Chapter One
Consciousness came slowly, and brought with it a slow and soft feeling of security and warmth. A dull ache had spread over her body, but she could feel that the pain was somewhat tempered. Maybe she had been given a painkiller. Or maybe she was still not awake enough to feel the agony.
She wondered about her location. There was silence in the room, so she could not be in a hospital. And somehow she did not think she was at Dr. Agasa's. But then . . . where? And what was the tingling sensation she felt at the back of her neck and spreading over her body? It seemed so ominous.
Horror slammed into her heart like a piercing arrow as the memories flooded back. Gin had accidentally hit her with his car, and had taken her. She was with him. He had to be the presence she felt in the room---so familiar and so dark. What was he doing? Her eyes were still closed and she could not see him, though she knew he was there. She wrestled with her eyelids desperately, knowing that she had to fully awaken and immediately find a way to leave. If she did not, she would die here, and Gin would use her to find everyone else. They would all die, and she could not let that happen.
But . . . why had he let her live at all? He had the perfect opportunity to kill her back in the snow. She swallowed hard. She was being further used as something for him to be amused by. He enjoyed torturing her. That was what this was all about. It had to be. That was the only reason he would ever keep her alive.
At last she forced her eyes open halfway, and she blinked several times as the bleary scene came into focus. She was laying in a bed in a well-furnished and dimly-lit room, from which the only escape routes were a normal door that was probably locked and two glass balcony doors, in front of which sat the man in black whom she feared. He was watching her expressionlessly, but when he saw that she was awake, a frightening smirk came over his features. Her heart began to race.
"Good evening, Sherry," he purred.
She swallowed hard, trying to gather her wits about her---and to push back the other feelings she was experiencing over seeing him again. She still hated him, she still felt betrayed by him, but some part of her was still pleased by his presence. She frowned. It was unacceptable to feel that way about him. She did not even understand how she still could. Was she a glutton for punishment? More than likely, she was just a fool.
"I'm sure it is a good evening for you," she answered wryly. "Now you've got what you wanted." She wanted to attempt to rise, but she could feel that her body was not going to cooperate. All she could do was to lay there, helpless, and wonder if Gin was going to suddenly draw his gun. She studied his face, which was shadowed by the brim of that ever-present hat as well as his hair, and by the dull light in the room. "I'm in your grasp again, and I won't be able to get away."
Gin grinned further, apparently appreciative of the thought. His teeth gleamed out from the shadows. "Aren't you the least bit curious to know where you are?" he replied smoothly.
"It had crossed my mind," she said in a flat tone. "But I imagine it's a location belonging to the Black Organization. You're probably holding me here until my execution, and staying here with me to make sure I don't escape, like last time."
"Ah yes," he smirked. "I still wonder how you got away from me then. But you won't tell me, will you?"
"Sorry, Gin," she answered immediately. "I still have to keep my secrets."
"I imagined you would." He was unruffled by this, and it was obvious that he was relishing every moment of their time together. There was also a definite longing in his eyes, which she tried to ignore as he spoke again. "But I still intend to find out someday."
You always have to get your way in the end, don't you, she thought silently as she continued to watch him. She would not let her guard down, not for a moment. That was too dangerous. With Gin, if one did not stay alert at all times, it was as good as writing one's own death warrant.
Now he leaned back calmly. "And do you honestly believe I could take you anywhere owned by the Organization?" he pointed out, and her eyes widened slightly. "They would want you killed on sight. After all, that's what I was assigned to do. And I nearly accomplished it on the hotel roof, didn't I?" His green eyes flickered with something indescribable. "I decided it was only fitting to bring you to the same hotel where we had that encounter."
The Haido City Hotel. . . . That was where they were. But why? She studied him. "I didn't know you were ever the sentimental type, Gin," she remarked with a smirk of her own. "You brought me here to rekindle old memories?" Now she turned carefully onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow as she watched him.
