Detective Conan/Case Closed 1. I think we have a problem

Disclaimer: don't own anything except the plot.

I blame this on Becky Tailweaver, whose 'Relative Truth' both introduced me to Detective Conan and seems to have gotten my interest compass stuck on it. Although Icka M. Chif and Ysabet are also probably partially responsible for the latter.

* * *

Conan was the one who found the note. The professor had been out, which was probably why the timing had been chosen.

It sat on the counter in the empty lab, a single large brown glass bottle beside it. All the rest of the equipment, glassware and chemicals, were neatly cleaned and put away; the computer, when turned on, proved to have been cleared of any incriminating files.

The note was short.

"I will be gone for some time. Do not try to contact me.

The bottle contains a new temporary cure. I believe this is the only safe way.

10 mL ≈ one hour. The formula is more stable than the capsules. It breaks down when exposed to light, so keep your supply in the tinted bottle.

**You must not ever let an intact sample of this chemical fall into Their hands.**"

The last sentence was on its own line. The words were darker, as though the writer had pressed down hard in an attempt to emphasize their importance, and underlined twice. It was signed simply, "Be careful. -Ai."

When Professor Agasa returned, he found Conan sitting by the counter, the note in one hand but his stare somewhere far beyond it. The boy's other hand unconsciously twirled the plastic cup that sat upside down like a hat over the cap of the glass bottle, a small graduated container like those that came with some cough syrup bottles. Conan's head came up at the professor's entrance, though his stare did not move and it wasn't certain whether he even really registered Agasa's presence.

"It's a one liter bottle," the small detective said quietly. "About four days."

It was a Friday afternoon.

* * *

"I should test it first. Just in case."

The professor agreed with Conan's desire for caution, and so it was that Conan steeled himself to wait until the next day and an excuse to Ran about a new video game Agasa had found before returning to the lab.

All that evening and the next morning, he was mildly surprised to find that the lingering shock actually helped him endure the wait, deadening the nervous anticipation he was sure to have felt. Ran agreed to the proposed trip quickly, perhaps noticing her small charge's unusually subdued manner.

The trip to Professor Agasa's house went by in a blur. It was fortunate that he did not encounter any of the Detective Boys; he would not have been up to evading them.

Agasa had already prepared a room by the time Conan arrived. A brief change of clothes, and all that remained was the actual taking of the cure. Tactfully, the professor merely made certain Conan knew the room that had prepared and walked him to the lab door, withdrawing to give him some privacy.

The bottle was still on the counter, exactly where he – and Ai – had left it. Conan took a deep, shaky breath and, with hands that had miraculously stopped shaking, removed the plastic cup and the cap.

_A test…_he mused silently. _Ten milliliters for an hour. One for about five or six minutes. That should be enough time to check for any problems._

The stuff inside the bottle had none of the viscosity of cough syrup, and he easily poured out one milliliter, a stray drop sliding cleanly down the smooth plastic and joining the rest of the murky, strong-smelling liquid at precisely the first mark. He carefully replaced the cap on the bottle and regarded the brown solution in the cup for a moment before raising it in an ironic salute, a toast to hope, and tossing it back.

The stuff tasted horrible, as strong as it smelled, and it burned, like alcohol or capsaicin or iodine on a scrape. It seared the inside of his mouth and down the back of his throat when he swallowed. He managed to drop the plastic cap on the counter, tinny hollow clunk telling him it had connected. Eyes watering, he staggered out of the laboratory and toward the room. He barely made it to the prepared place before the burning in his throat spread to the rest of him and he collapsed, the familiar agony of the change coursing through the marrow of his bones.

* * *

Shinichi Kudo woke to an unfamiliar room. He found himself lying face down and tried to get up, only to reel with a wobbly, dizzy weakness throughout his body. He tried again, more slowly, and managed to roll over. From a half-reclining position, partly on his back, partly on his side, he got his first real look at his surroundings.

He was lying on a blanket on the floor, wearing a plain t-shirt and boxers. A set of clothes lay neatly folded on the floor near his head. The room was very small, and there were angular marks on the floor, as though boxes had been there for a while and recently moved. There were no windows; the walls were a plain white, and there was a single door at one end.

Shinichi frowned and tried to suppress a rising sense of unease. Where was he? What had happened to him? The last thing he remembered was…he couldn't seem to remember for a moment, coming up with nothing with dark fog. Then he got an image, and his head seemed to clear a little. That's right, he took Ran to Tropical Land. Then there was that murder, the beheading, on that roller coaster they rode, and then…he went to go follow those two men, that was it. He remembered seeing one of them making a deal…he must have lost track of the other one…and then something hit him on the head, a vague memory of pain, and then nothing. Until waking up here, wherever here was.

The detective immediately leapt to the conclusion that he had been knocked out by his attackers, possibly drugged, by the way he felt, and brought here. He lurched to his feet, swaying slightly and leaning on the nearest wall for support. He made a desperate stumble for the door, falling back in unsurprised despair when he found it locked, when his detective's eye caught something that stopped his entire train of thought in its tracks.

The door was locked from the inside.

Shinichi slowly sank back onto the blanket, mind whirling. Wherever he was, the pieces weren't quite fitting together. A quick glance told him that there was no way anyone else was in the bare room. He was of course familiar with locked-room scenarios, but it didn't make sense to go to the trouble if the person inside wasn't dead. Was he supposed to be? Or was someone trying to mess with his head? The real test would come when he tried whether the door was locked from the outside as well, but common sense told him he should probably get dressed before attempting it.

