Dean shrugged. “We have Bobby,” he said, but it came out more like a question.
Arwen opened her mouth to respond, but she felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. “My apologies,” she sighed, checking who it was. Mycroft was calling. “Dammit Mycroft,” she muttered under her breath. “Hello,” she answered, the acid thick in her voice. “What do you want now, Mycroft?”
“I was hoping to see you today. It is almost Christmas after all.”
“Since when have you cared about seeing me? What’s with the sudden spur of the moment presents and trying to get to know me?”
“Well we are family-”
“When did that excuse work when you dumped me on Sherlock’s doorstep when I was 14?” she hissed, walking toward the door to get more privacy.
Sam and Dean exchanged a “well this is awkward” glance.
Arwen was about to unleash her wrath when she heard a beeping coming from her phone. “Hold on.” She switched to the other line.
“Mycroft is here looking for you. Where did you go?”
“John, please make him go away!”
He sighed. “Again I ask, where did you go? You were downstairs just a few minutes ago!”
“Okay, the Americans you and Sherlock met have this friend that’s an angel, long story short I’m in their motel room now, and I have no idea why.”
“Um, alright, uh,” She heard John cover the mouthpiece on the phone and yell “Put that down now Sherlock!” There were a few more muffled words that were exchanged between her uncle and John before John’s voice came back on the receiver. “Well, just don’t go anywhere. Sherlock’s working on Mycroft right now. I’ll call you when he’s gone and the coast is clear. Love you.”
“Thanks John. Love you too.” Arwen tossed her phone back into the pocket of Sherlock’s coat. “So sorry,” she groaned, her face still set with anger at Mycroft. “So, who wants to tell me why I’m here?”
Dean shrugged and looked over to Sam, who had the same expression. The two brother’s then turned to Castiel, who was wracking his brain for some kind of excuse. Luckily, there was a curt knock at the door and Sam got up to answer it.
“Who the hell could that be?” Dean muttered.
Sam shrugged and opened the door. Standing in the doorway, completely soaked to the skin because of the rain, was none other than Mycroft. He had a forced smile on his face, his eyes darting around Sam to find Arwen.
“Guess the fat old man had to do all the work himself, didn’t he?” Arwen sneered.
“My deepest apologies to bother you at this time, but may I have a word with my daughter?” Mycroft asked.
“Request denied,” Arwen replied.
“I’m not asking, I’m telling.” Mycroft’s charm was wearing away quickly and turning to irritation. “It’s about Moriarty.”
Arwen dropped her smug act. “What about Moriarty?”
“I know you received contact from him a few days ago. If he’s back-”
Arwen shook her head. “He’s not back. He can’t be. Sherlock saw it with his own eyes! The man shot himself in the head. There’s no faking that. It’s most likely some of his supporters trying to scare us.”
Mycroft was about to speak again, but Arwen held up her hand, signaling him to stop. Her phone buzzed again; a new text message. She opened it, and on it was another message:
Mycroft think’s I’m dead? Oh, how sweet.
-J. M.
“It’s him again,” Arwen said, her lips pursed and pricking up at the corners.
“What did he say?”
“He think’s it’s sweet that you think that he’s dead.”
“Give that to me,” Mycroft demanded, trying to take her phone, but she held it out of reach.
“Not so fast, Mycroft. You can get your monkeys in the government to find him for you. In the mean time, I’m going to take a try at his game.”
Are you still trying to win the game? Because I want to play.
- A. H.