He looked back, seeming quite comfortable with his current location. "There's lots of memories to rekindle, aren't there?" he grinned. "We did have good times, Sherry . . . or have you forgotten all of that?" His voice lowered, and as he continued to speak, it almost seemed as though a wistful tone had slipped into his dark voice. "There was a time when you wanted me around, when you thrilled at my touch, when I was your protector. Are all of those feelings truly past?" He continued to study her, though now his eyes were hidden by the long bangs.
She felt a chill start to spread over her being, and she gripped a handful of the quilt as her eyes narrowed. "Yes," she answered coldly, "those feelings have diminished to nothing. You know that. I hate you, Gin. You betrayed me when you killed Akemi. You proved that you aren't the man I used to love and who used to protect me." Her hand was trembling, but she was unaware of both that and the fact that her knuckles had gone white. "That man is dead. You don't want to protect me any longer, obviously."
She did not bother to remember that for the last months, she had began to question whether or not it was true that Gin's kinder side was dead. That part of her was foolish, though she wanted to believe so badly after what he had apparently done for Ayumi. She was overwhelmed by this entire situation, and angry at Gin's attempt to steer the conversation topic to them. It was his own fault that they were not still together. How dare he try to reminisce! How dare he even bring her there in the first place! It would have been better to have just killed her instead of putting her through this torment. Perhaps, she thought, she wanted to hurt him with her words, the way he was always hurting her---or maybe she wanted to see if it was even possible to hurt him any more. She doubted that it was possible.
Gin's expression twisted into anger and he stood abruptly, his coat and his hair sweeping out around him. His eyes became visible, and they flashed with emerald sparks as he took several steps towards her. She held her ground, her fear being consumed by her fury and the hurt feelings that were swelling to the surface again. Despite the fact that Gin looked quite ready to strike her, she spoke again, her voice fervent as it grew louder.
"I hate you! If I could, I would end your life right now. I would pay you back for everything you took from me. You didn't just take my sister. You took my trust . . . and my heart." Her own eyes flashed, and she rose up further, reaching to grab at him. Did he even know what he had done to her? Had he ever known? But he had to have known. He was not an idiot. Everything he had done, he had done to torment her, to break her, to destroy the loving feelings she had held for him.
"I did love you, Gin!" she continued now. "Did you want me to stop? Did you want to be as hated as you are now?" She was tempted to say that no one would care if he died tonight, but she held her tongue. She knew that it was not true. Ayumi would care, very much. She would be heartbroken. And Vodka, too, had always cared about his partner. Sherry supposed that he still did.
"Did you ever love me at all? Did you ever love me, or was it always a game to you?" she demanded when Gin remained silent and motionless, his gaze of ice boring into her very being. "Was I just something to amuse you with when you were bored?" All of her emotions were spilling over now that she was seeing him again, and now that she was alone with him, unlike it had been during their last meeting at the docks. The questions that had been plying her heart for months were coming forth, and she could not stop them.
She did notice that Gin stiffened at these queries. She was not sure what that meant, but right now she did not care. She just wanted some concrete answers. "Tell me, Gin!" she cried, looking up at him.
Gin gritted his teeth, looking as though it was taking every ounce of his willpower not to hit her. Without warning he drew his gun, and for a split second she believed he was going to kill her then and there. But instead he placed it in her hands, and she froze in stunned shock. She stared at the weapon as it weighed down her hands, which were still shaking slightly. Then she looked up at him, unsure of what was going on or why he was doing this.
"Kill me, Sherry." His voice was cold again, and dark, and there was no indication of what he was now thinking. Part of a green eye looked at her from behind the golden locks, and it did not betray Gin's inner feelings. "You have the perfect opportunity. The gun is in your hands. Place a bullet right here . . ." he tapped his forehead, ". . . and then see how you feel about it. I'll be out of your life then. You'll never have to fear me again, and you can continue to hate me all you wish."