He mechanically put on the clothes in the pile, not entirely surprised that they fit him perfectly. In the process he noticed the second strange thing since waking, not counting the situation itself. He was wearing a watch that he had never seen before, one with a strange marking on the casing. He stared at it for a moment before deciding that he had better not touch it until he had a better idea what he was doing and finished dressing.

The door opened easily once he unlocked it, and he stepped out into a hallway. There was a moment of dizzying familiarity and uncertainty, and he took a few steps out before recognizing Professor Agasa's house. He turned back to the room he had awakened in and on inspecting it in light of this new revelation recognized it as a storage room, the boxes that had been there since time immemorial unaccountably cleared out. He was about to go out again when a stab of pain lanced through him, then another. He stumbled back, into the room, and fell onto the blanket, the door swinging shut behind him as he lost himself to agony.

* * *

When the pain subsided, he regained consciousness in a child's body and knew himself again, both as Shinichi Kudo and as the masquerade of Edogawa Conan that he had been maintaining since that night.

Then the memories of the past few minutes came back to him and he groaned and began to swear under his breath as he detangled himself from his larger clothes and went in search of the ones that fit him as he was now.

* * *

Professor Agasa had a strong sense of déjà vu when he looked into the lab and found Conan again seated by the counter, staring at the glass bottle. Hearing him approach, the small detective looked up at him with a morose expression.

"Professor? I think we have a problem."


	2. Let's try this again

Disclaimer: still don't own anything except the plot.

You horrible, horrible people reviewed and provoked the plot bunnies, who harassed me until I had write more when I should have been doing something productive.

* * *

Conan opted to wait a day before trying another test, just in case of ill effects. There didn't seem to be any more for him, other than those he was used to from the temporary cure, and he was grateful that this version seemed to place a bit less strain on his heart. He soon found himself contemplating the problem of the new cure's apparent effects on his memory. Ran must have thought his increased animation was the result of allowing him to spend time with the professor; she was right, in a way, though not quite the way she thought. She agreed to let him spend a few hours at Agasa's again on Sunday afternoon.

The intervening time alternately dragged and flew by, until Conan was able to complete his somewhat more complicated preparations and again found himself in the lab staring at the glass bottle.

"Three milliliters this time…almost twenty minutes," he mused to himself. "That should be long enough to see…"

Conan was much more composed this time as he poured the brown liquid into the plastic cup, holding back the sleeves of his oversized t-shirt and wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell. This time he paused for only a moment before tossing the concoction back, grimacing at the sensation of a chemical burn scorching its way down his throat. Anticipation did not make the experience easier to bear, but he managed to break into a controlled run to the safe room, retaining barely enough awareness through the haze of pain to pull the door shut behind him and collapse in the proper place.

* * *

When he woke up again, Shinichi was only disoriented for a moment before recognizing the white walls and the surface of the blanket beneath his face. He sighed in mild disgust at his weakened state before slowly getting up, having learned from his previous attempt. To his surprise, the fatigue and wobbly feeling in his limbs had not abated. If anything, it seemed worse than it had right before the vaguely-recalled pain that had caused his collapse.

That realization gave way to the next as he succeeded in sitting up, and Shinichi frowned at finding himself back in the t-shirt and boxers. He knew he'd gotten dressed already, just a few moments ago – wasn't it?

Shinichi was somehow not surprised at the pile of folded clothes on the floor by the blanket. Upon noticing that they were not the same clothes as before, he merely nodded to himself; a quick glance established that he was still wearing the strange watch and that, once again, the door was locked from the inside.

_So_. Those pieces made sense somehow, he was sure. Shinichi's detective instincts were telling him that they all fit into the larger picture, even if he wasn't sure what that picture was right now.

He idly checked the time on his mysterious watch and frowned suddenly, inspecting it more carefully. The time displayed was earlier that the one he had glimpsed before…? Either he was mistaken, the watch wasn't working…or he had been out for much longer than he'd thought.

His instincts told him that this, too, was related to the increasingly bizarre situation he was finding himself in, but remained unhelpful as to exactly how. Knowing that pondering was unlikely to help without further information, Shinichi mentally filed the issue for later reference and got down to the more practical matter of getting dressed. Again.

Or at least, that was his plan until he saw the letter.

It sat on top of the pile of clothes, his name on the outside in neat writing.

He stared at it for a while before realizing how silly he was being. He picked it up gingerly, but only after checking for any signs of explosives, or poisons, or other unfriendly contents. There were none, merely a message written on a sheet of blank, ordinary printer paper.

"Shinichi Kudo,  
I don't know whether you remember waking up before or whether the last thing you remember is Tropical Land.  
All you need to know now is that you poked into something you weren't able to handle and that you are safe for the moment. You are currently at Professor Agasa's house. You may leave the room, but it is important that you do not try tocontact the professor, either now or later. He is trustworthy, but he is already endangered enough by the mere fact of your presence here.  
You may not remember, but you have powerful and ruthless enemies. You and everyone associated with you will suffer if they find you. Keep a low profile, and trust no one unless told by one of these letters. Above all, be careful.  
You will lose consciousness approximately when your watch reads 2:40. Be back in this room by then."

There was no signature.

Over the next few minutes, Shinichi read the note several times. He paced around the room for a while, thinking, but came up with no satisfactory conclusions. He did venture out into the hall, just enough to confirm that it was indeed Agasa's house. The distant voice of the professor himself suggesting that the scientist was working on one of his own projects. For once, Shinichi made no attempt to investigate further and returned to the storage room.

He sat down on the blanket, holding the note, eyes unseeing and expression uncharacteristically serious for several minutes. Try as he might, he couldn't get the entire situation to make sense. He could believe the bit about poking around and making powerful enemies – those two black-coated guys he'd followed didn't seem the community service type – but that didn't explain what was happening to him now.

