Chapter Text
He has nightmares about it, sometimes. Opening his eyes, seeing crowded worried faces over him. In his dreams, he can feel the ground beneath him, the grass itching at his skin, and he can see the dark sky above, the stars almost taunting him. He feels something wet on the back of his head and it stings. He sits up and is affronted with a feeling of wrongness. His limbs are much shorter than they should be, his clothes don’t fit quite right, and the police tower above him. In the blinding pain of his still-aching head, he can hardly hear the officer's words, and the image that starts out so clear slowly distorts. This is where the nightmarish part usually begins. The world fades into black, black, black, with the occasional splashes of a dark, sickly red. He hears their voices in his head, louder and louder, and he hears gunshots.
He sees death, and he sees it over and over.
But today, there is no nightmare. He’s still lying flat on his back, surrounded by police. He’s still not the size he should be, but that’s normal by now. The pain in his head is still constant. There are, however, a few key differences. One, the sun is high in the sky. Two, his clothes fit. Minor differences, really, but still notable. The most major difference is the third. Three, the police officers are English. They’re wearing English uniforms, many of them look European, and they are speaking English. All of this points to one conclusion.
Edogawa Conan is not in Japan anymore, and he has no idea how he got here.
Collecting his thoughts, and working through his still pounding headache, Conan attempts to recall what could have landed him in this scenario, but the last thing he remembers is eating out with Ran and her father at some new restaurant in their neighborhood. Everything after that is gone.
“Hey kid, are you alright?” One of the police officers asks him. It takes Conan a moment to recognize what he’s saying, due to the language difference, but he’s fluent in English, so it doesn’t take long for him to understand and respond.
“My head hurts. Where am I?” he says, sitting up, trying to keep up his child charade despite the millions of very important questions racing around his mind. He looks around. He seems to have been lying on a sidewalk in a residential area, perhaps in some large city, based on the size of the surrounding buildings. Several police cars are parked on the nearby street, and some officers seem to be in the middle of cordoning off the area. Something about that strikes Conan as odd, but his head hurts just a little too much to think about it for the time being.
“You’re with the police, ok? You’re safe. Can you tell us what happened? It looks like you hit your head very hard.” The policeman speaks kindly, but with a sense of urgency. He’s fairly old, his hair greying and thinning out at the top. His rank must be decently high, judging by his clothing and the fact that the surrounding officers were looking to him as if for guidance.
“I…” Conan has a few options here. He could be honest and tell them basically everything he knows, except for the big secret, obviously, or he could… exaggerate a bit. And since Edogawa Conan didn’t legally exist… “I don’t remember. All I know is my name.” He puts a bit of emotion into his voice as if on the edge of tears, which isn’t that hard, all things considered.
The officers look at each other, surprise and worry in their eyes.
“Can you tell me your name then?” the high-ranking one asks him.
“Conan,” says Conan. It’s best not to give a family name. Too many details would definitely work against him in the long run. “That’s all I know. Can’t you help me, officers? I’m scared.” He huddles in on himself, doing his best to act the part of a scared seven-year-old. The high-ranking one pats him on the shoulder, then goes off to talk to someone else while another officer attempts to comfort Conan.
The high-ranking officer seems to be ordering around some of the other policemen on the scene. Conan tries to listen in from his spot on the ground.
“Officer Greenwich, please look into missing children reports in the area, particularly Japanese children based on the accent, or those with the first name Conan. I want this kid’s family found as quickly as possible. I don’t know how he’s involved in this case, but I know it’s too dangerous for him to be left alone for now.” Case? Is there some sort of case that Conan somehow got himself involved in? It would make sense…
“What a confusing scenario,” the man says, muttering to himself this time. “Why is there an amnesiac child with a massive head wound near the scene? It doesn’t match with the MO at all, not to mention the whereabouts of the child’s parents. It just doesn’t make any sense.” That explains what was weird about the officers cordoning off the area. You wouldn’t do that for just any random child found on the street. He was on the scene of some larger crime.