She stared at him, unable to tear away her gaze. It was a trick . . . it had to be a trick. He would not gamble with his life like that. The gun was probably out of ammunition. She looked down at it again. It felt too heavy to be empty. But he probably had another gun, which he would bring out if she tried to use this one.
"My life is in your hands. There aren't any strings attached, except what you yourself might experience after the task is done. But if that doesn't bother you, and if you think you can kill me, then do it."
Her eyes narrowed. Slowly she fit the weapon into her right hand, shaking as she brought it up to Gin's forehead and pressed the barrel against his blonde bangs. He watched her, motionless, making no attempt to stop her. Instead he kept his hands perfectly still at his sides and his expression completely impassive. Was he actually going to let her do this? What was he trying to prove? Did he want to die that badly? Or was this scenario the same as it had been at the docks, when Gin had repeatedly insisted that she would not kill him, no matter how much she claimed she wanted to? But that time, he had kissed her and caught her off guard. That was not the case now.
She looked into his eyes, searching for answers, as she had done so many times in the past. She had grown up with him, he had protected her, he had loved her---she thought. She had loved him and only him, and his betrayal had entirely shattered her spirit. But still . . . she remembered how he had recently protected Ayumi more than once. She did not know what that meant. She did not understand. At the docks, during their previous meeting, she had asked him. He had not answered. But the memory of the kiss he had given her still lingered in her mind, and she was unaware of the tears that were brimming her eyes.
She had longed to kill him for what he had done to Akemi, and to herself. She had planned it out in her mind many times since running away from the Organization. They would meet again, but she would have the gun. He would look at her, surprised that she had the upper hand. She would squeeze the trigger repeatedly, watching his blood spill from the fatal wounds, and he would fall lifelessly to the ground. She would be rid of him forever. She would never have to look at him again, nor to recall their past together. It would be a relief, something she would relish. She could kill him right now, and experience the satisfaction over watching him die. She tried to steady her finger over the trigger.
There was something in his eyes that prevented her from pulling it. He was unafraid, unconcerned about his life, but that was not why. She could see other emotions and feelings, ones that she recognized, but could not identify. And she wondered just how long she would be satisfied over his death. They had come through so much . . . she had loved him; even now, she had felt a certain thrill that he was with her, though she tried to push it back. She did not know why she could not finish this, when she had wanted it. Was it because of what she had learned from her time as Ai Haibara? Did she want to leave behind the life of a murderer completely, even if that meant she could not destroy the life that had destroyed her sister's? Or . . . was it more than that? Was it because of what he had meant to her in the past?
For whatever reason, she could not kill him. She knew that she could not. And her shoulders slumped as she lowered the gun. The tears spilled over from her eyes.
Slowly Gin reached out, taking the weapon from her. "You couldn't do it," he remarked, and his voice held no surprise. He had planned on this result, and that was made more obvious by his next words. "Just as you couldn't do it at the docks, when you also had the perfect chance. Maybe you had even more of an opportunity then rather than now." He replaced the gun in his shoulder holster, never averting his gaze from her. "You don't really want me dead, Sherry." And again he reached out, this time touching her cheek and brushing away the tears that were trailing despondently down her face.
She shuddered at his touch. No . . . she did not want him to touch her. She did not want those feelings to be stirred up again. She wanted to forget. Oh! How she wanted to forget! But she knew she never would, or even could. Throughout the months she had spent as Ai Haibara, she had thought of him many times daily, sometimes so often that she had felt she would go mad. And always, no matter what memories she unwillingly dredged up of him, it came back to Akemi's death. That was what divided them now, and always would. "Go away," she half-pleaded, half-ordered, turning her head away from him. "Leave me alone."
He walked past her then, saying nothing as he got to the door. "You should rest," he said quietly as he opened it and stepped into the room beyond. "You weren't seriously hurt by the car, but you're not well enough to be up." And with that he shut the door again, leaving her alone as she had requested.
