Disclaimer: "Detective Conan" belongs to Gosho Aoyama, and "Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon" belongs to Naoko Takeuchi.
This is an alternative story to my other fanfic "Encounter in Venice" and one of the possibilities of what could have happened if Ai had taken the antidote before Shinichi brought down the Organization.
Thanks a lot to my friends and betas Rae (Astarael00) and SN1987a and the Aicoholics on LiveJournal, without whom I would never have started this fic.
FS
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Ghost at Twilight
(edited version)
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Banalities and habits are…
Banalities and habits are reassuring in times of confusion, as I discover once again when Kudo and I stroll back to Hikawa Shrine, balancing on the border of a past and a possible future love. Thus we're bantering again like Edogawa and Haibara did, ignoring the delicate issue between us, which we don't know how to solve without hurting each other.
"If you continue to take so much APAH during the day, it doesn't make sense to fill all the tiny capsules. You might as well keep the powder in paper bags or packets instead."
"That could cause dangerous misunderstandings. I don't want to be arrested for taking drugs in public every time I have a migraine."
"Why not? It would do you good. That way, your incentive to take APAH will remove itself with time."
The ginkgo trees at the other end of Ichinohashi Park are looming in the distance, swaying in the wind as though they were trying to lure us towards Two Lights', where throngs of excited fans are lined up in front of the entrance for Yaten-san's self-designed card game. Like yesterday, the world has lit up again before twilight, as if the sun were trying to defy death in a magnificent attempt to stay above the horizon forever.
"You've left your phone at home again." Kudo gives me an accusing look. "Just like yesterday!"
Like yesterday, a voice in my mind echoes. Just like yesterday, the light rain has already been dried by the evening sun. The rain clouds I saw on the bus must have dispersed before they reached Ueno-koen. And maybe Seiya is sitting on the same bench in disguise, waiting for Odango as he always does whenever he has time…
Except that she has ended their regular meetings without a warning just like I've ended our relationship. I can still see his self-mocking, distant smile as he stepped back and sighed, observing that he had been dumped twice within the same night.
Kudo has consoled me and kept me company during the first phase of grief, but Seiya was alone because neither of the two women he loves was available when he needed them. I doubt he has tried to talk about us with Shortie and Stick. In spite of their indisputable closeness, it seems to me that the relationship between Seiya and his two brothers is unbalanced and that he tends to support them without letting them comfort him in return.
Yesterday, I planned to arrive at the place of rendezvous at six o'clock but was delayed by the traffic jam. It must have been around half past six when I arrived at the bench, as it was forty past six when I, prompted by Seiya's question, gazed at my watch for the first time. And now I bitterly regret that I haven't recorded the exact time my stranger and I met—as if my life or even his life depended on the last stroke of the seconds hand when the twenty-fourth hour passes.
"If you don't have time for me, you'll have to call me because I'll come over if I can't get a hold of you on the phone," Kudo threatens. "If he happens to be at your place tomorrow night and insists on going out with us, it could become a very awkward dinner."
"It could be interesting! Just imagine Furuhata-san's face when he serves the three of us at the same table." Since Furuhata Motoki-san was the friend who informed Chiba Mamoru about his fiancée's infidelity, he must know Seiya by sight and—after the drama Kudo and I caused in his bar during lunch—would also deduce that Seiya was the man I had breakfast with this morning. I'm almost curious about Furuhata-san's reaction to the imaginary nightmare scenario now that my reputation is ruined.
Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to call him because the battery of his phone is dead, I remind Kudo, whereupon he obligingly assures me that he is going to get a new one as soon as possible. If truth be known, I'm selfishly glad that the battery of Kudo's phone is dead—that he can't receive a call from Ran or from Megure-keibu or from a detective of the Tokyo Metropolitan Department, who could inform him about yet another death whose cause he has to investigate, while he is with me.
In the distance, the white stone stairs of Hikawa Shrine are gleaming golden in the warm sunlight while the shadows are tinted a deep purple. Kudo is right that I should at least say goodbye to the stranger who has kept me company and rescued me from my melancholia for one night, helped me solve the mysteries of my life, and changed the way I see.
"Life isn't exactly a barrel of laughs at the moment, is it?" Kudo remarks. "For neither of us…" With a hint of irritation and undisguised jealousy in his voice, he adds, "You should have waited a bit longer before you let a complete stranger seduce you."