What had they done to him? Why did he feel so sick every time he woke up? His impression from the last time was confirmed as the discomfort eased gradually the longer he remained conscious. What had caused that pain both previous times he'd passed out, not to mention the passing out itself?

That lead to the next train of thought. Who was setting all this up for him? Who had undressed him, and why did they keep putting him in a t-shirt and boxers? Was it some kind of experiment? That would have made sense if he hadn't been at Agasa's. Scientist the professor might be, but he worked more with technology than biology, and certainly not with anything that would have effects like this. Whoever had written the note, and presumably arranged his current situation, seemed to know more about what was going on than he did, which he did not like at all.

That line of investigation leading only to dead ends, he returned his attention to the note he still held, turning it over absently in his hands. There were no real clues in either the paper or ink, not that he had really expected any. The paper was ordinary printer paper, most likely the same that Agasa used. The writing was neat and in generic ballpoint pen, also probably Agasa's. The writer was right-handed and probably a male adult, but that was hardly helpful.

Something about the handwriting nagged at him, though; for some reason it struck him as familiar, though he couldn't put his finger on why. Was it his mother's, or, more likely, his father's? Was this one of their tricks, rather than anything truly serious? He was about to reopen the folded paper to study it more closely when a stabbing pain shot through his consciousness.

He had barely enough time to aim his collapse onto the blanket and mentally swear at the timing before thought faded away and the world became a distinctly unfriendly place.

* * *

In the moments as the pain ebbed and the world unfogged, allowing thought to return, Kudo regained awareness as himself and as Conan. As the memory of his last few moments before losing consciousness hit, he jerked upright in panic, resuming his mental swearing for practically the opposite reason as before. A single glance at his still-clenched fist was enough for him to see the paper still folded in his hand, the handwriting not visible. Conan breathed a sigh of relief.

_That was far too close. How could I have been so stupid? Such a careless mistake…if he – I mean, I – I mean, oh, nevermind, if the handwriting had been recognized as mine, that would have been bad._

_Wouldn't it?_

Conan pushed himself up into a sitting position, his exasperated exhalation sending his bangs flying.

_I can't believe he – I – my other self could be that stupid, either. How could he – I – not realize that more time has passed since Tropical Land than a day or so?_

_And as for thinking Mom or Dad was behind this…_

Conan snorted.

_Then again, maybe it's good that…he…is so oblivious. I don't know how much I want myself to know just yet._

_And boy, was that a screwed up sentence._

Conan crumpled up the paper in his hand, detangling himself from the oversized clothes and blankets. Getting up, he unlocked to the door to go reclaim his smaller clothes and glasses.

_That's the problem, I think. I haven't thought this through. I have enough data. Now I need to figure out what I'm going to do about this._


	3. Need to stop and think

Disclaimer: still fail to own anything but the plot.

I blame you for this, Fyliwion. Though Great Detective contributed, and YumeTakato didn't help.

The timing is ibogal's fault, though. I wasn't planning to get this done for a while yet.

* * *

Conan was thankful for the mask he had developed over the previous months and hated himself for it. He had put on a cheerful act for Ran, complimenting her on dinner, thanking her for letting him "play" at the professor's, and wishing her luck studying for her exam. He was feeling a bit tired, he had said with wide, innocent eyes, so he was going to go to bed so that he could go to school in the morning. Ran had smiled at how sweet he was being, hugged him, and sent him off.

Lying on his bed but wide awake, Conan hated that he had said things that were perfectly true without meaning them. He would have liked to give Ran sincere compliments, not just statements of fact. He had wanted to give her his best encouragement to do well on the test, he wanted to express his heartfelt thanks for the time she had allowed him without pressing or asking why, even if she didn't and couldn't know why it was so important to him. Instead, unable to concentrate on those emotions, he had heard himself giving a performance while feeling nothing inside except a confused turmoil inside over issues that had nothing to do with what he was saying.

Or, rather, too much, depending on how you looked at it.

* * *

Conan did not know how long he lay, staring at the ceiling, before his thoughts resolved from their disorganized circling into some form of order. His earlier numbness had given way to a confused jumble of nerves, frustration, anger, worry, despair, and uncertainty.

Gradually, his thoughts and impressions of the events of the previous two days settled enough for him to begin trying to make sense of them.

First of all, there was Ai. Oddly, the foremost of the issues was also the easiest to resolve.

Ai had left. Why? Had she betrayed him?

Conan made himself consider it and instantly knew it wasn't true. She was too genuinely terrified of the Black Organization to go back. Contacting them, even to attempt to cut a deal, was at least as much a death sentence for her as for him. Not to mention that it simply wasn't her character. She was even more cautious than he was, and impulsive or irrational decisions were not in her nature.

If she had been taken against her will, she would have left some clue or trace. The note gave no sign of that. Why would she warn him against letting Them finding the chemical if they had her and it already? The wording was pure genuine cryptic Ai, not that of a subtle hint or clue. There was no sign in the writing of duress or distress, merely tension, which was to be expected given the circumstances.

The only logical conclusion was that it had something to do with that new temporary antidote she had left him. He couldn't think what it would be, but he supposed that was hardly relevant. She must have a good reason for her actions. Wherever she was, he would trust her judgment.

The thought of the temporary cure provoked a wistful sigh from Conan. There were so many possibilities opened by the existence of a reliable temporary cure that didn't make him risk heart failure, let alone one that allowed him to choose the duration of the change. Being able to change forms at will would have allowed him far greater access during cases while still keeping him mostly safe. And to see Ran again, as himself.

If only his larger self could remember what he was supposed to do.

Conan groaned quietly in frustration and buried his face in his pillow.