The room suddenly seemed very empty. She slumped back into the pillows, resisting the partial urge she felt to call him back. Several more tears leaked from her eyes, but then she reached up, angrily brushing them away. How could she have shown such weakness to Gin? How could she have let him see her cry? He had not seen tears from her in so long, and not tears concerning him since the time years before when she had found him badly injured and nearly dead after one of his first assignments. She had cried then, believing she would lose him. But upon Akemi's death, she had not cried in his presence, even though her heart had ached. She had lost him in the end, but not to death. To lose him because of a betrayal seemed much worse.
As she began to slowly calm down, she suddenly wondered what she was wearing. It could not be the clothes she had had on when the Porsche had struck her. They would be bloodied and soaking wet.
Frowning, she threw back the quilt and looked down at herself. She was wearing a fairly modest, silk white negligee, and when she touched the places where she knew she had been injured, she felt bandages. Had Gin been the one to undress her and treat her wounds? She was not certain that she liked the thought. She and Gin had never slept together, but there had been times when they had seen each other in various states of undress. Sometimes that had happened by accident, but at other points it had been when tending to injuries of some kind. That was in the past now, and Gin no longer had the right to do as he had done before. She did not want him to touch her, let alone to treat her wounds and to place her in a nightgown.
Slowly and shakily she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and placed her hands on the edge as she forced herself up despite protests from her aching body. She knew that she could not settle back and rest, at least not until she had seen all of this place. She doubted that she would ever get concrete answers to her questions, but if nothing else, she wanted to see where she was being held captive.
Using the wall to assist, she made her way over to the door and turned the knob. To her surprise, it was not locked. She had thought Gin would have turned the key as he had left. Carefully she stepped into the next room, discovering that it was a spacious and pleasantly furnished living room, with three plush chairs, two soft couches, and a loveseat. A coffee table was in front of one of the couches, and an ashtray was on top of it. Gin was not there, but Vodka was. He was sitting in one of the chairs, smoking a cigarette, and he looked up upon seeing her there. Instantly he looked uncomfortable.
She smirked slightly. She often thought of Vodka as Gin's shadow. The quiet man was almost always with the blonde, even when they were not on assignment. Sometimes she still wondered how he and Gin had made it work and gotten along so well. She never had liked Vodka, and she sensed that the feeling was mutual. But Gin had almost always liked him, from what she knew.
"Where did Gin go?" she asked now.
Vodka shrugged a bit. "I don't know. . . . Out, I guess. . . . He does that sometimes." Usually Gin would vanish like that when he wanted to think, and Vodka knew that there was a lot on the other man's mind tonight. Vodka had unofficially been left in charge of watching Sherry, and he shifted, wanting to get away from her gaze. He was certain that he was not imagining the tension in the air. Even though he and Sherry had never gotten along well, it was much more that way now, after what had happened between her and Gin. He doubted that the rift could ever actually be mended. Gin was too proud to admit he loved her, and she either did not love him any longer or else she could not say that she did because of one reason or another. Perhaps if she still did, she felt guilty about it.
The stout man had to wonder what had been going on in her bedroom several moments earlier. He had heard her voice rising as she had accused Gin, but he had not been able to hear the other's quiet replies. When Gin had come out of the room afterwards, there had not been any indication of what he had been thinking---though at least he had not looked furious. He had, however, obviously been deep in thought, and when he had spoken to Vodka, it had been in a vague, far away tone.
"I know he does," Sherry spoke. "I'm familiar with his habits by now." And it seemed melancholy in a way, to still remember so much about someone after the relationship had ended. It was not as if she wanted to keep recalling how Gin had been, but she could never make herself forget. She had been remembering much more profoundly as of late, however.
And though she had never told Kudo, she knew he had began to suspect. She had refused to talk about the incident at the docks, which had quickly become a source of annoyance and even anger between them. It was a part of her life that she did not want to share with him, for several reasons. She doubted that he would really be able to understand her feelings for Gin. She did not understand herself. And she did not need a lecture on how dangerous and unhealthy such a relationship was, as she knew all too well.
