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Magician\'s Waltz	By : VisageWriters Category: +. to F > Detective Conan/Case Closed Views: 2736 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Detective Conan - Case Closed, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a
matter of opportunity. -Hippocrates

--

He stretched his leg above his head,
one arm around his thigh, the other holding the arch of his foot as
he gently pulled it, wincing as the unused muscles whispered a
protest, so long dormant that they had forgotten hot to properly
stretch and flex.

He closed his eyes against the pain,
pulling more, pushing his body to remember what it had to. Holding
the post for the proper count he slowly lowered his leg and pushed it
forward, stretching the muscle in a new manner, relaxing it from it's
previous pose.

He hooked his heel on the chair before
him before bending down, the muscle again renewing protest the closer
he got to the floor. He gave a sigh as he rested his face against
his knee, wanting to cry. A month and he was so far from where he
had been. His splits weren't' deep enough, his bends a far cry from
the graceful arches. His kicks, spins and flips were all off,
memories gone.

Raising from his bend he dropped his
foot slowly to the floor, both thighs humming from the strain he had
put on them. He raised his arms over his head, pushing, feeling his
muscles tighten and extend. He fell back, hands reaching eagerly for
the floor. Legs kicked, hovering for a moment before falling after
the hands. He did it again, increasing the pace, feeling his arms
tremble as they tried to hold his weight.

On the third flip, the strain broke and
he crumpled, hitting the side of his face, twisting his arm as he
crashed to the floor. He laid there, tears of frustration slipping
down his cheeks. It felt as if all the years, all the work...was for
nothing.

A single month had stole it all away.

Slowly, carefully he pushed himself
back up, stretching his arms, working the sore muscles gently, before
falling back again, kicking up, body falling a well formed yet
forgotten pattern. He closed his eyes, forcing his body to move, to
remember.

As he sat on the floor, winded, sore,
rotating his wrist to work out the painful bruise from yet another
fall, he stared at the doorway across from him. Behind it held
secrets. His fathers, his. It was their workroom, the room from
which they performed their 'night jobs'. He hadn't been in that room
in a month, too busy healing, too busy trying to get used to the fact
he was alive...and not the same Kaito who had left to awnser a stupid
challenge from a stupid little man who thought he could best the
Kaitou KID.

For the past month he had laid in bed
and tried to awnser just WHY he did this. Not the search for
Pandora...but all of it. The games, the chase, the challenge
answers. Why did he do anything that had nothing to do with avenging
his father?

He had no answers. It was as if the
part of him that knew that, that could easily reply to all of his
questions was gone, locked away. Kid used to be so close and
now...he couldn't feel him any more. And what was worse, were the
moments of amnesia. Kaito could clearly remember walking into the
kitchen yesterday morning, but couldn't remember anything before
ending up on his futon that evening, clutching the broken monocle
that was still sealed in an evidence bag, the broken, bloody glass
glinting at him as he tried to figure out how he got a hold of it.

-

Saguru stared at the photocopy in front
of him, sitting at his newly acquired desk in the Task Force offices.
It had been a long fight but finally, FINALLY he had been accepted
as a member (abet young and off/on member) of the Task Force. He was
technically an unpaid consultant, but he got a desk and a name plate
and a freaking vote so he was happy.

He also got the evidence, or at least
copies there of. And the new heist note was something to be spread
far and wide. Nakamori had been damn near SKIPPING as he handed the
copies out, pleased as punch is rival was alive and kicking.
Well...alive and taunting.

For a month they have practically given
up. Saguru had already made plans to return home to London at the
end of the month, plans he now had to cancel as he scanned the note,
eagerly absorbing every word, every line of the fresh caricature .

Kid was alive.

Kaito was alive.

He couldn't believe it, even with the
thief's cartoon gaze staring up at him.

He also couldn't figure out the fucking
note!

He got the day alright, and the time
was pretty damn obvious (the witching hour being three am of course),
but the rest of it was a jumbled mess that made him want to bang his
head against his desk. He had no idea what the 'Blue Eye', the
'French Fleece' or even “the Walsh Dog Collar”. He assumed they
all referred to the same gem but couldn't find a tie between the
three titles. And no gem went by any of those names in the first
place.

It was all so bloody confusing. One
day he was going to strangle Kid for these stupid notes. They had
become the pain of his existence. Well, them and a certain teenage
magician who lived to annoy the hell out of him.

He sighed and sipped his cooling tea,
still staring at the note, trying to make sense of the names, pausing
only to make a note or check something on his laptop...or just to
bang his head against the desk, hoping the pain would give him
inspiration, or just knock him unconscious.

Nakamori seemed to be in the same
position, though he was alternating banging his head with beer and
cursing, neither of which was helping the situation. He had the
Research Department running every check they could find on large gems
with the three titles given but so far even the egg heads were coming
up empty.

They didn't even have a location yet,
since that was generally revealed when they figured out which gem was
being taken. It made the older man long for the days of straight
forward notes and easy set up. None of this running around or flash
shows that the heists have become.

-

He stared at his reflection in the
mirror, studying the details of his face and body. The scars were
still an angry red, twinging with pain every so often, the head wound
worse then the bullet wound, but he wondered if that was more his
aversion to the bald spot left from the suturing then actual pain.

Shaking these thoughts off he reached
out for his pants, pulling them on, but leaving them unbuttoned as he
grabbed the blue silk dress shirt. He started to slide it on,
wincing as he moved his shoulder, the wound there twinging. He
paused to look at his shoulder, making sure the sutures held before
buttoning the shirt one handed, watching his reflection in the
mirror.

Tucking in his shirt he zipped and
buttoned his pants, pulling his belt from the rack next to the mirror
and threading it through the loops, shifting his hips as he tried to
get the pants to fit comfortably. He slid the belt through the
buckle, trying to find the right hole while looking at the reverse
reflection. Finishing off the buckle he placed it perfectly centered
before grabbing the red silk tie left out for him, pushing up his
collar to slide the tie under it, mentally going over the song his
father taught him when he learned to first tie the tie, humming
softly.

Once the tie was straightened and
centered he folded down his collar before grabbing his jacket and
sliding it on, wincing again as he pulled on the shoulder a second
time. Buttoning the jacket, he knelt, opening a small drawer under
the tall mirror. Glinting up at him were a row of monocles and a
silver pocket watch.

Selecting a monocle he stood, closing
the drawer before sliding the monocle onto his face.

Deep purple eyes stared back at him,
shadowed and secretive, giving a glimpse to the mind that always
tried to stay five steps ahead of the police and annoying teen
detectives. He gave a soft, half smirk before grabbing his hang
glider harness, rebuilt during his coma by, to his shock, his rather
talented mother.

Glider in place, he attached the cape,
fixing the shoulder knobs so they rested comfortably before grabbing
his top hat, flipping it onto his head. All that was left were the
shoes upstairs.

He left the work room, pushing roughly
against the painting so that it would swing open and allow him exit.
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Magician\'s Waltz