"Are you sure that he seduced me?" I flash him an amused smirk. Being a 'bad girl' in Kudo's eyes is actually relieving, as I no longer feel the pressure of keeping up with angels like Ran. "Maybe you did have a point when you compared me to Irene Adler."
Kudo stares at me in genuine surprise, oblivious to the implication of my last sentence.
"What do you mean?"
"Irene Adler was a 'well-known adventuress', Kudo," I remind him, realizing at the same time that he either doesn't know what the expression insinuated in Victorian times or has blotted it out in an attempt to turn Sherlock Holmes' much admired woman into the virtuous angel who would have been his own ideal. "She was an opera singer who had scandalous affairs with famous men far above her social status. For that reason—and not because she had such a lovely singing voice—Holmes had heard of her and even kept a brief account on her profile before he took on the king's case." I laugh as I see the realization dawn on Kudo's stupefied face. "The king was so paranoid about Irene Adler ruining his upcoming marriage because she was considered unpredictable and dangerous—the ultimate femme fatale."
"You have a habit of dashing my illusions with only a few words!" Kudo runs his fingers through his hair in despair as he often does whenever he is shocked or nervous. "I'm never going to see Irene Adler with the same eyes again."
"We all have to face the truth some day, Kudo," I chuckle. "If it's any consolation to you: Sherlock Holmes admired and liked 'the woman' nonetheless. If you can't digest the unpalatable truth, you've chosen the wrong profession."
"Since I respect Holmes' decisions, I'm going to accept her as well." Kudo gives me a familiar bashful smile, which almost reminds me of the starry smiles that perpetually graced his lips in Paris three years ago; and suddenly his obsession with Sherlock Holmes doesn't seem childish and irritating to me anymore.
In a time and in a country where "good women" were expected to be the modest, unblemished "Angel in the House" who devoted their lives to their husband and children, took all the domestic duties on themselves, and blushed whenever a ribald remark entered their squeaky-clean ear, Irene Adler—defying all the boundaries society forced on her—roamed the streets in male clothes, allowed herself the freedom to have secret and even not-so-secret love affairs, and socialized with people far above and far below her social status, who were all enthralled by her. A rare, modern woman too wild and self-willed to survive in a conventional world, Mrs Irene Norton had to flee the country in order to protect her happiness, which she found with her unconventional, handsome ("remarkably" so, in Holmes' words), and loving barrister. Poor Mr Godfrey Norton is always ignored, erased from the story, eliminated by death, or defamed off-screen in most Sherlock Holmes adaptations for the simple reason that he would have stolen the limelight with his charm and his strikingly good looks and rendered a romance between Sherlock and Irene most improbable…
Fighting a new tug of regret and the familiar ache, which threatens to overcome me when the key to Seiya's apartment pokes at my leg through the hole of my pocket, I wish my stranger and I had met when he was Godfrey Norton and not Moriarty on the set.
We've arrived at Hikawa Shrine again, and I hesitate in front of the stairs to the now empty courtyard, where only the cherry wish tree is waving its heavy sakura-laden branches to greet me. Perhaps Taiki-san and Yaten-san are really hiding at "Rei-chan's place" at the moment, and I can return the key to Seiya tonight if they tell me where to find him. It's peculiar and disquieting how the urge to find closure is growing in me as the seconds pass—as if I only had one and a half hour left to give our story an appropriate ending.
"Since you'd rather do this alone, I'll go to the main train station now." Kudo casts me a quick sidelong glance. "I have only five to ten minutes—but if you want, I can wait here until you've knocked at the door and talked to them."
"No, thank you. If I feel like meeting the Despondent Duo again, I'd rather enjoy Shortie and Stick's insults without knowing that you're lurking in the distance, taking notes for your memoirs."
He gives me an exasperated smile.
"One day, we should make a list of all the problems between us and find out whether you or I are guilty of causing the majority of them. I dare say that you are the one who always pushes me away whenever I threaten to uncover your secrets."
I shrug as I trace the engravings, marks, and dents on the stone plate in front of the gate with my fingers—scars of the past which are not going to fade with time. "I'm not a mystery for you to solve, in case you haven't noticed. And it's impossible to deal with all the issues of our relationship in five minutes, Kudo. Time is running out, so just give up now."
