Counting Crows, a Detective Conan fanfiction
This is a story based on the nursery rhyme "Counting Crows." When someone would see crows, they would count the crows and use this poem to predict the future. There are several versions of the poem, but I used the form that I learned first.
Rated: PG-13
Genre: Drama/General
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: I don't own Detective Conan
Summary: Seven Murders, Seven motives. One for sorrow...
One for sorrow.
She was eight years old. She wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. Her last math test was a hundred and I had put it on the refrigerator.
That day, she had gotten sick. Not really sick, but just sick enough to stay home and spend the day with Mommy. Just a sore throat. And she had done so well on her last test. I thought, why not? I can get her some ice cream.
I had to step out to run to the market, just for a minute. The landlord was outside, staring anxiously at a corner apartment building. He stopped me-was I leaving?
I told him yes, and he let out a sigh. Good.
I didn’t think to ask him why he wondered.
He was always a rattish sort of man. All fear and running and squirming out of traps. I had known he was in debt, but really, I had forgotten that rats can chew their own legs off to get away.
There had been an accident on the corner as I was leaving the supermarket, and I had to stay and give a statement. It wouldn’t have taken so long, but both of the drivers disagreed very loudly and I had to stay for a while. By the time I had gotten back to the apartment building, it had been two and a half hours since I had left.
I could see the smoke from a few blocks away, and I started running. I’d never been in the best of shape but I managed because oh god that smoke was close.
I don’t think I’ll ever know what kept her in there. Maybe she was sleeping, or something hit her, or she was trapped, but she didn’t make it out.
When I saw the rat-man, the landlord, I knew. He had needed the money, the insurance.
That boy knew it, too. The smart boy with the Osakan accent and the strange, smart child. They found the evidence, and he went away to prison, broke as he was before, and this time with no building to burn to the ground, no child to kill.
I had to move on. The realization nearly made me kill myself right there. But I kept going, because I was only a matter of time before he was let out.
He didn’t even remember me as I charmed him into an alleyway.
Even as he woke, tied and laying in that backalley, he didn’t remember me. As I covered him with gasoline, he tried to plea to me, mumbling through his gag. I whispered my daughter’s name in his ear before I begin to leave. He didn’t remember her either.
I don’t have a single regret about striking that match.
Two for mirth.
It was totally innocent, she said. Caught in the moment.
I thought it might be a nice surprise. She had always talked about her friend from England. So when I heard from someone else that he was planning a trip, I called him up and asked if he would like to stay with us. We had the extra room. After the last promotion, I had been able to buy a decent house with a sizable yard. He agreed.
He was able to make it for the New Year’s party I was hosting. My wife was so happy when she saw him. I had asked him to keep his trip secret from her just to see this picture. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and I got to see her joy.
When midnight came, I went looking for my wife. The house was filled with happy noise, but I wanted to usher in the New Year somewhat quieter.
I found her as I turned the corner into the kitchen, being kissed by that English gentleman. She shoved him away hastily enough, and yelled that he had had far too much to drink. Then she saw me and smiled.
She took my hand as I led her away, and she explained that he probably hadn’t realized that our alcohol was more potent than he was used to. He had ambushed her as she was getting a new glass for another guest.
I told her I believed her. I had no reason not to, and I loved my wife.
It was an awkward goodbye as he left the next day. His visit was supposed to be longer, but something had come up overnight in England and he just had to see to it immediately. He couldn’t look either of us in the eye as we both wished him a safe trip.
Half a mile down the road his gas tank ruptured and somehow exploded. He didn’t die immediately, much to his sorrow.
They say that medicine can never completely dull the pain.
Three for a wedding.
It was his mother that did it. She was an old, matronly sort of woman. She was very, very controlling of her only son. He didn’t so much as move furniture without her permission. Everything had to be just so in her perfect little life, and I was just doing it wrong.