_So close…!_

Conan sobered suddenly. His larger self didn't remember the danger of the Black Organization, either. He wrinkled his nose at the memory of what he had thought before passing out.

'_Are my parents behind this,' indeed. Was I really that clueless? _

'_Is this really serious?' Yes, you idiot, what do you think?_

Conan sighed, adjusting his position on the bed.

_Of course, I know better now. It's a bit hard not to, considering the circumstances. But if the version of me that doesn't know about it is going to get himself – me – killed if he keeps this up. That's the root of the entire problem, really._

He gave an ironic chuckle as another thought occurred to him.

_Of course, it's a perfect cover. I can hardly give away my secret if I don't remember. Ai would have loved it, since she was always so worried I would do something stupid either by accident or on purpose to let someone else know._

Conan blinked in sudden realization.

_Ai…she must have known it would have this effect, if she didn't design it on purpose._

His mind flew back to the note she had left. "I believe this is the only safe way," it had said. He had assumed she meant just the physical effects, but what if she was referring to more than that?

_Not just the formula itself. She was here to help find me a cure and to keep me from giving myself away. This would do both, at least temporarily. Without her here and without my "other self" remembering, there would be no way for me to give myself away, except by accident. Well, about the shrinking, at least, which is the bigger secret. Giving away that I'm still alive is a risk with any cure, period._

_Ai must have counted on my being smart enough to figure it out and take steps to prevent accidents. It's certainly the kind of thing she would do._

Remembering his personality before his time as Conan, the detective winced. He had the sinking certainty that if told about _how_ he had survived, his other – former – self would either not believe the truth and probably blab where he shouldn't, or go charging off headlong after the Black Organization, either of which could have deadly results.

_I'm still keeping after Them now, of course, but it's not the same. I'm much better at keeping a low profile, if only from all the practice._

Which meant that his "alter ego" had better remain ignorant of his existence among the ranks of grade schoolers, for safety reasons if nothing else. Remembering his near-disaster with the note, Conan sighed in relief. He'd never thought he'd actually be glad for the odd and unpredictable discrepancies between his remembered skills and current muscle development. That minor difference between his old, adult handwriting and the slightly more erratic version he had now were most likely all that had saved him from Shinichi instantly recognizing it as his own.

_And trying to keep track of which version of myself I'm talking about is giving me a headache._

He continued to lie there, fragments of thoughts still swirling idly, but a gentler eddying than the pained tangle that there had been before.

If the memory loss had gone both ways – for that matter, even if it had just been reversed and he had been unable to remember what he had done as Shinichi – he would have panicked and stopped using the antidote entirely.

As it was…he could keep track of what he did, so he could still use his larger form as a tool. It would just have to be directed.

A plan began to take shape in his mind.

Maybe he'd been on the right track with the note after all. He would have to be more careful, of course, and setup would be more complicated, but it could work.

Right before he dozed off, a thought occurred to him that tugged a corner of his mouth up into a faint grin.

_Looks like it's time to bring Shinichi up to speed._


	4. Preparations to be made

Disclaimer: see previous chapter.

(shakes head bemusedly)  
Wow. I apparently have not only repeat but chronic reviewers. I'm amazed and flattered that you're following this story!

* * *

The Detective Boys had learned well from their mentor, so it was perhaps not surprising that on Monday morning they noted both Ai's absence and Conan's abstracted air and made some rapid connections before their little group had even entered the schoolyard. If Conan hadn't been preoccupied, he probably would have been able to predict the barrage of questioning that followed.

"What's wrong?"

"Is Ai sick?"

"Will she be back tomorrow?"

"Where is she?"

"I'm not sure," Conan told them, half-laughing and one hand trying vainly to smooth down the cowlick at the back of his head. "The professor only told me that she had to go away suddenly."

If he had been less nervous and distracted, he might have noticed that the Detective Boys were less than convinced.

Ayumi's eyes narrowed slightly. That didn't seem like the Conan she knew at all. In her experience, Conan never gave up on even the smallest of mysteries until they were solved to his satisfaction, sometimes without even realizing what he was doing. Whatever else happened, she was certain Conan would have gotten everything the professor knew out of him somehow.

Mitsuhiko regarded his friend dubiously for a different reason. He'd seen Conan use that same wide-eyed look and cheerful voice to grownups before. Usually just before, after, or during times when he was poking into something that he knew the grownup in question would not approve of. This did not make Mitsuhiko inclined to trust anything Conan said while using that expression or tone of voice.

Genta probably couldn't have verbalized why he didn't believe the story, but it was really quite simple. While adults might have been fooled by the act, Genta was a child himself and also knew Conan. The idea of an innocent Conan, much like that of a vegetarian sabertooth tiger, set off subliminal alarm bells.

Without any signal being given, the three lagged behind Conan slightly. A silent flurry of traded glances and gestures quickly established the mutual nature of their misgivings. A few more emphatic but still silent motions established a rapid consensus. They would not call him on the matter yet, but neither would it be dropped.

The confrontation was merely to be postponed, not forgotten.

Quickening their pace, the three followed Conan into the classroom so smoothly the distracted detective never even noticed the byplay.

* * *

Over the following week, things kept Conan distracted and prickled the Detective Boys' suspicions, such as how their lead detective began consistently leaving their company to go to Professor Agasa's and gently but firmly putting off their requests to come along.

* * *

In the lab, several milliliters of the antidote were sacrificed for research purposes. Conan carried out the tests himself, politely declining the professor's careful offers to help run the analyses, though he did gratefully accept Agasa's suggestions and help setting up and using the equipment. The professor continued to exercise admirable tact, ensuring that his former neighbor had access to the devices and materials he needed before bowing out. Perhaps he sensed Conan's need to get control over something in his life; whatever the reason, Conan was profoundly grateful in the rare times when he was not busy and could think of it.