He doesn't give up but lingers in the ending sunset, whose myriads of colours are all reflected on his crumpled white shirt. To me, he has always been the fairytale white knight in a grey and black world—but it's new to me that I don't feel the slightest desire to resemble the pure princess he would have liked me to be. Kudo Shinichi might have dreamed of saving her from the dragon and joining her in holy matrimony, but Miyano Shiho is the mermaid from the dark depth of the ocean who believed that she wanted the prince while she—far more ambitious than she wanted to admit to herself—was longing for an eternal soul.
"All the past issues between us… whatever we said or didn't say to each other—does it really matter?" Kudo asks in retaliation for my comment that my answer at Pandora's Box won't make any difference at this point in time. "I think there hasn't been a day when I didn't think of you in some way, wondering what you're doing in Juuban and whether you're still thinking of Paris as well."
Taken aback by his confession, which came just when I no longer expected it, I remember that Kudo has always had a way with words, capturing my heart just when I thought I had finally evaded him.
"I've missed our cases," he continues in his exasperating candour, "especially your cutting remarks that often put me on the right track."
"I told you I'm never going to be your sidekick and amanuensis, Kudo!"
"Neither do I want you to," he dryly remarks. "In that case, my reputation would suffer for sure."
I smile at the thought, wondering how our story would sound if I were the narrator. No doubt, I would mock Kudo and make fun of his silly cowlick, his barbarous singing, his non-existent cooking skills, and his bottomless pockets while glossing over all the grand and noble gestures which distinguish him from other men. I would fuss over all his irritating habits like gobbling APAH, blurting out insulting observations, and dissecting every person he meets as though they were corpses in the morgue. Of course I would also lay particular stress on his weaknesses and failures: how he naively insists on jailing every criminal and saving every victim on earth at the expense of his own happiness; the contempt and disgust he showed me when he shrank away from my touch at Pandora's Box; his terrible timing and how he tried to find solace in my love and dump his grief on me just when I was too broken to offer him love and show him sympathy; his callous betrayal when he took our love and, in a generous attempt to make everyone happy, gave it to another girl…
I would claim that our story has ended on a dismal, muted note—omitting all the other times when I had fallen out of love with him and he managed to weave his spell upon my mind again. Not even once would I linger over the many ways in which he cared for me, rescued me from my loneliness, and saved my life, dismissing it as simple acts of kindness he would have offered anyone else. I would ignore his pain and his loneliness, his hopeless longing for a lost past, which not even my painkillers could quench. In the eyes of an inattentive, trusting reader, his reputation would suffer for sure!
"I wish we were partners again," Kudo admits. "I'm not expecting anything from you—especially not when you're still mourning a past relationship. I only hope that you don't mind continuing the partnership we had in Paris—without the charade this time."
Since I find him too endearing to resist him at the moment (and because I've become weak after fighting with myself for too long), I give in and smile, leaning against the stone plate in front of Hikawa Shrine as I raise my hand to say goodbye.
"Why not? If you stumble over an interesting case… and if I'm free and bored… just give me a call and I'll give you a hand."
His face lights up and he impulsively takes my hand in his, much to my surprise, and we slowly shake hands like the partners we should have been in these three years, which have been lost to resentment and anger. His hand still feels like it did in Paris—warm and comforting and safe, touching me deeply although it no longer makes my heart race. And when he jokingly asks me not to get myself a new boyfriend until tomorrow night, I only smirk and tell him that it's not his business to play my guardian.
The sunlight is fading as the day is coming to an end. The sun has set on this love—and yet it feels like the start of something new. I have the premonition that twilight will be darker today although there will be a thin lambent purple line flaring in the distance. Perhaps my love for Kudo is Love in its purest essence—I ponder as I climb the steps to Hikawa Shrine, turning back to smile at him when I hear his voice wishing me luck. Gazing after his snow-white figure among the dark crowd, remembering his brilliant eyes, which have seen through so many facades and lies but have always failed to pierce through the depth of his Irene Adler's soul, I watch my detective disappear behind the giant wheel of the amusement park with an irrational sense of relief. In a twist matching the ghost story I've reinvented, I don't want him to stay with me now that the dusk of twilight time is falling.
