Notes: Another MSN triggered piece.
Also kudos to the fanartists out there who picture a certain moment described in the fic. You'll know where.
Rating: Teen for blood.
Genre: Tragedy.
Word-count: 1787 words.
Title:

Sherry's final reply.

Gin stayed still for a long moment, pointing his gun without wavering at the head of the child that had just appeared. She had cried out some nonsense about being the one he wanted dead, instead of the teenage detective twerp that had returned from the dead by some unknown means; the twerp that had cried out an unfamiliar name upon noticing her arrival, just before Gin's shoe had forced him to keep quiet for a while. Normally Gin wouldn't have paid any heed to the ravings of a little girl, especially if she wasn't armed and was trying to distract him from his main occupations -murder and torture- in such a clumsy way. But something in the kid's manner of speaking, the intonation she had used while saying his codename, had made him pause.

His killer instinct was excitedly whispering the name of Sherry. He could smell her, the fetid smell of betrayal, wafting from the child. It was this very same instinct that had allowed him to notice the nosy Parker writhing at his feet, legs now mangled by the bullets he had used to put the snoop to his knees, to try and make him talk. This same instinct again that had confirmed in his mind the link between this detective and his current obsession, his favourite target.

That little girl, she had to be what? Only seven, eight years old? And yet she did not cry at the sight of her friend sprawled in his own blood, groaning from under the loafers of a man pointing his gun at her. Pfft, childish bravado? Yet he could see her small hand shaking, and she was schooling her face into a cold mask to hide her fear. A brave girl, yes, but not a stupid one. He couldn't help but notice how similar her haircut was to that of a certain scientist on the run, how the colour of her locks was identical to that in his memories. Her eyes were staring at him with the same intensity as during their last meeting...

"... Sherry?" A raspy whisper, carrying an incredulous tone he had never expected to hear coming from his own mouth.

"Gin."

Yes, it was truly her. She was the only one to ever pronounce his codename with such seriousness and still give it that touch of emotion and fear. But how...?

He removed his foot from the detective's head. The latter took a deep breath before beginning to cough fitfully. He had been a breath away from suffocation, but Gin couldn't care less. The only reason he hadn't sent him straight back to the realm of the dead was to question him about his survival, about Sherry... But Sherry was now offering herself to him.

He stepped up to her, the metallic eye of his Beretta still aiming between the two small eyes that were staring at his. Yes, she was staring at him with the exact same intensity as on that hotel roof, the night when he got the chance to see her blood stain the freshly fallen snow pink. But they remained the eyes of a child. Gin felt overtaken by the unexplainable urge to check for himself whether this was all real, or whether he was the victim of some elaborate illusion.

"Miyano Shiho," he said, searching for more confirmation of what his instinct was claiming loud and clear. The young girl looked startled for the space of a second before regaining her composure.

"My codename is no longer sufficient for you? Or have you already found someone else to wear it?"

An answer typical of the one he had known, of the one he had been hunting down with passion.

"Haibara...!"

They both ignored the cry that had come from the teenager left forlorn behind Gin. Gin wasn't worried that he would run away, for even if he tried, it would be harder for the boy to avoid Vodka at the door than it had been for a small girl with sufficient knowledge of his subordinate's habits. Sherry seemed however to be more concerned with giving her wounded ally an opportunity. An opportunity that, she well knew, had great chances of never coming into being.

He answered her question with a simple "no", before crouching down to her level and reaching out with his right hand to catch her shoulder. She tried to avoid his gesture, but he had anticipated that.

She was so small, and seemed so fragile. He didn't need to tighten his hold much to be certain that she could not break free. He studied her with his gaze, trying in vain to find some little detail that could explain away this trick of fate. What if it were Vermouth, once more teasing him, but this time through a child forcibly enlisted? He turned the barrel of his revolver away, so as to bring his hand closer to her face, brush his thumb along her jaw, push away a lock of her hair to double check that there was indeed no wig, no mask. Gin could even see the faint trace of a scar, at exactly the same location where a bullet had grazed the cheek of a runaway chemist one winter's night.