Knowing that she needed to sit down, she made her way slowly and painfully to the nearest couch and sank onto it. Its softness felt good against her weary body, but she knew that she could not get too comfortable under the circumstances. She still had to stay alert. "He'll probably freeze to death if he stays out there too long," she remarked then, her voice wry and sardonic.
Vodka looked away. He had not wanted Gin to go out, and had reminded him of the snow and ice, but the green-eyed man had answered that he would be fine and that he would be back before long. And of course, Vodka had not been able to stop him from going.
"So . . . when is he planning to kill me?" she asked. Her eyes narrowed. "I'm tired of the way he always drags it out. If he's going to do it, he should get it over with." She studied Vodka, trying to see his eyes behind the sunglasses. Somehow she doubted that even he knew what was going on in Gin's mind right now. Vodka was good at understanding his partner on most things, but when it came to Sherry, he rarely seemed to know what to think. She was starting to wonder if even Gin knew what to think.
Vodka shook his head, uncomfortable with this line of conversation. He did not want to speak for Gin. That was not his place. Though, there was one thing he wanted to tell her, despite his uneasiness, and he looked back into her questioning sapphire eyes. "Gin could get killed himself," he mumbled.
She raised an eyebrow, not understanding. "I know there's always that danger in your line of work," she replied. "Am I supposed to care what happens to him?" She knew that Vodka never even wanted to talk to her, and would always try to end their discussions as soon as he could, so it also surprised her that he was lengthening this one.
Vodka bit his lip. "Well . . . it's because of you that he might die," he answered finally, and his eyes narrowed slightly. He had always feared that one way or another, she would be the death of the only person he actually cared about, and he was certain that his fear was now coming true. Gin was acting irrationally, desperate to have Sherry with him again, and his actions were not likely to go unnoticed for long. Vodka felt helpless.
Now she frowned. "What do you mean?" The almost accusatory tone was also not like Vodka, at least not the Vodka she had known. He had never been this bold with her in the past, except for when he had shoved her ahead of him on the fateful day when she had escaped the Organization. Either he had changed, he was very upset right now, or it was a combination of both.
He held the cigarette between his fingers, nearly crushing it. "No one knows he's brought you here," he said finally. "I heard Gin say to you that we're ordered to kill you on sight, and that's true." He paused, and his voice actually gained a visible edge. "If they learn what Gin's done now . . . they'll think he's a traitor and they'll probably come to kill him." And Vodka did not know what they would do then. They would have to fight against people who had previously been their allies. Gin would never go down without a fight, but the Organization would know that and they would likely send several strong agents at once to try to take him out. And Vodka was afraid that they would not be able to fight off all of them. He did not want to see Gin die now because of this woman, and yet on the other hand, he was becoming increasingly sure that Gin had been dying a bit every day since she had left him.
She was stunned. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Gin was putting his life at risk. He had known that she would not kill him, but there was not any such assurance where the Organization was concerned. They would pursue him until he was dead, if they believed he had turned against them. At last she found her voice. "Why is he doing this?"
Now Vodka did crush the cigarette. "If you honestly don't know, I'm not going to be the one to tell you," he replied quietly, getting out of the chair. Without another word he went past her, disappearing into the other bedroom and shutting the door behind him. Sherry stared after him, still in shock.
Vodka sighed, slumping against the other side of the door as he threw away the cigarette into a nearby ashtray. He himself was surprised by what he had said. As with most women, Sherry had the ability to make him extremely nervous. Usually he would become completely tongue-tied around her and others, such as Vermouth. He rarely ever spoke his mind as he had done now. He wondered if he would regret it later.
He had not wanted Gin to bring Sherry with them after the accident with the car. He had partially hoped that Gin would simply complete their mission and fatally shoot her, but he also felt guilty for wishing it. He felt certain that Gin would never get over it, no matter how much the blonde denied still loving the woman. And so the only thing he had managed to say had been a feeble protest when Gin had picked her up in his strong arms, to which Gin had merely grunted in reply. He could not have stopped Gin from doing what he had wanted to, and he knew he never would have tried, unless he fully believed that it would be for Gin's own good. Right now, Vodka honestly did not know what would be the best thing for his longtime partner.