My love for Kudo, once desperate and volatile, has transformed into a deep, everlasting, spiritual infatuation devoid of the razor-sharp edges of passion, freed from the remnants of jealousy and greed. It must be the love ninety-year-old couples who have shared decades of their lives feel for each other when they are no longer susceptible to the capricious ups and downs of romantic love—a tyrannical, dangerous yearning for the stars, which is as arbitrary and impetuous and unrestrained and hurtful as Amor's golden arrow.
Kudo and I have bypassed and missed out all the decades' worth of in-between phases, however, have not been able to fill the gulf between the first stirrings of infatuation and the last enduring attachment with all the other worldly and heavenly aspects of a reciprocated mature love. Overrated when it's depicted as the sole purpose of being alive but also underrated when it's derided as superfluous and corrupting, desire itself is a divine gift one can only appreciate after knowing and losing it. The freedom and peace of a mind devoid of romantic yearning usually comes in exchange for true happiness. Longing, despite being the main force that wrecks the world and creates whole universes anew, is a fragile and difficult creature, which can't be revived once it has died, and which seldom if ever returns after it has been nurtured in another garden.
Stalling for time in the long shadow of the cherry wish tree, I ransack my mind for words I could say to Shortie and Stick to convince them to let me meet their brother again after ripping out his heart and trampling on it. For a moment, I consider going straight to Seiya's apartment and wait for him there—but a peculiar, overwhelming sense of purpose urges me not to lose time in case he is not at home, as I still owe him an explanation or at least an apology for my erratic, fickle behaviour and the wound I inflicted on him when all he did was showering me with affection and offering me his warmth whenever our paths crossed.
According to Haruka-san, you tricked both Kudo and her and erased the files on the real Pandora's Box—I don't mean the main computer in Pandora's-Box-the-cabin, which only served as a decoy, but Pandora's-Box-the-tiny-laptop-like thing, where the seven crows kept their most important files... In that case, wouldn't it have been easier to leave it exactly where it was—on Pandora's-Box-the-ship, which was going to explode, anyway—instead of messing with it? Why did you activate it so that the only option for you to survive was to erase it completely?
Unaware of what he was doing, my stranger has given me the one trump which would weigh heavily on the scales of Justice when he reminded me of my one moment of grandeur, in which a dark creature like me sacrificed what she wanted most for another person without expecting anything in return. Crouching in the galley with the fake cookie box containing the real Pandora's Box in my lap, listening to the pit-a-pat of the rain and Kudo's voice from the phone, I remember staring at the screen in grim determination as the countdown was flashing before my eyes. It would have been ridiculously easy to click on Send, or just wait until the programme, which Gin had activated before he died, sends the mails on its own…
If it had been Kudo's name, I would immediately have deleted the files—but with his voice talking so tenderly of love and lifelong commitment on the phone, the tables were suddenly turned, and I could hear the sweet, persuasive voice of opportunism whispering at my ear. All the arguments I had conjured up for myself against a life on the run, all my fears when I heard M Jean Black's unimaginable personal tragedy, suddenly stopped to make sense in view of the future Kudo offered me.
Wasn't this the risk Tenoh-san and I accepted when we pursued our revenge? As courageous and radical as she had always been, a dark heroine for whom the ends justified the means, there was no doubt she would immediately have chosen the thousands of lives over her own life, made a backup of the files, and sent off the emails even with her own name attached to them. After all, the two reasons why she wanted Pandora's Box for herself were removing the files on her family and helping the victims in her own stealthy way. If I did nothing to stop the emails from being sent to the blackmailed people on the list, Kudo and I would still be safe, the victims of the seven crows would still receive their long-awaited and well-deserved justice... and Tenoh-san would spend the rest of her life under witness protection.
It was the moral dilemma most political leaders faced at least once in their lives—the question whose answer depended on one's own personal interest in the outcome. As Gin said, fear and selfishness usually won in extreme circumstances. Logically, the decision should have been easy no matter what I chose. Kudo Shinichi's love and the agents motards' everlasting gratitude or Tenoh Haruka's happiness—the thing I wanted most and the conventionally right choice weighed against the life of my trusted ally. I wish I could have told Kudo the reason why I cried, the real cause of my tears he mistook for tears of grief: When Kudo took me into his arms after Gin's death, covered both of us with a blanket, confessed his love for me, and offered me a lifelong partnership while I was thinking of Kaioh-san and Hotaru-chan, whose beloved life partner's and "father's" name would be irrevocably attached to Pandora's Box if I saved the files, I was faced with the hardest, cruelest choice of my life.
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