From the moment I met her son, she poisoned everything. I was too modern; I didn’t even know how to cook a decent meal. The way I dressed was trashy, my makeup too heavy, and I couldn’t wear a kimono correctly. Couldn’t he find a nice Japanese girl instead of some Chinese--here she would pause, as if she weren’t crass enough to finish.
It worked for a little while. I loved him enough that I put up with his mother. She did live alone, her life must have been dull. I tried to like her, I really did. I even took a cooking class and started being more of a traditional girlfriend. I missed out on a promotion opportunity because I needed to step back my hours at work. After all, I should be able to meet him at home with dinner, right?
Not that it did any good. A month later, his mother told him to break it off, and he did. Left me sitting there.
Less than a month after, he was getting married to a nice Japanese girl who always wore a kimono and couldn’t work but met her husband at home with a nice meal every night.
When he was at work one day, I went to his house. And I met that nice little Japanese girl. She made us tea and we talked.
Her eyes were so scared as I pinned her to the couch and smothered her with that gorgeous embroidered pillow. I wonder if she had made it?
Poor thing. It really wasn’t her fault. It was his mother’s.
Four for a birth.
She had looked so happy. That’s what decided it for me. She looked so happy after she had cleaned out my bank account and run off with him. She told me she was pregnant. I was going to be a father! It was a bit early in our lives, and it would be difficult, but it was something I was looking forward to.
It didn’t take much time. She took my money and went to an abortion clinic. She’d gone straight from there to his car. I didn’t see her again, until now.
She looked so happy and round and she was getting ready to have his baby but she murdered mine.
It was in a kitchen store. Apparently they were getting married and were looking for things to put in their new apartment. It was easy enough to slip behind her, an anonymous stranger in a cap pulled low.
When I shoved the knife between her ribs, she screamed.
I screamed with her.
Five for silver.
We had been partners all of our lives. As kids, we were inseparable. I swear, half of my life I spent in his bedroom under the blankets reading comic books as his older brother yelled at us for keeping him up.
Our parents even started mutating our names together to make it easier to call us in. We loved that. So when we were able to start our own company, it was easy to come up with a name. After all, we had been called by it for most of our lives.
We took a picture in front of the store when we opened it. The two of us, arms thrown casually over each other’s shoulders, grinning like the loons we were.
It was a small store, a specialty store that sold games from all over the world. Kids would come in and their eyes would just light up. We made a point to always have some games out to play with, so there was always a decent number of people in the store.
I was the one who worked with the customers. I just worked better with the kids, and I enjoyed it. I would play the different games with them, and their joy would just color the atmosphere. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy.
He was the one who handled all of the money the business brought in. He’d always been better with figures.
I always knew that he liked to gamble. I always thought that it was just a natural extension of our shared love of games. Because of that, I didn’t take much note when he started frequenting Pachinko parlors. I went occasionally myself. I liked to try and win stuffed animals for my girlfriend. But I never gambled for money. Little things, yes, but gambling for money was one hole I didn’t want to fall into. Not with so much on the line.
It was those silver Pachinko balls that ended my life. He handled the money, you see, and I trusted him. I’d known him all of my life. So when he told me our figures I didn’t think to double check.
A year after we opened, we were starting to make a name for ourselves. Then I started noticing some oddities. I ran the cash register and counted down the drawer, and it seemed to me that we were making a lot more money than I was seeing. I didn’t want to upset my friend, so I breeched the subject carefully.
He broke down and told me he was skimming a little, but that he was stopping. Not wanting to hurt him in his time of need, I said I would help him. But I wasn’t stupid. I started keeping an eye on the figures, with the help of my girlfriend.
He was lying. He wasn’t stopping, it was getting worse. My girlfriend did the final math, and she broke down in tears as she told me that it was only a matter of weeks until the store collapsed.
I grabbed my partner at his apartment and pulled him out to his balcony. We argued. He said he was fixing things, that it wasn’t his fault. I said that he wasn’t, that he had killed our dream, that the store was going to die.