But what were they going to do now? They could not stay here indefinitely, though the snowstorm would probably ground them at least until morning. He and Gin were bound by the Organization, whether they wanted it or not. And Sherry was a traitor. Gin had always made it a point to get his duty done, whatever that duty might be, but when it came to Sherry his resolve had always been weak. If Gin could not bear to kill her, then he would have to leave her and never see her again. They would have to make it look like she was dead so that the Organization would not have any doubt. But Vodka did not know if Gin could bring himself to do that, either. He had never been able to let her go.
Vodka removed his sunglasses, running a hand over his face. "Bro . . . what have you gotten us into?" he murmured. "What have you gotten yourself into?" I don't want you to die, he said silently. I don't want that, but I don't know how to stop it. If they find out about this, it's all over for you. And I won't be able to do much at all to help you.
Not that Gin would want any help. He had always been extremely independent, sometimes frustratingly so. But that did not mean that Vodka would not worry and not want to help. He did, very much. If it was anyone else, he probably would not care. With Gin, someone he had known and gotten close to over such a long period of time, it was different. He wished there was a solution that could make the blonde truly happy. But he only would be fully content if Sherry was there, and that could not be.
Sighing, he wearily crossed the room and slumped onto one of the two beds in the room, draping an arm over his eyes. What a disaster.
Shinichi Kudo sat in the living room of his childhood friend Ran Mouri, shifting nervously as he leaned forward, clasping his hands. In the two weeks since his reappearance, Ran had been alternately joyous that he was back and furious that he had been away so long with only infrequent calls and visits. That did not help him feel more confident in telling her about his identity as Conan Edogawa, and he watched her as she paced around the room.
Finally she stopped, and as it happened, she stopped right in front of a picture of Conan on top of the bookcase. She frowned, crossing her arms as she studied it. "It still seems strange, that Conan had to leave so suddenly," she mused. "In fact, the whole thing with him was strange, especially the way his parents acted."
Shinichi swallowed hard, hoping that his uneasiness was not that apparent. "Yeah, it was pretty weird," he agreed. Well, he thought to himself, that's not a lie, anyway.
"Maybe you should investigate, Shinichi," Ran declared.
"Maybe," Shinichi answered guardedly.
Ran turned to face him, and he could not miss the way her blue eyes glittered suspiciously. "I still can't get over how much Conan looks like you, when you were his age," she commented, staring him down as if hoping to get a certain reaction.
Many different responses swirled through Shinichi's mind in a matter of seconds, but finally he chose one which may or may not have been wise. "Yeah, well . . . about that . . ." he said slowly.
Immediately Ran gave a figurative pounce. "Aha! You are Conan, aren't you, Shinichi?" she cried triumphantly. "You tried to confuse me, and I'd give in, but there's always been that nagging feeling in my mind that Conan is you."
Shinichi blinked in surprise, but then wondered if this turn of events was actually a good thing. If Ran had already figured it out, then maybe he would not have as much to explain, and perhaps she would not be angry. Still, he doubted he should take the chance. "Are you mad, Ran?" he asked then.
She stopped, smiling a bit too sweetly. "Mad? Of course not," she answered. Shinichi recognized this as the danger sign, and he gave a weak "Eep!" as he dove out of the way of Ran's flying fist, which then slammed into the wall and cracked it.
"I just want to ask one question, Shinichi," she said then, still in that overly sweet tone. Suddenly she lunged, swinging a foot out at Shinichi and barely missing as he leaped onto the couch. "WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME?" she screamed. Her foot connected with a lamp, and it crashed to the floor and broke.
"Ran! Let me explain!" Shinichi yelped as he tumbled backward off the couch to painfully land onto the floor. He had the distinct feeling that his goose was cooked.