"I would have been content to have your head, Sherry," he said, his voice belying a certain disappointment, "but I doubt that the boss would be satisfied with the autopsy of a child's corpse as answer to all our questions."

"And what if I don't want to answer them?"

He couldn't help but grin as he felt the cold bite of the metal Sherry had just pushed up against his jaw. A downwards glance told him that it too was a gun, although a homemade version, if one were to judge from the lack or serial number and the unusual form of some of its components. This was exactly the kind of challenge he dreamed of. A tiny mouse revolts, giving the cat the illusion it has turned into a grand opponent, and thus making the inevitable death of that same mouse even more satisfying for the predator. The fact that her voice, despite the cynical and determined tone he already knew from Sherry, remained that, fluting, of a small child only strengthened that impression.

With a laugh, he replied.

"You well know that I've always had ways to find the answers I want."

And, his repartee complete, he took action. With a simple gesture, he grabbed his opponent's hair using his right hand and gave a sharp tug, bringing his own revolver back to her face with his other hand. It was a risky bet, but his instinct was whispering that it would take more than that to push the mouse into killing him. Especially if she had allied herself with an idealist detective, if she confronted him in the hopes of saving the boy, rather than finishing things with him. He saw her close her eyes in pain for the glimpse of an instant, and then nothing, as the sound of a detonation rang out.

He let out a muffled groan as he felt pressure against his eyes, nostrils, mouth, something both soft and spiky. He could distinguish with great displeasure what he could only describe as stalks, stalks with thorns scratching at his face. But he had not let go of Sherry. In fact, he had forced her to come closer by pulling her towards him, taking her in his arms as would a father. But she had not gotten away with it unscathed. The brutal arrival of what he could now identify as flowers in his face had startled him sufficiently to cause him to pull the trigger. He could feel a warm liquid flowing way too rapidly from the temple he had leaned against his neck. He knew that his ice-blue turtleneck was in the process of being stained red, the shade of red favoured by the one he had just killed.

His ears were still ringing, but he had no doubt that he would never more hear her trembling breath, that those fierce, nearly mocking eyes would no longer be there to confront his gaze. As if to confirm this fact, the now inert arm of the child had started to slip, freeing his face from a bouquet of blood-coloured roses that a fake Beretta had conjured up from nowhere. The flowers and the gun fell with a deafening clatter to the ground. With a calm gesture, he put his own back in his pocket.With his left arm, he lifted up the body he was still propping up with his right. He stood and turned to the detective that was staring at him, a watch with cross-hairs aimed at him. Gin was in no mood to show him any patience. His step swift, he approached him and crushed his wrist at the exact moment the teenager rushed to use the gadget. Gin felt a little comfort from the pained outburst that reached his ears.

"You are lucky, twerp." Gin's voice took on a particularly vicious tone. "Seeing how Sherry has now gone to the same place as the sister I sent off before her, your execution is delayed. You are going to answer our questions in her stead. But for now, quiet!"

He ignored the furious glare the boy shot at him. He could read in it feelings way too similar to his own current feelings. He took out his mobile phone from his pocket, and called his accomplice. After ordering Vodka to do a quick tour of the perimeter in case there was another of their pals around, before coming to find him, he gave one last glance to the bouquet of roses lying on the floor.

Anger, disappointment, guilt. Even a touch of incredulity.

He had wanted to give Sherry a glorious death; an execution that would have lingered, an explosive death, if possible with tears, at great minimum with an expression reflecting the terror he would have inflicted upon her soul. Here he was, carrying in his arms her lifeless body, like an older brother carrying a sleeping sibling. Now he could feel his eyes moisten, his pride shattered, his hopes swept away by an involuntary reflex.

Sherry had just died a beautiful death, yes, but he had been a poor executioner. Her final reply had been magnificent, but just as sharp as the thorny roses she had chosen to use. He had to admit to himself that he agreed with the boy lying at his feet, from whom he could hear a sob strangled with grief.

Sherry's final reply had come way too soon.

FIN.

Thanks to Astarael for beta-reading this translation.