He shoved me, screaming that it was my fault, that I should have watched more carefully, that I was an idiot to not have noticed.
I shoved him back, yelling that yes, it was my fault because I never should have trusted him.
When I shoved him back, he tripped on his flowerpot and fell heavily against the rusty metal railing. It was a cheap apartment. I’d never noticed how much went to his gambling before. But the metal gave with an odd wrenching sound, and I managed to make it to the railing in time to see him hit.
Six for gold.
My half sister and I have never been close. It’s hard to be when your father left your mother for hers when you were three.
She had everything. The fancy clothes, the fancy house, the fancy friends. She even had those stupid little fancy handbags. Nothing she had she worked for, everything just fell into her lap like manna from heaven.
My mother got child support. Occasionally.
So maybe I resented her just a little. I was the one who grew up with just my mother, watching as she tore herself to pieces supporting us. I was the one who studied hard and got a scholarship, and she was the one who paid her way to perfect grades.
I loved my mother. She worked so hard, not allowing herself any luxuries, with a single exception. My mother had a necklace, a lovely golden necklace. It had been passed on through her family for over a century. It wasn’t anything special, just a plain golden chain, but I loved it.
Her death was sudden. She was just crossing the street and someone wasn’t watching the light. A few people did yell for her to watch out, but she had always had bad hearing. She hit her head on the pavement, hard. The paramedics say that she was killed instantly.
The shock came when her will was read. See, my mother had always nursed the vain hope that someday my father would come back to her. He never did marry his mistress. She never bothered to formalize a divorce. It was a shock to me to discover that my father was still the focus of the will.
Everything she had was his. Everything, including the necklace.
To be fair, he did give most of it straight back to me. He was as surprised as anyone to have been left holding the inheritance.
The one thing that he did keep back was the necklace. See, his daughter wanted it.
I bet it matched some froofy little purse.
My mother had a small savings, and she had very nearly finished paying for the apartment. So I moved out of the one I had been renting to move back in. It was strange being back there without her.
I just couldn’t get over that necklace.
That girl, the one that broke up my parent’s marriage, had my mother’s heirloom. My heirloom.
I went to go see her the week after I had moved in. I called ahead, but she still left me sitting on her porch for an hour.
I tried to get her to give it back. I started by explaining that it was an heirloom, and that it meant a lot to me. Then I offered her the remainder of my mother’s savings. I would have to work to finish school, but I could do it. I told her it was all I could afford.
She looked appalled at first, and I thought she might have been shocked to realize that she had taken something so precious. That was when I thought she might have a heart.
Then she told me that no, I couldn’t have it. She had worn it to a party and had taken it off in the bathroom. She hadn’t seen it since.
It must be nice to be so freaking rich that a gold necklace can be lost without a second thought.
She smiled then. Wouldn’t I please leave? She didn’t want to sit around all day talking about some dead bitch’s tacky jewelry.
I just wanted to smash her face in.
The stupid little plant in the pot didn’t matter. What mattered is that it was heavy.
I smashed her pretty little privileged face in. And I kept going for as long as she was screaming. It wasn’t long before she stopped. I gave it a few extra hits. Just to be sure.
I remember noticing she didn’t have much of a nose anymore. I’d like to see her stick it up at me now.
Seven for a secret that’s never been told.
He was my son.
He was my son!
I couldn’t let them kill him. I couldn’t let those filthy evil men in those unfashionable, hideous black coats get a hold of him.
I couldn’t let my boy die at their hands.
They would do things to him. Horrible, horrible things. Experiments, torture, pain simply for pain’s sake. He would linger for god knows how long before they would let it end. He might tell them things, hurt other people. He might not have been my boy by the time it finished.
He knew this. So when he came to me and asked me in that not-child voice to please kill him if it came to it, I couldn’t say no. Not when his bright eyes pleaded and glistened with harsh tears.
