[2] a pocket full of rye.

[holmes-fanatic.livejournal.com]

[First grade writing class would be dull for any seventeen year old. For one that considers himself, with some justification, something of a genius, it is soul destroyingly boring. Little wonder then, that as Conan’s hand mechanically copies kanji after kanji, his mind is elsewhere.

Not surprisingly, given the type of genius we’re talking about, his thoughts are on a case. Or – two cases. Mouri had dropped Azusa’s older brother’s disappearance as soon as the call from Yoko came through about a missing colleague -- Tch … that guy and his crushes …-- but the Detective Boys had looked into it for Azusa without luck. The police weren’t having much luck finding any trace of Sugihito Enomoto either … And Conan could only wait to find out what Mouri had learned at the studio. Uncle wasn’t a bad detective when he made the effort … but with Yoko there to distract him, was there any chance he’d pick up any clues?

Frowning, Conan's thoughts turned back to the disappearances that Guinevere had mentioned, and from there to the Astral Plane. When sitting in the first-grade classroom, listening to the sound of many pencils moving laboriously over identical workbooks, it was hard to imagine any place like the Plane could exist, much less some of the people he’d met there--]

Ah – uh.

[Travel to the Plane was indeed seamless. It was quite a surprise to go from sunny classroom to the depths of space.]

AAAAAAAHHHHH.

[And not a good idea to be sitting down when you made it. Conan’s kneejerk reaction to finding himself transported sent his school chair tipping. On the way down, his foot hit the first-grade desk, jarring it so that his pencils slowly began to roll off the desk while Conan’s desperate attempt to grab the desk to steady himself had him pulling his art kit with him instead. Great detective, sure, and used to making entrances, but sprawled on Astral Plane surrounded by paint tubes and crayons, Conan’s thinking this is one entrance he could have done without.]

Comments

[holmes-fanatic.livejournal.com]

[This fresh evidence of the emotional toll on Crowley is -- saddening. Conan notes it to weigh later. For now he'll settle on shifting bottles out the way so that Crowley has a clear path to the bed.]

Nice place!

[eyesofaserpent]

[He flops onto the bed (a memory foam mattress with a thick down mattress topper and a thick down blanket) and it sinks, molding to his shape. It looks very comfortable indeed.]

I can't even sssmell him anymore...

[holmes-fanatic.livejournal.com]

-- ah.

[Conan looks up from the bottles -- he was wondering what the chances of the Plane having a regular rubbish collection service was -- to regard Crowley solemnly. He's been the one to break news of a death, to see firsthand the effects of sudden bereavement and that's hard enough. But he's not really been exposed to the longer effects and -- it's saddening.]

I'm sorry, Crowley-san.

[eyesofaserpent]

[He doesn't hear the apology as he's already in the sweet embrace of sleep. It's the only place he doesn't feel the constant pang of soul shattering loss.]

[holmes-fanatic.livejournal.com]

[Ah, that's a relief at least -- Sleep and time is probably the only cures that Crowley has available.

Conan waits a while to check that Crowley's sleeping soundly and isn't going to need help, picking up the bottles. After a few minutes of quiet, he ducks into the bar for a bin bag, and starts tidying up the bottles. Still quiet? He'll probably be all right then ...

Conan quietly opens the door.]

Night, Crowley-san.

[eyesofaserpent]

[Yes, he's fortunately still sound asleep.]

[holmes-fanatic.livejournal.com]

[Let sleeping demons lie? At any rate Conan is carefully shutting the door behind himself. He's got a lot to think about.]