Working from the warning in Ai's note, Conan quickly established that the compound did indeed deteriorate upon exposure to light. Within few minutes, depending on the source and intensity of the illumination, the samples of the translucent dark liquid would suddenly and completely turn clear. The change appeared permanent, and Conan tested the changed samples despite the professor's objections to the idea. Instead of burning, they had an unpleasant, almost slimy taste faintly reminiscent of soda that had gone flat, and they proved to have no apparent effect other than a mildly upset stomach.

Conan would not let Professor Agasa run tests or make any notes about the antidote itself, arguing that Ai had all the information necessary and that any investigation on their part would be not only redundant but a dangerous possible source of leakage to the Org. He had burned Ai's note and flushed the ashes down the sink and done the same to his own note to ensure that they would leave no incriminating evidence. However, he did allow the elderly scientist to run a full battery of tests on the transparent fluid that resulted from denaturing the samples, which proved to contain nothing more remarkable than a variety of common organic compounds. Agasa was still unhappy that Conan had tested the stuff on himself _before_ the analysis, but was relieved to find nothing in the results that was likely to cause any lasting harm.

Agasa covered for Conan's visits by telling Ran that a friend had given him a junior chemistry set his own children had no interest in, and that the little boy was fascinated with working through the experiments – under Agasa's watchful eye, of course, he assured her. And so she did not worry overmuch if Conan came home with scorch marks on his sleeves, or smelling of strange chemicals. Besides, she felt it was worth it to see the triumphant light in his eyes when he returned from one of the sessions. He seemed so much more cheerful and animated that Ran thought it must be doing him good and didn't have the heart not to let him go. He seemed to enjoy it so much and looked forward to it so eagerly, and he was in such better spirits than he had been over the weekend.

On his part, Conan carefully concocted likely-sounding stories of color changes and fizzing, things that would interest a small boy enough to be recounted with bouncing excitement. He even went so far as to carefully and artistically plant stains in strategic places and brush dilute solutions of aqueous ammonia or other aromatic compounds on his clothes to lend credibility to his tales.

Meanwhile, in his actual experiments he discovered that UV light could trigger the change much more effectively, and with the professor's help devised some small devices to emit a UV flare that would convert a sample of the compound in seconds. A more powerful, remotely-triggerable version was made, waterproofed, cleaned thoroughly, and dropped into the bottle itself, a controller left in each of their possessions.

Ran was surprised when Conan took a sudden fancy to a small, clear glass perfume bottle with an eyedropper built into the cap. When queried, he gave such an adorable story about a bubble-blowing game that she let him have it and even cleaned it out thoroughly for him. A little while later, he proudly showed her a plastic ring that had been cleverly fastened to the stalk of the eyedropper for him by the professor. Ran smiled and thought fondly of the old scientist who was so accommodating for a small boy.

She was not shown the round sticker that soon afterward found its way onto the base, the oddly thickened center nestled snugly into the hollow at the bottom of the bottle so that the base appeared flat upon cursory inspection. Nor was she shown the careful, precisely engraved lines that appeared on the glass stem of the eyedropper at exactly spaced intervals. And she was not informed when the bottle unobtrusively became a constant presence in his pocket.

Conan was busy with other preparations, too. Agasa helped him move some items, but other things he could only do on his own.

Not least of these was some hard thinking and planning.

And the formulation of another note.


	5. That wasn't supposed to happen

Disclaimer: see first chapter.

You were right, YumeTakato, the last chapter was more of an interlude. This chapter has more stuff actually happening, and may be the last update before my computer access goes away.

As usual, editing for errors and clarity has been done on previous chapters.

* * *

Shinichi woke up feeling like he'd just gotten over a bout of malaria.

"This is getting old," he muttered to himself, not bothering to open his eyes. He rolled onto his side, reaching toward where the pile of folded clothes was certain to be–

–and fell two feet onto a hard floor. Completely unprepared and still feeling slightly bruised as he had been after awakening, the impact knocked the wind out of him and had him seeing stars of pain for several seconds.

_Ow. Ow. Ow. That was not good. What the hell just happened? _

When his vision cleared, he found to his surprise that he was not in the storage closet at Agasa's and that he had, in fact, been lying on a bed, which he had just fallen off of. A beat, and he suddenly realized it was a very familiar bed, and, for that matter, a very familiar room.

He lurched to a sitting position, instantly regretting it, but when his head cleared again his initial impression was confirmed. He was in his own room, in his own house. And when he turned his head, more gingerly this time, there was a pile of his own clothes on the nightstand with a letter on top.

A wry smile crept its way onto his face as he lifted his wrist, confirming the continued presence of the strange watch, and a few glances also confirmed that he was, yet again, in a t-shirt and boxers, and that the door was locked from the inside.

_At least something in this mess is staying predictable_.

The letter was typed this time, and Shinichi frowned in disappointment at the loss of the opportunity to study that strangely familiar handwriting. He searched halfheartedly, but was not especially surprised to find no trace of the previous letter.

This one didn't bother to have his name on it.

"As you have no doubt noticed, you are now in your own bedroom. Tell no one about waking up at Agasa's or the circumstances you find upon awakening. If anyone asks, tell them you always wake up at your own house with no idea how or why."

Shinichi stopped reading long enough to snort. "Not that that'll be hard."

The letter continued.

"This is not a joke, and neither are your parents behind it. They know of the general situation, but not of these arrangements."

Shinichi blinked.

_Huh, how about that. I was just wondering about whether they set this up before I passed out last time. _

That thought led to another, and he frowned.