Conan looks around a bit more, and soon finds what he is after. A large crowd of police is gathered around the entrance of a small alleyway nearby.
Without giving the officer looking after him a chance to stop him, he gets up and races over to the alleyway. After all, he has practice getting to crime scenes that the police don’t want him to.
He gets through the crowd and is met with a horrible sight. Not that it’s a sight he hasn’t seen a thousand times over, but still, it’s not something that gets less shocking.
As per Conan’s luck, lying limply in the narrow alleyway in a pool of blood is the still fresh corpse of a middle-aged man. As Conan is pulled away from the gruesome scene, he can only wonder just what it is he went and got himself involved in.
“Do you know him?” a voice behind Conan says calmly. Conan turns around to face its source. The speaker is a tall, brown-haired man. Next to him stands a slightly shorter man with greying hair, although they appear to be about the same age. The taller one seems to be a detective, seeing as how he was let onto the scene in the first place and the fact that Conan could see his eyes glancing at all the details of the murder that Conan had already noted.
Just because he’s in an unfamiliar place with amnesia and the second worst headache of his life doesn’t mean his detective skills are shelved. The grey-haired one is probably a medical practitioner, based on the calluses on his hands, and a former army doctor at that.
“I don’t remember. I got hit on the head or something and now I have amneesha.” Mispronouncing words hurt Conan’s heart, but let’s face it. He needs to do all the convincing he can, because right now, Conan is more vulnerable to the Black Organization than he’s ever been.
“And you all just let him run amuck at a crime scene with a head wound?” The grey-haired one says, rushing over to Conan. Looks like he was right about being a medical practitioner.
“Donovan was meant to be watching over him,” the high-ranking officer says, looking over to the officer Conan escaped from with a glare.
“In my defense,” she starts. “He’s a slippery little bastard.”
“Language,” the grey-haired doctor sternly says.
“Oh, he’s already seen a corpse today. I'm sure he can handle a little cussing.”
“I’m sorry about her,” the doctor says, turning back to Conan. “She’s a little crabby today. I’m John, what’s your name?”
“Conan,” Conan says, wondering if he can possibly get out of a medical examination. He’s probably fine.
“Ok, Conan. I’m going to take you over to a hospital, alright?” Damn. “This is my friend Sherlock. He’ll be coming with us because I’m certain he has a few questions for you.” Hold up.
“What did you say your friend's name was?” Conan asks, voice slightly squeaking. Surely he just misheard.
“Sherlock,” the tall man says, meeting Conan’s eyes. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“I think maybe my head wound is worse than I thought.”
“Huh?”
Conan could almost swear that this man just said that his name was Sherlock Holmes, the very name of the famous fictional detective from the eponymous series that became popular within the last few years, written by Arthur Conan Doyle. The very same author that Conan had stolen borrowed his fake name from. But if this man really was Sherlock Holmes, that would make John…
“John Watson?” Conan says hoarsely, hoping desperately that he was, in fact, wrong for once. Unfortunately, John nodded sheepishly. “Then, then… Holmes… is a real person…”
Conan’s tiny little legs buckle beneath him. He sits dazed on the pavement, staring into the grey sky trying to process this new information. The logical part of him has already deduced that he must be in London, England, even if it wasn’t the 1870s, which he stored for later. The detective otaku part of him was helplessly trying to process the fact that his idol was a real person , and was now standing right in front of him, looking at him with a curious expression.
“That’s quite the reaction. Have you perhaps heard of us before? John, we haven’t got quite that famous, have we?” Sherlock ( Sherlock !!) says as if he doesn’t know about the popular book series written about him!
Conan almost blurts out some sort of half-formed speech about how Sherlock is totally his idol, but he quickly realizes that that’s just a little too Sonoko (aka ‘crazed fangirl’). Logical action must precede emotional reactions. But still.