I knew it would kill him to hurt her. It would kill him to hurt any of his young friends, his only real peer, or even the other not-child. It would kill him in a way that those black-coated bastards couldn’t even manage, not with all their gadgets or their drugs or their goddamn evil souls.
So I agreed. Just to lessen that pain just a little, I agreed.
When the time came, against all odds, I was there. I was there and I could keep my promise. He and his father aren’t the only good shots in the family. He didn’t feel any pain.
They didn’t take him.
And they’re not going to take me, either.
Comments and critiques are always welcomed.
Rated: PG-13
Genre: Drama/General
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: I don't own Detective Conan
Summary: Seven Murders, Seven motives. One for sorrow...
One for sorrow.
She was eight years old. She wanted to be a ballerina when she grew up. Her last math test was a hundred and I had put it on the refrigerator.
That day, she had gotten sick. Not really sick, but just sick enough to stay home and spend the day with Mommy. Just a sore throat. And she had done so well on her last test. I thought, why not? I can get her some ice cream.
I had to step out to run to the market, just for a minute. The landlord was outside, staring anxiously at a corner apartment building. He stopped me-was I leaving?
I told him yes, and he let out a sigh. Good.
I didn’t think to ask him why he wondered.
He was always a rattish sort of man. All fear and running and squirming out of traps. I had known he was in debt, but really, I had forgotten that rats can chew their own legs off to get away.
There had been an accident on the corner as I was leaving the supermarket, and I had to stay and give a statement. It wouldn’t have taken so long, but both of the drivers disagreed very loudly and I had to stay for a while. By the time I had gotten back to the apartment building, it had been two and a half hours since I had left.
I could see the smoke from a few blocks away, and I started running. I’d never been in the best of shape but I managed because oh god that smoke was close.
I don’t think I’ll ever know what kept her in there. Maybe she was sleeping, or something hit her, or she was trapped, but she didn’t make it out.
When I saw the rat-man, the landlord, I knew. He had needed the money, the insurance.
That boy knew it, too. The smart boy with the Osakan accent and the strange, smart child. They found the evidence, and he went away to prison, broke as he was before, and this time with no building to burn to the ground, no child to kill.
I had to move on. The realization nearly made me kill myself right there. But I kept going, because I was only a matter of time before he was let out.
He didn’t even remember me as I charmed him into an alleyway.
Even as he woke, tied and laying in that backalley, he didn’t remember me. As I covered him with gasoline, he tried to plea to me, mumbling through his gag. I whispered my daughter’s name in his ear before I begin to leave. He didn’t remember her either.
I don’t have a single regret about striking that match.
Two for mirth.
It was totally innocent, she said. Caught in the moment.
I thought it might be a nice surprise. She had always talked about her friend from England. So when I heard from someone else that he was planning a trip, I called him up and asked if he would like to stay with us. We had the extra room. After the last promotion, I had been able to buy a decent house with a sizable yard. He agreed.
He was able to make it for the New Year’s party I was hosting. My wife was so happy when she saw him. I had asked him to keep his trip secret from her just to see this picture. She hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and I got to see her joy.
When midnight came, I went looking for my wife. The house was filled with happy noise, but I wanted to usher in the New Year somewhat quieter.
I found her as I turned the corner into the kitchen, being kissed by that English gentleman. She shoved him away hastily enough, and yelled that he had had far too much to drink. Then she saw me and smiled.
She took my hand as I led her away, and she explained that he probably hadn’t realized that our alcohol was more potent than he was used to. He had ambushed her as she was getting a new glass for another guest.
I told her I believed her. I had no reason not to, and I loved my wife.
It was an awkward goodbye as he left the next day. His visit was supposed to be longer, but something had come up overnight in England and he just had to see to it immediately. He couldn’t look either of us in the eye as we both wished him a safe trip.
Half a mile down the road his gas tank ruptured and somehow exploded. He didn’t die immediately, much to his sorrow.
They say that medicine can never completely dull the pain.
Three for a wedding.
