Je ne peux pas le trouver.
Aux fins de mes capacités je cherchais, et je ne peux pas trouver encore cet homme. L'un qui a tué mon amour, mon Raymonde. Oh ma belle, ardente Raymonde...ta flamme était trop lumineuse, et elle s'est éteint trop facilement. Mais ce n'était pas une faute de toi, ma cherie; tu n'aurais pu jamais faire mal. La responsabilité reste avec l'homme qui n'est pas digne de regarder à toi. Il s'est éteint ta flamme, et c'est à cause de cette raison que le monde est un endroit plus foncé. Je ne me reposerai pas jusqu'à ce que je le trouve, ce meurtrier, ce fléau de mon existence...
Cet homme qui s'appelle Sherlock Holmes...
---
Shinichi shut the journal with a sigh, bringing a hand up to rub at the bridge of his nose. Translating the century-old French had been difficult, but it was slowly getting easier each page he successfully translated. He was about five pages in, and so far all the journal had been was a rant-fest about how much the man hated Sherlock Holmes for killing his lover Raymonde. While certainly accurate, it was quite a dull read. Shinichi did not really care about the ravings of a thief - but the fact that Lupin was actively searching for Holmes promised for a good story in the works, as long as Shinichi kept at it.
Placing the journal on his nightstand, he yawned. Well, enough reading for tonight. He needed to sleep - Kid's heist had worn him out more than he thought.
Flipping the lamp off, he curled up in bed and drifted off to sleep.
---
The cold was the first thing he was aware of. The cold of mud and mist clinging to his clothes, the cold of terror as it gripped his frame. He had been huddled in this cliff for far too long, anxiously awaiting the rain of boulders to stop from above. Moriarty's right hand man was determined to see him dead, and dead he would be if this kept up. He could not stay like this, awaiting death under a tiny ledge...
The falls roared in his ears, the white spray almost obscenely beautiful for this situation.
He always did like white...
Shaking his head, Sherlock sighed as he tried to make himself smaller, avoiding the boulders that the good Colonel was raining down all around him. He didn't have time to think about past losses.
Even so, he couldn't help wondering what that blasted thief would think of this situation...
---
Shinichi awoke with a gasp. For a moment, he was unbalanced and dizzy - unable to tell where he was, in his bed or tucked away in that terrible little hole in the side of the Reisenbach Falls, awaiting death from above.
Wait, Reisenbach Falls?
Shaking his head, Shinichi did establish that he was at home, safe in bed, and in no way reliving Sherlock's infamous near-death experience by Moriarty and his right-hand man. A dream, nothing more, most likely caused by reading Lupin's fake journal. He really did have Holmes on the brain.
But it had felt so real...
--because it was--
Shaking his head again, Shinichi turned and looked at his clock. Damn, it was already time to get up, and yet it felt like he hadn't slept a minute. Well, coffee would fix that.
Getting out of bed, he went to start his day, leaving the journal lying on his nightstand.
---
Another day, another night. Shinichi's life had long since fallen into a pattern of "Sleep, School, Case", with little time between each. He'd been content with this, though, and so long as the "case" part including chasing Kid whenever he appeared, there was nothing else he could ask for.
Except, lately, more sleep.
His dreams had taken a decidedly odd turn recently, ever since that first one the night he'd gotten Lupin's "journal". Nowadays, it seemed, every dream was some scene from the detective's life, with Shinichi in the leading role. They were all so vivid, so real, that every time Shinichi woke up, it took him a moment to remember who, where, and when he was - to remember that he was Kudou Shinichi, college student and Japanese detective, and not Sherlock Holmes.
--are you sure you're not both--
It had been taking a toll on Shinichi's energy, too, for he never felt like he slept recently. He woke up more tired than when he'd fallen asleep, and caffeine was the only thing that kept him going some days.
And it was all that damn journal's fault.
Every time he read a little more of it, it seemed to put more weird dreams in his head, like fitting in pieces of a puzzle. And, sometimes, they were scenes that the author of the journal described themselves - in vivid detail, exactly as the journal depicted it.
It was getting easier to read the journal, too - he rarely had to pick up his French dictionary anymore, only when he reached an uncommon word. Otherwise, the words seemed to flow seamlessly in his mind, translating effortlessly. He must have learned more in French class than he thought.
--easier to remember when you have two sets of memories after all--
Well, now was not the time to ponder it. He had gotten out of school, and a Kid heist was in a few hours. He had to get ready.
He finished up his homework and stood, ready to go out for another round of thief-chasing. Another round of being insulted and left behind. Well, tonight Shinichi would capture that smug thief and show him who was the better. Kid would not belittle another detective, not while Shinichi lived.
--he would only take us and our offer seriously for once we would not have to do this--
Giving the journal one last glare, Shinichi turned and headed out.
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