I posted this fic for the 20th anniversary of Detective Conan. It was written over about a seven-month process. I don't expect it to be finished any time soon but I forced a good chunk of it before the 19th. Enjoy!

"It was you!"

Kogoro Mouri, head down, eyes shut, mouth slightly agape, pointed at a bare-headed and skinny man.

"You...who created the fake body...Wataru Koichi!"

The other monks gasped. Kogoro sat within a tatami room near a door, Conan right around the corner, Ran watching in curiosity as her father entered a strange trance. She briefly wondered if he had been possessed.

"You secretly told the victim to leave. Meanwhile, you created a dummy and dressed it in his clothing. Finally, you burned it to resemble a burnt corpse. You meant to pin the blame on your master because you hated him."

The accusee gritted his teeth. "What proof do you have against me?"

"Gasoline," said Kogoro. "Conan told me that the clothing hidden in your room smelled strange."

The man paused, his eyes widened, and then fell upon his knees. "I did it for my father," he said, before breaking into a sob.

Conan followed Ran and Kogoro out of the temple as the police took Koichi away. The three walked down a steep grassy slope and got into a rental car, and Kogoro drove off with a face of disappointment and frustration.

Conan would have felt more at ease if Mouri hadn't had a beeru earlier, but he assumed it had been long enough since. The car hit a bump, and Conan jolted out of his seat.

"Dad! Slow down!" said Ran.

"I'm fine!"

Conan pulled the seat belt tighter in annoyance.

It had been a long and tiring trip to the more natural parts of Japan. The family took photos and went hiking, and even got to stay at a fancy hotel. Despite all this, there was still an alleged murder case, which didn't quite ruin everything since no one actually died, but still upset the mood of the last evening of the holiday.

Conan was physically exhausted and fell asleep about as quickly as Ran did. Kogoro huffed. "They have the privilege to sleep..."

Conan was roused in the middle of convenient REM sleep by his flip phone vibrating nearby. He waited for it to vibrate a second time, and then thrice. It stopped. Grudgingly, he remembered that he had forgotten to turn it off before bed, and then sat up to see who had texted him.

He pried the two halves of the phone apart and the backlight turned on. The phone number wasn't displayed, nor was a contact. Conan pressed the center button and opened the message.

"Come to block 3 in the alley. Important information. No tricks. -Vermouth"

That was interesting.

How did Vermouth even get his number?

Without hesitation, he put on his identificatory blue blazer and cyan shorts, made sure all of his gadgets were fully charged and on his person, grabbed his skateboard from beside the doorway, and snuck out of the apartment.

He considered leaving Ran a note in case he didn't return, but remembered that this was a chance meeting with Vermouth, not Gin and Vodka. His safety was almost guaranteed.

Conan turned on several intersections into a darker neighborhood. He found the address, and went into the alleyway to its right. An odd black car suddenly appeared around the corner and drove out into the street, and Conan jumped back, hiding behind a mailbox as he watched a dark Porsche drive off. He deduced that Gin was just leaving. Was this actually a trap? He waited until there was no sign of movement and then walked into the alley.

Vermouth was slumped awkwardly against the side of her car.

"Oh, it's you, Cool Guy..." said Vermouth. No matter how much trouble she was in, she still managed to use broken English. "You arrived at a good time."

Conan walked up to Vermouth. "I see your organization has finally betrayed you."

Vermouth held her lower chest. Conan gritted his teeth and looked closer at the wound. She was slowly dying from the punctured vital area. She could still talk, it wasn't the lung. Probably the stomach.

"I have something to tell you, Kudo."

"I'm listening."

"Have you ever thought about how much you have accomplished in such little time? How long has it been since you took the drug?" She stopped to inhale. It sounded painful. "Less than a year, am I correct?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"How much time do you actually think has taken place?" Conan was confused, and stayed silent.

"Might I suggest to you the idea that it has been much, much longer than you think?"

He went to school every weekday and sometimes got caught up in a case. It honestly hadn't been even a year. Vermouth was right about that, at least. "What are you saying?" he asked. "You've solved hundreds of cases in such a short period of time, detective. You must run into two cases a day to have to deal with this kind of schedule."

"Murder doesn't happen that often..." said Conan.

"Exactly... You've been deceived into believing a paradox."

"What?"

"You only think that it has been a few months. In reality... it's been years since you first became involved with us."

"But how can you say that when nothing has changed?"

"Tantei-kun, how many autumns have you seen since then?"

Conan began to count. There was the time with the festival murder, and then the incident at the camp, and... all of these had happened very far apart from each other.

"I can see that you're bewildered," she said. "To be stumped by a logic puzzle as simple as counting to twenty."

"...That many?"

"It's simple," said Vermouth. "Our goal was to create this phenomenon. You can't understand it because that's how we made it feel."

"Why should I believe what you are telling me?"

"Doesn't it feel wrong? Like time is passing too slowly? Like you haven't gotten anywhere?"

"What do you mean?" said Conan.

Vermouth's upper lip twitched in pain as she forced some sort of smile. "That's a secret."

Conan's hands balled into fists and his shoulders jerked up. He was getting impatient. "Then why did you tell me this?"

"I think our silver bullet has the right to be exposed to a few truths." Vermouth sighed and then inhaled again slowly. "Stopping the Organization is your duty now. I've given you their most important secret... Tell your mother that I regretted being her enemy."

Vermouth took a case out of her pocket, opened it, and painfully swallowed one of the capsules inside.

"What are you doing!? Is that...!?"

"I can't reveal my own organization as my killers."

"But what if you...?"

"It won't work. Get away from here now."

Conan obliged, but as he got to the end of the alleyway, he couldn't help but watch. After all, it could have been him when it all started. Vermouth convulsed somewhat and then became still, the poison doing its proper job for once.

Conan laid in his futon and stared at the ceiling. That didn't make any sense at all. Vermouth is dead and her secret was that time had stopped. How could time be stopped? Why hadn't anyone noticed? What evidence is there for that to make sense in the first place?

Every deduction needs evidence for it to work. Evidence is what everybody asks for. Without it, a deduction is just a fanciful theory. Conan just witnessed his only safe link to the organization die out. He had to tell Haibara first and foremost. Then Jodie, when it was safe to talk to her. Definitely not by phone. Had there been security cameras anywhere near that alleyway? The Organization would have taken the digital film off their owners' hands by now. They had probably already done so, if it even happened at all. Sleep isn't an obstacle for them. But it is for Conan.