The hapless teenage detective's eyes flew open as he made contact with the wood. For a moment he lay there, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He was alone, in his darkened bedroom. He ran a hand through his now-messy hair, muttering to himself. Apparently he had tumbled backward off his bed, and that had woke him up. Now he was tangled in the covers.
Ran was not there, and she did not know his secret, at least not to his knowledge. But that dream certainly did not help to give him confidence, even though he knew it had come about because of his fears about telling her. It was true that he had wanted to protect her by keeping the knowledge from her, though several times he had been about to tell her when something had happened that had thwarted that plan. And by now he honestly did have to wonder how the confession would go. Shiho, in amusement, had made jokes about it, much to his annoyance. But surely it was ridiculous, and Ran would be more understanding and calm than in the dream. . . . Or would it be even worse in real life?
"Shinichi?"
He started at the voice and the knocking, and as it registered that it was Dr. Agasa calling, he slowly struggled to his feet and began to unwind the quilt. "I'm coming!" he called, still half-asleep. What would Agasa be doing coming over at this time of night? He sounded almost urgent. Had something gone wrong? Quickly and carelessly Shinichi tossed the comforter back onto the bed and hurried out of the room and downstairs. In his haste, he nearly tripped over a stair and had to grab onto the banister for balance, muttering to himself. Then he proceeded down the remaining stairs carefully, but moving as fast as he dared without the danger of tripping.
When he finally got the door opened, he found himself looking at a very worried Dr. Agasa, clad in a robe and fuzzy slippers. Shinichi frowned. "Dr. Agasa, you're going to catch a cold, if not pneumonia," he proclaimed, and led the shivering professor inside. "What's wrong?"
The older man looked at him seriously. "Shinichi, Shiho went out to get groceries earlier tonight," he exclaimed. "I told her she should wait, but she said that it would be worse later and that it would be better to get them now. But it's been hours, and she hasn't come back yet!" And he had been worrying sick over what could have happened. He supposed it could just be that the snow was slowing her up, but after so long it seemed more likely that something had gone wrong. Perhaps she had gotten into an accident, having been hit by a car and then succumbing to the cold. Or maybe even she had been assaulted by someone. The prospect of the heavy storm could be making some people so desperate for food, they would do anything to get it.
Shinichi frowned more deeply at this news. Of all things he could have been told, he had not expected this at all. "How long ago did she leave?" he demanded.
Agasa sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not entirely sure!" he replied. "I was working in my laboratory before she left, and after, and I'm afraid I lost track of time," he admitted apologetically. "But I do know it's been at least several hours."
Shinichi thought it over, many of the same worst case scenarios floating through his own mind. And there was another that he would add to the list---maybe she had been found by the Black Organization. It had only been two weeks ago when she had encountered Gin, and Shinichi was still shocked by the details of that meeting. He had suspected for some time that Shiho had held close feelings for the blonde assassin, but to have witnessed Gin kissing her was something he had never expected to see no matter how many years went by. Seeing that scene had not at all changed Shinichi's mind that meeting the Black Organization was very dangerous, and that it would be Shiho's undoing. The apparent past between her and Gin only made it all the more worrisome.
He glanced out through the screen door, surveying the white world. He could barely see past the end of the driveway, and he remembered hearing on the radio that the blizzard conditions were expected to continue throughout the night and into the next day. It would not even be safe to go out looking for Shiho tonight, as much as he wanted to. Going out would be sheer foolishness, and he knew she would tell him the same thing. Most likely, instead of being able to find her, he would get himself and Agasa lost.
"She might be fine," he spoke at last, looking back to Agasa. "The phone lines could be down in other parts of the city. Maybe she's even snowed in at the store." His eyes narrowed. "But in any case, we can't do anything until the storm clears up at least a bit." He gestured to the door. "There's no way we could go out in that."
