020. Colourless.
Conan didn't think much about the gemstone as he went to lie down in his own bed that night…early morning, but he did place it on the night stand as a reminder of the conversation he had with Kid, a confirmation that the phantom thief did, indeed, still trust him. After all, to give Conan a stolen jewel was to trust him to return it, to trust him to uphold Kid's reputation and not tell the policeman he gave it to what he had most recently learned about the thief's true identity. It was kind of funny that, after having been so sad, something so simple could actually make him fairly happy. Of course, his good mood wasn't hurt by the fact that the shrunken teenager had also kind of gotten to the point where he sort of accepted that he was going to have to live out the rest of his life in a body ten years too young.
As he drifted off staring at the Shallow Shroud, Conan fell into an odd sort of dream. It didn't feel like a dream, but it had to be. He knew things were happening, but they didn't make any sense. He could feel something burning, but it was apart from him, as though held back by some sort of force field. Conan could almost see the field that was protecting him and the fire beyond it, but it was odd sense of seeing. There were no colors, not even white or black. There could be no presence or absence of all colors, because there were no colors.
But it had to be this way. The detective knew that with a certainty, though he had no idea why he knew it was so. It was like the lack of colors was somehow helping protect him from something horrible; although, he had absolutely no clue as to what that horrible something was. And there really was nothing he could do but stand there and watch the oddly colorless fire burn. So, that's exactly what he did...until sunlight filtered through the window with the morning sunrise, and his eyes opened to see in colors again. Glancing to his right, he noticed the time; something about it struck him funny. It was exactly six hours after he had opened his hands to see that Kid had given him the Shallow Shroud. Why he thought that was funny and how he even knew that it was exactly six hours, Conan didn't really understand, so he shrugged it aside.
Yawning as he sat up and stretched out his oddly stiff body, the detective felt like something was wrong…maybe not wrong, but definitely different. Confused, he rolled out of bed, and as soon as he stood up, reality hit him like a ton of bricks. He had not needed to hop down to get off the bed. He had only needed to stand up. He wasn't looking straight at one of the bottom drawers of his dresser; he was staring down at the top of it. And his once loose pajamas now felt oddly tight.
What…the…hell?
Not daring to believe it, the detective raced to the bathroom, and his eyes confirmed what his mind and body already knew. Somehow, some way, he was once again Shinichi Kudo!
Oh, no, this was not happening. No, no, no, no. This couldn't be happening. How the hell had this even happened? This was bad. Very, very bad. Of course, this was what he had wanted. He was overjoyed, sort of, to be Shinichi Kudo again, but for it to happen so suddenly was definitely not good. The reappearance of Shinichi Kudo and disappearance of Conan Edogawa was as delicate an operation, perhaps more so, than erasing Shinichi Kudo would have been. What on earth was he going to do? How was he going to explain this to everyone? Oh, he needed serious help.