John, amidst this sudden chaos, is taking it somewhat well, save for the obvious slight discomfort. Almost a little too well. Wait. The notebook-shaped lump in his coat pocket, the ink stains on his fingertips, the bags under his eyes as if he had been staying up late doing something. And the fact that the Holmes books were written from the perspective of Watson…
“You’re Arthur Conan Doyle?!” Conan yells, loud enough to turn the heads of some nearby officers. They quickly go back to their previous activities once they see Sherlock. Maybe he has some kind of reputation here?
“John, what is this child talking about?” Sherlock says, having finally had enough of being out of the loop. John avoids his eyes, finding a very interesting spot on the ground to stare at instead.
“He probably has a concussion. We really should hurry to a hospital,” John says matter-of-factly. Conan is actually inclined to agree because the metaphorical spinning of his world at this recent revelation has just been overtaken by the literal spinning of the world. The faces of John and Sherlock blur into one mishappen lump of a man before everything fades into black and Conan feels his own body lose all strength, collapsing limply upon the ground.
He hears the sound of sirens and the muttering of people. He feels his body being picked up by someone and carried into a police vehicle. He hears small parts of an argument. One that includes the line “So you decided to write historical fiction about my cases under a pseudonym?!?”
Next thing he knows, Conan wakes up in a hospital bed with an IV in his arm. Not for the first time, he notices that hospital beds make him feel even smaller than he usually does. As if he’s drowning in a sea of white bedsheets meant for someone else. It makes him imagine if it had been Mitsuhiko or Ayumi or Genta in this hospital bed instead…
“People shouldn’t hurt children,” he mumbles to himself.
“You said it, kid.” Ah. Conan is not alone.
The headache, which had been persistent ever since he woke up beneath the London police officers, was now a dull throbbing ache, rather than a sharp pain. And while that may have been technically better, it was still making it hard to think, especially when combined with the effects of what Conan suspects might be pain killers in his bloodstream.
Now that some of his senses have returned to him, he looks around the room he’s found himself in. John was sat in one of the chairs next to the bed, with Sherlock reading a book on blood pattern analysis beside him. The book was one that Conan had actually read before, seeing as it was originally published in Japan.
Before his mind can properly come up with a reply, his mouth moves against his will. “I’m not a kid.” Damn drugs.
“I know. You’re a very brave man who was surprise attacked. The doctors here say you have a concussion, which probably has caused your amnesia. Nothing much they can do about it here other than prescribe pain killers and rest.”
“It’s always the surprise attack,” Conan grumbles.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
“The hospital should be able to let you go tomorrow. They just want to keep you overnight to make sure there aren’t any more complications. But, ahh, there is one issue.”
“I don’t have any place to stay, do I? And since I’m a witness and all, I can’t really go too far away before the case is solved.”
John sighed softly. “That’s exactly it. You’re a smart ki- guy, aren’t you?” Oh, John Watson, you don’t even know the half of it.
“I’m not really sure. I remember lots of facts and stuff, but I don’t know if I’m s’posed to be smart,” Conan says, because he’s not going to blow his amnesia cover this early in the game. He’s studied extensively what people are most likely to forget in the case of amnesia, and while someone usually doesn’t forget their identity, the less Conan claims to know about himself, the less cover story he’ll actually have to come up with. Even if it was kind of rare to forget everything but your name, it wasn’t impossible, so it shouldn’t be too suspicious.
The only problem was the ever-listening ear of Sherlock Holmes, whom Conan was certain knew just as much about amnesia as he did. He would have to tread carefully around this man if he didn’t want secrets best left hidden to be unveiled.
Already it felt as if the cogs in the great detective’s head might be turning in a fashion Conan didn’t quite like, though that could be entirely his imagination.