_I wonder how long it's been since then? It feels like only a minute to me, but I wouldn't know if I was unconscious. If nothing else, it must have taken a while to get me here and set everything up. How much time have I lost? _

Frowning, Shinichi put aside the matter for later.

"The first thing you need to do is get caught up on what's been going on in the world. You've been out for longer than you think, and you need to find out what's changed. Try to stay inconspicuous, and don't call attention to yourself. You'll notice the clothes are not what you usually wear. Acting introverted will also help to keeping you from being recognized. Your mother's an actress, you can manage that, I'm sure.  
Feel free to leave the house as long as you follow those directions, but be back when your watch reads 4:30."

Again, there was no signature. Glancing at his watch, Shinichi noted he had about an hour.

A brief prowl around his house revealed that everything was neat, but small things were changed or out of place, like it had been cleaned by someone wasn't intimately familiar with it. The air had an unused smell, and there was dust accumulated where daily activities would not have allowed it to settle. Shinichi's brows furrowed slightly.

_Hmm. _

A brief glance at his father's old study quickly established the source of the note. One of the old typewriters had been set up on the desk, a stack of generic paper fished out of a drawer resting beside it. It had been used recently, and it was the work of a moment to establish that the typeface was identical to that of the note. Indulging an impulse, Shinichi did an impromptu dusting for fingerprints with some flour from the kitchen (from which, he noted in passing during his search, all perishables were unaccountably absent). He was not especially surprised to find nothing. His father's prints were too long ago to pick up, and whoever had set up his accommodations in such a fashion would hardly be so careless as to not use gloves.

After cleaning up the flour, Shinichi eventually found himself by the front door and sighed.

_Well, exercise is supposed to be good for you, after all. _

_I think it's a nice day for a stroll._

* * *

Walking down the street, a baseball cap pulled over his head and sunglasses obscuring his face, Shinichi frowned as he studied his surroundings. He had set out with the intention of finding a newsstand, computer, library, or some combination thereof, but after only a few blocks had rapidly decided to spend his available time reacquainting himself with the neighborhood. The traffic patterns were subtly different, with less people in some areas and others, like the street he now walked down, more crowded. Some houses nearby were not the same color he remembered; cars in driveways were different. He had started to walk toward a commercial district he favored, only to find his way now blocked by a new branch of an elevated railway. There were buildings he did not remember seeing there before. Countless little details, but all together, his world had changed, and he frowned, not liking the sensation. A niggling worry was growing in his mind: it would have taken time for all the construction projects to have gone through. They didn't look all that new, and from the few in progress he encountered there was no sign that the rate of development had suddenly increased.

_Just how much time did I lose…? What is going on here? _

He was startled out of his reverie by a voice calling his name.

"Oi! Kudo!" An unfamiliar teenager about his age with dark skin and a Kansai accent hailed him, looking surprised. "You managed to get back to normal?"

Shinichi stared at him. "What?" Suddenly realizing this was a chance to get some answers, he closed the distance between them himself. The other boy backed up slightly, looking confused.

"What's the matter, Kudo? It's me, Heiji."

Shinichi's eyes widened. "You know me?" Then Heiji's greeting registered, and the detective grabbed the Osakan's arm, removing his sunglasses to see more clearly. "You know what's been happening to me for the last few – however long it's been?"

The other teenager stared at him, eyes wide beneath forward-spiked hair. "W-what – I, uh," he stammered, taking a step back and pulling his arm out of Shinichi's grasp, still staring at him. "I-I'll call you later. I have to go." Heiji turned and took off running like a shot, catching Shinichi by surprise, though he supposed it shouldn't have. Shinichi took off running himself, doggedly tracking the other boy through the crowds. Checking his strange watch, he found he didn't have much more time left before the deadline the note indicated. For a moment, he wavered, but the chance to find out what had being going on – not to mention the instinct to pursue a fleeing subject of questioning – won out. Shouldering his way through the other people, Shinichi vaguely registered that they were heading away from the crowds and toward the less populated, rougher districts. To his thinking, that was all the better; it would be easier to keep track of his target that way.

And it was easier in the emptier streets and alleys, allowing him to catch up slightly, right up until the point when pain lanced through him and blurred his vision.

* * *

"Heiji? Hey, Heiji, open up!" a high, disgruntled voice called, punctuating the staccato of light knocking on the door of the hotel room. The Great Detective of the West got up off the sofa and peered suspiciously through the peephole, to be met with a concentrated glare of irritation from about three feet above floor level on the other side of the door. The Osaka native opened the door with a sigh of relief and beckoned his visitor in.

"Oh, man, it's good to see you. I was going to call you, actually – the strangest thing happened to me earlier today. I saw someone who looked exactly like you, only he acted like he didn't know me or something. I was worried that there might be an imposter sent to flush out–" the teen suddenly froze, eyeing the apparent child in front of him with sudden distrust.

Noticing, the boy pushed his thick black glasses up on his nose and sighed in exasperation. "Yes, Heiji, unless They've managed to either kidnap a lookalike, co-opt him, and give him _really good_ acting lessons, it's really me. Either that, or they've figured out how to shrink themselves, in which case the game is up anyway and you're _really_ screwed."

Heiji relaxed at the thick sarcasm and sat down with a sigh, motioning his guest to do the same. The smaller detective did so, still glowering.

"Now, for the love of…first of all, why didn't you _tell_ me you were going to be in the area?"

Heiji shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't my idea. Kazuha wanted to come, and I could hardly say no. I was actually going over to let you know when…you know." He gestured vaguely, then frowned. "Or do you know? What exactly is going on here? _Was_ that you?" The currently taller detective leaned forward, frowning.

