paradisalogs | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: Conan and YOU
What: Nightmare
When: Now
Where: Inside Conan's mind

Conan gasps desperately for air as he skids around a corner, nearly falling into a puddle as he does so. He is barefoot and dressed in a hugely oversized pullover and jeans, the clothing obviously intended to be worn by someone twice his height. Blood is smeared halfway across his face, probably coming from a deep cut on his head.

His surroundings seem to be what you might expect from any alley on such a dark and rainy night. Dismal, dark and slick with rain. But there is something wrong about the perspective. Everything stretches high up into the sky, further than the eye can see in the darkness.

Carefully pulling up the trailing edges of his jeans, he presses himself up against the wall and listens for any sounds of pursuit.

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He's not that bothered by these abrupt and strange shifts of the environment. It's part a natural tendency to blend in with the scene set by a dream, and part his unwillingness to turn down a new game. (He was bored.) He hangs back by the wall, and observes as he always does: calmly and silently.

Until movement in his periphery catches his attention, he turns to get a better look, and--

Oh.

This will be interesting.

Someone was watching him. Shinichi had learned to recognize that particular crawling sensation.

The question was, was this the man in black? His accomplice? Or was this someone else entirely?

He flattens himself up against the wall and looks around warily.

Sherlock presses his hands into his pockets as he approaches. It's a practiced, loping step, one specifically designed to be nonthreatening. He stops a few feet away, looks past Shinichi out into the alley.

"What are you running from?" His tone is easy and calm, and there's no sympathy or urgency in his expression. It's almost disingenuous, the flat curiosity in an obviously tense situation, but he never claimed to subscribe to expectations. (Real or imagined.)

Shinichi watches him carefully. Somehow, there was something familiar about this person. Some nagging sense that they had met before.

But in his current state of mind this only served to make him more paranoid. Was he associated with the Organization those two men had spoken of?

He forces his mind to think past the disorientation and shock to think of an acceptable excuse for why an injured child would be out at this time of night alone. Admitting that someone was chasing him was out of the question. At this point he had no way of knowing whether this person was connected to the men chasing him.

But most of the first excuses that came to mind were useless. There were few reasonable explanations for why a barefoot injured child would be walking around at this time of night in clothes that clearly belonged to someone much older.

"There was a person who scared me, but I got away."

His gaze doesn't leave the other end of the alley. He nods very slightly, accepting the explanation.

"Where are your parents?"

He might as well be reading from the script of a concerned bystander.

"Not here."

He listens warily for the sound of footsteps. Were the others still following him?

"Obviously."

Sherlock turns on his heel, starts down the alley in the opposite direction.

"Come on, then."

He attempts to take advantage of Sherlock's turned back to slip off in a different direction.

He takes a step or two, pauses, and rolls his eyes.

That's how it's going to be, then.

He turns, and takes off after Shinichi at a jog.

He keeps moving, trying to make up for his short legs and slower pace with unexpected moves through alleyways and small spaces.

The problem with Sherlock Holmes it that he's outrageously difficult to shake once he's on a trail. Even if it means he has to fall back to follow, he'll still follow.

Just to see where it leads.

Conan leads him on a complicated chase far beyond what you might expect of an ordinary kid. But then, Sherlock probably expected that of him.

As they move the buildings grow taller and more menacing, and the alleys grow darker and narrower. At last they come out of a narrow passage to find a single large building in the middle of an isolated field.

And written above the door? The words 'Hotel Mycroft'.

Sherlock slows when they hit the field, encouraging a little more distance between the two of them. He's curious, now -- he wants to know how far he can push this.

He doesn't bother to suppress the eye roll, though. He can't even muster up the energy to be surprised. Only a matter of time before Mycroft took the next step in his idleness.

Conan takes in a shaky breath as his memories return with the change of location. This place.... It was the site of the Holmes mystery tour. Where Hattori had once cornered him into revealing his identity.

And that person behind him. That was the man called Holmes.

But why were they here?

He picks his way through the overgrown grass and starts walking around the building to the garage. The site of the murder that had once happened here.

"Why are you still following me?"

He wanders closer. He's half-smiling, excitement in his eyes and expression.

"Why not?"

"Don't you get bored constantly?"

Conan pauses to jump up and grab onto the handle of the side door to the garage. Would the car still be there, as it had been when he first saw this place? Or would it be burned out and empty, as it had been after the murder?

Sherlock trails after him, silently observing and absorbing details.

"My choices are you or the field. Which sounds less boring to you?"

"I suppose I should be flattered, then."

Later Conan would be very disappointed in himself for giving into the distraction of speaking to Sherlock as he opened the door. Because his comment and slightly turned head keeps him from noticing Gin's presence until too late. Before he can do anything Conan is grabbed around the throat and pinned to the wall by the assassin. He doesn't even have time to scream.

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