“That’s a shame, really. Well, here’s to hoping you remember everything soon! I’d love to get you returned to your family, wherever they may be,” John says kindly. Conan knows that that’s an incredibly optimistic view of things, considering it was entirely possible from John’s perspective that the murdered man was his only relative, and that Conan also might not ever get his memories back, but John is trying to console what he thinks is a young child, so Conan lets it pass.
“Me too, Mr. John. I’m gonna try really hard to remember so you guys can catch the murderer!” Conan exclaims in his default “definitely-a-real-child” voice. While it wasn’t entirely false that Conan would do his best to recover his memories, Conan would be doing a lot more than that to catch this murderer. The case was likely related to how and why Conan ended up in London and considering he didn’t have a passport, that would be a very difficult thing to achieve. The murder was likely a serial case, considering the words of the high-ranking officer earlier. Ah. Speaking of the high-ranking officer…
“What was the name of the nice officer from earlier?” Conan asked. It was beneficial to him to be familiar with the members of the police force so he could better get case information from them later on.
“Donovan?”
“No. The nice man with the grey hair.”
“You must mean Lestrade.”
“Inspector Lestrade was a real person too!?” Conan swear he used to have some sort of brain-to-mouth filter, but maybe the drugs the hospital has him on are affecting him more than he thought. As if to confirm this, when Conan leans forward slightly to adjust the blankets, his sight swirls sickeningly.
“About that,” Sherlock finally looks up from his book to address Conan. “You’re a little young to have read John’s… ahem… retellings of my past cases. I’ve looked over them since we last talked, and they seem a bit above your reading level.” At this, Conan actually was offended, because he actually was reading Holmes-level detective novels at seven, so fuck you too, Sherlock.
What he actually responds with is “Nobody’s too young for Sherlock Holmes, bitch.” And it doesn’t register to him that he really just cursed at Sherlock Holmes until ten seconds later. And it takes a few more seconds after that to realize that his speech is ridiculously slurred, so it sounds more like “Nob’dyzz t’yung furr Sherrlk H’mes, bish.”
Uh oh. Whatever, it’s probably fine.
John laughs and leans over to ruffle Conan’s hair, and Sherlock actually smiles, or maybe Conan’s eyes are playing the same tricks on him as his mouth.
That was actually pretty likely, considering the fact that John’s eyes were floating off his face any time Conan moved his head.
“You get some rest, kid. You’ve had a long day. I’m sure Sherlock’s questions that he most assuredly has for you can wait for tomorrow,” John says, getting up and waving goodbye. Sherlock gets up to follow, slipping some kind of brochure into his book to mark his page.
“Actually, about that, John…” Sherlock starts to say, the sound trailing off as they leave the room. Conan watches them go, finally attempting to get his thoughts in order, which is unsurprisingly hard with the drugs in his system.
Well, Conan has nothing but time, so he supposes a nap couldn’t hurt. He leans his head against the pillow and closes his eyes. He really has had a long day, even if he can’t remember most of it. He’s about to let his exhaustion overtake him when a nurse enters the room.
She’s most likely here to change the IV bags or to check on Conan’s vitals, so Conan ignores her. Except… the bags were nearly full, so why was she messing with them?
“What are you doing?” Conan asks, still slurring a bit. He sees her inject something into the IV drip, and it’s only on instinct that he pulls it out of his arm within seconds.
She starts when she notices that he’s awake. She turns to him, putting on an obviously fake smile that has a thinly veiled air of hostility behind it that only gets more hostile when she sees that he’s pulled the IV needle out of his arm.
“Hey, buddy! I was just giving you some helpful medicine so you can feel all better soon! So let me just put that needle back…”
“What’s in that? Call a doctor in here.”
“Haha, it’s just medicine. Come over here so I can…” She leans over to grab Conan’s arm. Conan pulls back rapidly, scrambling out of the bed as fast as can. His legs catch in the blankets and he tumbles to the floor. With some level of alarm, he realizes that none of the weapons and devices from Dr. Agasa that he usually has are nearby. He’s only dressed in the hospital gown.