It was his mother that did it. She was an old, matronly sort of woman. She was very, very controlling of her only son. He didn’t so much as move furniture without her permission. Everything had to be just so in her perfect little life, and I was just doing it wrong.
From the moment I met her son, she poisoned everything. I was too modern; I didn’t even know how to cook a decent meal. The way I dressed was trashy, my makeup too heavy, and I couldn’t wear a kimono correctly. Couldn’t he find a nice Japanese girl instead of some Chinese--here she would pause, as if she weren’t crass enough to finish.
It worked for a little while. I loved him enough that I put up with his mother. She did live alone, her life must have been dull. I tried to like her, I really did. I even took a cooking class and started being more of a traditional girlfriend. I missed out on a promotion opportunity because I needed to step back my hours at work. After all, I should be able to meet him at home with dinner, right?
Not that it did any good. A month later, his mother told him to break it off, and he did. Left me sitting there.
Less than a month after, he was getting married to a nice Japanese girl who always wore a kimono and couldn’t work but met her husband at home with a nice meal every night.
When he was at work one day, I went to his house. And I met that nice little Japanese girl. She made us tea and we talked.
Her eyes were so scared as I pinned her to the couch and smothered her with that gorgeous embroidered pillow. I wonder if she had made it?
Poor thing. It really wasn’t her fault. It was his mother’s.
Four for a birth.
She had looked so happy. That’s what decided it for me. She looked so happy after she had cleaned out my bank account and run off with him. She told me she was pregnant. I was going to be a father! It was a bit early in our lives, and it would be difficult, but it was something I was looking forward to.
It didn’t take much time. She took my money and went to an abortion clinic. She’d gone straight from there to his car. I didn’t see her again, until now.
She looked so happy and round and she was getting ready to have his baby but she murdered mine.
It was in a kitchen store. Apparently they were getting married and were looking for things to put in their new apartment. It was easy enough to slip behind her, an anonymous stranger in a cap pulled low.
When I shoved the knife between her ribs, she screamed.
I screamed with her.
Five for silver.
We had been partners all of our lives. As kids, we were inseparable. I swear, half of my life I spent in his bedroom under the blankets reading comic books as his older brother yelled at us for keeping him up.
Our parents even started mutating our names together to make it easier to call us in. We loved that. So when we were able to start our own company, it was easy to come up with a name. After all, we had been called by it for most of our lives.
We took a picture in front of the store when we opened it. The two of us, arms thrown casually over each other’s shoulders, grinning like the loons we were.
It was a small store, a specialty store that sold games from all over the world. Kids would come in and their eyes would just light up. We made a point to always have some games out to play with, so there was always a decent number of people in the store.
I was the one who worked with the customers. I just worked better with the kids, and I enjoyed it. I would play the different games with them, and their joy would just color the atmosphere. I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy.
He was the one who handled all of the money the business brought in. He’d always been better with figures.
I always knew that he liked to gamble. I always thought that it was just a natural extension of our shared love of games. Because of that, I didn’t take much note when he started frequenting Pachinko parlors. I went occasionally myself. I liked to try and win stuffed animals for my girlfriend. But I never gambled for money. Little things, yes, but gambling for money was one hole I didn’t want to fall into. Not with so much on the line.
It was those silver Pachinko balls that ended my life. He handled the money, you see, and I trusted him. I’d known him all of my life. So when he told me our figures I didn’t think to double check.
A year after we opened, we were starting to make a name for ourselves. Then I started noticing some oddities. I ran the cash register and counted down the drawer, and it seemed to me that we were making a lot more money than I was seeing. I didn’t want to upset my friend, so I breeched the subject carefully.
He broke down and told me he was skimming a little, but that he was stopping. Not wanting to hurt him in his time of need, I said I would help him. But I wasn’t stupid. I started keeping an eye on the figures, with the help of my girlfriend.