Conan had settled into a sustained medium-grade radiation of disapproval at how the universe was ordering his life. "Heiji. I have had a hellish afternoon, I feel like crap, and it's all your fault. If you'd stop _talking_, maybe I could explain," he snapped.

Heiji subsided, intimidated partially by Conan's attitude but more by the fact that he was actually pulling it off in a grade-schooler's body. Conan transferred his gaze to the middle distance and, frowning, laid out the situation with Ai's departure and the peculiar nature of the new cure in a few terse sentences. Heiji made a noise of understanding.

"Oh, so that's why you didn't recognize me. But you still remember that now, right?"

Conan's glower returned full force. "Yes. Which is how I know you spent the afternoon playing tag with Shinichi. Now he knows your face and is going to be mistrustful of you from now on or, worse, going to try to get the details of what he's been doing out of you. You of all people should know that nothing looks more suspicious than running!"

"It was more like hide and seek," Heiji replied with dignity, "and it wasn't exactly a picnic for me, either, you know. You're fast, and I was having a hell of a time trying to lose you. Besides, how was I supposed to react? If it _were_ an Org imposter and I _didn't_ run, that would have been more of a problem. And you do realize you're talking about yourself in the third person?"

"Stop trying to change the subject. This wouldn't have happened if you'd told me you were coming."

"Oh, come on, that's not a big problem. We can work out what story to tell now, and next time I can explain that I was worried that your enemies had sent an imposter to find out your secrets, and that I don't really know anything because I've only worked with you on a few cases. It's even true. You don't need to get that worked up about it."

Heiji instantly shut up because Conan was giving him a full-out Glare of Death.

"The _problem_ is that you got Shinichi running around the back streets of Tokyo right around the end of a dose of the temporary cure. So when the deadline came around, instead of being at home I ended up changing back behind a dumpster. In an alley. A _filthy_ alley."

Heiji's survival instincts told him this would be a very bad time to laugh.

"It might have been a good thing you led me to a not-so-good area of town, since nobody was inclined to investigate the noises of pain or the swearing afterwards."

Heiji choked, turned it into a cough under Conan's glower. The shrunken detective folded his arms.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get home from some godforsaken dead end halfway across town when you're alone, you look like you haven't hit puberty yet, the only clothes available are around twenty sizes too big, your glasses are missing, and you have no means of communication, transportation, or money? Not to mention having to get past Ran and the Detective Boys without them noticing?"

"So…how'd you manage it?" Heiji risked asking, only to hastily recoil from the resulting reaction. No one under four feet tall should have been able to pull off a look that could probably vaporize lead.

"_I. Don't. Want. To. Talk. About. It,_" the other boy gritted out through clenched teeth.

Heiji's detective and survival instincts held a hurried consultation and presented a unanimous conclusion that he'd better find some way to make it up to Kudo, and fast, or his Eastern counterpart might decide to make him find out firsthand. He shuddered mentally at the thought.

_And we don't know what that temporary cure does to people who haven't been dosed with the toxin, do we?_

He was suddenly very sure that he didn't want to be the one to find out.


	6. We have contact

Disclaimer: continue to see first chapter now and for the rest of the story if you forget what it said.

No, this is not the end of my computer hiatus, I just managed to talk a friend into letting me use her computer at work long enough to type and post this. So the half dozen of you who actually care about this story owe her a thank you.

I try to keep these notes short, so I don't respond publicly unless requested. However, as some of you have undoubtedly noticed, I get quite chatty via email. Obviously, this is not possible if you don't leave an email (hi, there, Xeno. You too, Tabytha), don't have an email available from your profile (waves at Billie Jukes), have an email set up not to accept mail from unfamiliar addresses (grins at rabby93), or I get persistant 'failure delivery' messages (shrugs sheepishly at Kayla).

Has this been planned for a good while? Oh yes. (grins)

And there's an (authorized) homage to manzanita's excellent fic 'Little Kid' in here. It was just too fun an idea not to borrow…

* * *

Ran sighed as she let herself be carried along with the flood of students pouring out of the school building. Conan had been acting so strange lately. Not that he was ever exactly normal for his age - probably no relative of Shinichi's, however distant, ever could be, she thought with a smile - but he had been unusually moody in the last day or so. Just like last weekend, come to think of it. The chemistry sessions with Professor Agasa had seemed to help, but something had put him back in a funk. She should probably ask one of his friends or his teacher or someone to find out what had happened. Though if Shinichi were here, he would probably have had no trouble figuring it out at all.

The repeated thought of Shinichi and his continued absence darkened her mood further. He hadn't even called recently. Where was that mystery-loving idiot, anyway? Ran fumed to herself along well-worn mental channels. Even now, she found her eyes automatically straying to the spot by the wall where he had waited for her to get out of class…

Where a familiar hairstyle was being ruffled by the breeze, a familiar form leaning with one hand in a pocket visible for an instant through a break in the crowd.

Ran froze for and instant, then began pushing through the other students, any regard for politeness thrown to the winds. As she got near the bottom of the steps and lost sight of the spot she pushed harder, caught by the desperate fear that by the time she broke through she would be too late again and he would have disappeared. Again.

Instead, she found herself suddenly through to the wall. A head turned, and heartstoppingly familiar blue eyes met hers, flashing in a cheerful grin.

"Hey, Ran!"

"Shinichi!" Ran stood still for a moment, then practically launched herself at him in a hug, prompting a surprised, laughing, "Hey!" from him. Then she pulled away and fixed the teenage detective with an impressive glare.

"And where exactly have you been all this time?" she demanded fiercely. "How long are you going to stay before you go running off again? Hmm?"