“Help! This lady’s being weird,” he calls, desperately trying to detangle himself from the sheets as the nurse gets closer. He’s still a little disoriented, so it’s proving difficult.
“Be quiet, brat,” the nurse hissed, dropping her facade of kindness. Conan is finally able to get up, but he’s not faster than the woman. She tackles him, and with horror, Conan realizes that her hands are now around his neck. She tightens her grip.
“Help!” Conan screams once more, but it comes out strangled and muted. Conan tries to kick her off him, but without Dr. Agasa’s shoes, it's just the strength of an average elementary schooler. Conan’s struggling has almost no effect on the woman.
Just as his small amount of strength starts failing him, as the edges of his vision darken, two figures burst into the room. The shorter one pulls the nurse off of him while the taller one helps Conan up. He coughs, his throat appropriately sore, but his vision returns, so that’s a good sign.
“Thanks,” he rasps. The man who helped him up, Sherlock, nods once, but his gaze is mostly fixed on John, who is restraining the homicidal nurse.
Seconds later, more people burst into the room. Some of them are dressed in white, likely other doctors or nurses, but some of them are dressed in casual clothing. Conan wonders if his cry for help was heard by adjacent hospital rooms.
Among those not dressed in white is Inspector Lestrade, who pulls a pair of handcuffs off his belt to cuff the woman.
“Jenny? What are you doing?” One of the doctors asks, face distraught.
“She works here?” Sherlock asks, eyes already narrowed in thought.
“She’s been at this hospital for three years and has been employed as a nurse for even longer than that. I just… I don’t understand. She’s always been perfectly pleasant. I don’t know why she’s doing this,” the doctor continues, features twisting in confusion.
“It’s likely related to the serial killings, considering this child is our first major witness in the case. How interesting,” Sherlock says.
“Serial killings?” The doctor looks stricken now. “Oh, Jenny, what have you done?” Jenny stares at him, expression mostly blank, but tinted with a deep sadness. At least, that’s what Conan thinks.
More police arrive to take Nurse Jenny to the station, and in the meantime, Conan is forced back into a hospital bed, this time in a different room, with one policeman outside it as a guard. Conan highly doubts that that’s required, but… he wasn’t ungrateful for it.
John and Sherlock are once again sitting at Conan’s bedside. Conan thinks they seem significantly more tense than last time.
“Sherlock and I have come to a decision about your housing for the duration of the case, or until your family is found.” Wait, if they came to a decision about it, that must mean… “You’re going to be joining us in our flat for a little bit. I’ve already cleared it with Lestrade.” Conan’s mouth hung open in shock. He almost tries to express his gratitude, but considering his headache is back in full force and he’s still on the painkillers, he’s just as likely to embarrass himself.
“And Sherlock Holmes agreed to this?” he asks instead, still in disbelief.
“He suggested it.” Conan turns to Sherlock to confirm this rather absurd statement.
“You’re clearly an important factor in solving this quite intriguing case. It would be somewhat of an upset to me if an event like the one today should happen again while I’m in the midst of solving it.” Conan nodded dumbly.
Living with the Sherlock Holmes. This would likely be just as bad for his cover as it is good for his detective otaku psyche. But… Sherlock Holmes!!!
Just as Conan feels excitement wash over him, the dreaded swirls return. He hears John say something that’s probably important, going by the fact that Sherlock is nodding in agreement, but the world’s a little too twisty for him to focus very well.
“Tomorrow, we should see if you’re up to returning to the scene. It may jog some important memories,” Sherlock says. Conan would usually agree, but he’s feeling somewhat contradictory for some reason. The nausea must be affecting his thought process.
“No need. I ‘member everyyyy detail of the sc’ne,” Conan says. Goddamn, he’s slurring again.
“... Right. I’m sure you do. And what exactly can you recall from the scene?” Conan thinks for a second, face scrunched up in clear concentration.
“Corpse.” Conan promptly vomits over the side of the bed.