The old professor swallowed in concern. He knew that Shinichi was right, but that did not mean he would stop worrying. He had idly hoped that the boy would have some news of the chemist, but now he saw that it was not so. And he supposed that the only thing they could do right now was to worry together---which, of course, was not very constructive. But the nature of the storm was making it impossible to do anything constructive where missing people were concerned.
The blonde lit a cigarette, watching the flame as it stood out against the gray of the sky and the white of the blissfully descending snowflakes. The near-blizzard conditions had calmed down for at least a few moments, at least in that area, and Gin had gone up to the hotel roof to watch it and to ponder.
Sherry had nearly died there in the past. In his mind, he could still see her laying in the snow, her blood splattered about and staining the whiteness. He could see her looking up at him through the glasses, her eyes glazing over from the pain. She had believed that he would kill her then, but had a part of her wondered if he actually would? Had he himself wondered? He had been about to pull the trigger when he had been shot by that dart. But would he have instead delivered another non-fatal shot, if he had been allowed to fire? Would he have actually wanted to and tried to end her lovely life, or would he have prolonged it once again? He did not know anymore.
He stared off into the distance, puffing on the cigarette. She had infuriated him back inside, when she had asked if he had ever loved her. Even if she believed that he did not love her anymore, and even if he did not, did she not know that he had in the past? He had never lied to her. She had been everything to him, but he had not realized just how much he had taken her for granted until she had left. And ever since, he had been desperate to get her back, though even he was not sure why. Or he was just too stubborn to admit the reason?
Hmm. . . . Would her words actually have angered him so much, he wondered, if he did not still care? He smirked in the darkness. It would seem pointless to become incensed if he did not still have deep feelings for her. That was why he rarely cared about anything that people said to him---because he did not care about them and he knew that they did not care about him.
What was he even doing tonight, anyway? He knew that Vodka had not been pleased to take Sherry with them, and Gin could understand why. Gin was endangering both Vodka and himself by what he had done. But he did not regret it. Now Sherry was with him again.
What if the Organization did learn of this, and soon? What if even now they were being watched? Gin did not consider what he had done to be traitorous, but he knew that the syndicate would have a much different view of things. And if he was not careful, he, Vodka, and Sherry could all end up dead. Together in death was not exactly what he had planned.
But had he planned anything at all? He had acted rashly, impulsively, upon seeing Sherry's soft, white body crumpled in the snow. He had let his desires get the best of him and he had swiftly taken her into his arms, clutching her as if he never wanted to let her go again. And, he supposed, he did not. She had been away from him for too long . . . much too long.
It had thrilled him to hold her limp and helpless form in his embrace, to tend to her wounds and to watch her laying unconscious in the bed. Her red hair spread out on the white pillowcase had been a lovely contrast, as well as her pale flesh and the nightgown. She looked good in white, with red surrounding her. They were her best colors. He had told her so several times.
He really was quite selfish, was he not? He did not want Vodka to die because of this, nor did he particularly want to die himself, but he was doing this anyway. Though, Vodka would not have to go along with this desperate act. Vodka would have a perfect right to refuse, on the grounds that it would be seen as traitorous. But Vodka would not refuse. Gin was certain that his partner would stand by him. Still, Gin wondered if he was taking the other for granted, the same way he had done to Sherry. He had believed that she would never leave him, and she had, despite everything they had been through and all the years they had known each other.
He leaned against the door, observing as the snowflakes began to again pick up momentum. He doubted that his actions would be discovered tonight, or even tomorrow, with the way the crystals were coming down. But what would happen after tomorrow? He knew as well as Vodka did that this could not last forever. Reality would come crashing in then, and he would have to make the final decision on what to do. But, he realized as he stood watching the snow, there were only two options, and he did not like either one.
He grinned again, his blonde hair whipping about in the increasing wind. Vodka was too blind to see the truth that Gin knew. Either that, or Vodka was simply too kind---or afraid---to reveal his true opinion on Gin's question.
He was, indeed, a fool.