Blue eyes were wide in incomprehension. "All this time?…What are you talking about?"

Ran's own eyes narrowed.

"Come. We need to have a talk."

* * *

A half-hour later found them strolling down a shopping street in Shibuya, having an animated discussion.

"See, that's the thing. People keep asking me where I've been, and when I have to tell them I don't know they start thinking I'm an imposter or something. People I don't even _know_ have asked me the strangest things and then accused me of being an imposter!"

In the crowd, a boy bearing a striking resemblance to Shinichi froze at the sight of the detective, but only for an instant. A smile dropped back onto his face like a mask a split second later as he turned and said a few words to the girl next to him, who herself bore a passing resemblance to Ran. Whatever he said was apparently not sufficient for the girl, who yelled something exasperated at him as he took off running. The boy merely waved cheerfully over his shoulder, and the girl made as if to follow him but almost immediately gave up, rolling her eyes in disgust and continuing on her way.

Shinichi, absorbed in his conversation with Ran, did not notice the small mini-drama play out behind him. Neither did he notice that that same boy, while appearing completely uninterested in the two of them, was following a seemingly random course that somehow kept him nearby while remaining unobtrusive. Not always within listening distance, but always within viewing distance. Or lip-reading distance.

"So you really don't remember?"

"Nope. Everything since Tropical Land to…well, sometime in the past few days is a blank." Shinichi scowled absently. "I've been having blackouts since then, too."

Ran stared at him searchingly. Finding no trace of deception and a good deal of displeasure at a situation not understood, let alone controlled, she nodded, slowly, once.

So did the boy in the crowd. Not that Shinichi hadn't lied to Ran in the past and been believed – anything but! – but as one accomplished in the art of deception himself, the watcher was certain that Shinichi was telling the truth this time. Of course, it didn't hurt that he had taken an interest in the detective and knew a bit about his mannerisms.

As the two under observation parted with a final "and don't you dare disappear on me this time!" from a fierce Ran to a bemused teen detective, the other boy saw his chance.

Waiting until Ran was a safe distance away, he called, "Hey, Kudo!" and jogged up to the Great Detective of the East. It was risky, but he had to know.

Shinichi turned and regarded him with polite confusion. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

The other boy blinked, although internally he nodded, suspicions confirmed. "Well, yeah. Don't you remember me?"

Shinichi slowly shook his head. "No. You look vaguely familiar, but nothing definite."

The other teen sighed theatrically. "After all the time we've spent together? I'm hurt."

Shinichi gave him a bland look. The other boy grinned. "Fine, just call me Arthur." He winked. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you around, but I have to go now. Bye!"

Shinichi watched the wilder-haired teen dash off, marveling at the bounciness of the other boy's stride. He did not even attempt to pursue, it being near his note-imposed curfew, and he somehow didn't think it would be a good idea to push it this time. Turning to head back to his house, one question lingered in his mind.

_How come all these strange people who seem to know me can run so fast?_

* * *

If anyone else had been inside the large house in Beika, they would easily have been able to tell the moment when Shinichi Kudo awoke as Edogawa Conan. The empty house resounded with the sound of swearing, some of it quite creative. It was extremely fortunate that Ran was nowhere near the area, as she would have been shocked and horrified at the language her 'sweet, innocent little Conan' was utilizing with impressive skill.

The diatribe finally wound down with a despairing wail.

"My other self is an _idiot_!"

* * *

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course he – I – would go to see her. She's my best friend, isn't she? And maybe also – no, not going there, especially not now. _

_I should have specifically mentioned in the note to avoid my old classmates. I have to remember I can't rely on myself to be sensible, since I won't – don't – know so many things. And that I probably won't behave according to plan._

_Ye gods, is this how other people feel when they have to deal with me?_

* * *

Conan was extremely grateful for his practice at keeping a straight face that afternoon. It was all that saved him from a very un-Conan-like grimace at Ran's nearly bubbly demeanor. She was humming a cheery tune to herself as she cooked dinner, and smiled at Conan much more than usual. She even ruffled his hair and called him a sweetheart when he offered to help.

When the topic of Shinichi inevitably rose at dinner – obviously not from Conan – Ran merely smiled, a genuine, self-satisfied smile, and said nothing. Even Kogoro noticed the dramatic difference from her normal reaction, lowering his newspaper to get a better look at her, though Conan did not even try to guess what he made of it.

By bedtime, Conan had to reluctantly admit to himself that perhaps his other self had not committed such a terrible blunder, after all. Ran hadn't mentioned seeing Shinichi even to Conan, much less her father. Perhaps she could keep a secret, after all. And it did make her so happy…he had spent too much time seeing her in distress because of him. If he could make up for it in some way…

Ruthlessly, he pushed the thought down. He couldn't endanger Ran farther; it would be selfish to act otherwise.

* * *

That evening, Kuroba Kaito found a text message on his cell phone.

"_Very funny, Lupin. If you're Arthur, I'm Holmes."_

He merely smiled.

* * *

Footnote: Arsene Lupin, the original gentleman thief, was a contemporary of Sherlock Holmes written about by Maurice LeBlanc, a contemporary of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I suspect Lupin isn't as famous among English speakers as Holmes because his stories were written in French. They are now in the public domain; I rather like the translations at Gaslight. (http/gaslight.mtroyal.ab.ca/gaslight/lupnmenu.htm) (link slightly mangled at the 'http')

Blackmask has more, thought they're listed by alphabetical order, not storyline. It won't let me post the link, so Google 'blackmask' and search for 'leblanc' on the internal search function, and the category will come up.

(sighs) Something else to blame Icka's stuff for getting me interested in…


End file.
