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.