He was lying. He wasn’t stopping, it was getting worse. My girlfriend did the final math, and she broke down in tears as she told me that it was only a matter of weeks until the store collapsed.
I grabbed my partner at his apartment and pulled him out to his balcony. We argued. He said he was fixing things, that it wasn’t his fault. I said that he wasn’t, that he had killed our dream, that the store was going to die.
He shoved me, screaming that it was my fault, that I should have watched more carefully, that I was an idiot to not have noticed.
I shoved him back, yelling that yes, it was my fault because I never should have trusted him.
When I shoved him back, he tripped on his flowerpot and fell heavily against the rusty metal railing. It was a cheap apartment. I’d never noticed how much went to his gambling before. But the metal gave with an odd wrenching sound, and I managed to make it to the railing in time to see him hit.
Six for gold.
My half sister and I have never been close. It’s hard to be when your father left your mother for hers when you were three.
She had everything. The fancy clothes, the fancy house, the fancy friends. She even had those stupid little fancy handbags. Nothing she had she worked for, everything just fell into her lap like manna from heaven.
My mother got child support. Occasionally.
So maybe I resented her just a little. I was the one who grew up with just my mother, watching as she tore herself to pieces supporting us. I was the one who studied hard and got a scholarship, and she was the one who paid her way to perfect grades.
I loved my mother. She worked so hard, not allowing herself any luxuries, with a single exception. My mother had a necklace, a lovely golden necklace. It had been passed on through her family for over a century. It wasn’t anything special, just a plain golden chain, but I loved it.
Her death was sudden. She was just crossing the street and someone wasn’t watching the light. A few people did yell for her to watch out, but she had always had bad hearing. She hit her head on the pavement, hard. The paramedics say that she was killed instantly.
The shock came when her will was read. See, my mother had always nursed the vain hope that someday my father would come back to her. He never did marry his mistress. She never bothered to formalize a divorce. It was a shock to me to discover that my father was still the focus of the will.
Everything she had was his. Everything, including the necklace.
To be fair, he did give most of it straight back to me. He was as surprised as anyone to have been left holding the inheritance.
The one thing that he did keep back was the necklace. See, his daughter wanted it.
I bet it matched some froofy little purse.
My mother had a small savings, and she had very nearly finished paying for the apartment. So I moved out of the one I had been renting to move back in. It was strange being back there without her.
I just couldn’t get over that necklace.
That girl, the one that broke up my parent’s marriage, had my mother’s heirloom. My heirloom.
I went to go see her the week after I had moved in. I called ahead, but she still left me sitting on her porch for an hour.
I tried to get her to give it back. I started by explaining that it was an heirloom, and that it meant a lot to me. Then I offered her the remainder of my mother’s savings. I would have to work to finish school, but I could do it. I told her it was all I could afford.
She looked appalled at first, and I thought she might have been shocked to realize that she had taken something so precious. That was when I thought she might have a heart.
Then she told me that no, I couldn’t have it. She had worn it to a party and had taken it off in the bathroom. She hadn’t seen it since.
It must be nice to be so freaking rich that a gold necklace can be lost without a second thought.
She smiled then. Wouldn’t I please leave? She didn’t want to sit around all day talking about some dead bitch’s tacky jewelry.
I just wanted to smash her face in.
The stupid little plant in the pot didn’t matter. What mattered is that it was heavy.
I smashed her pretty little privileged face in. And I kept going for as long as she was screaming. It wasn’t long before she stopped. I gave it a few extra hits. Just to be sure.
I remember noticing she didn’t have much of a nose anymore. I’d like to see her stick it up at me now.
Seven for a secret that’s never been told.
He was my son.
He was my son!
I couldn’t let them kill him. I couldn’t let those filthy evil men in those unfashionable, hideous black coats get a hold of him.
I couldn’t let my boy die at their hands.
They would do things to him. Horrible, horrible things. Experiments, torture, pain simply for pain’s sake. He would linger for god knows how long before they would let it end. He might tell them things, hurt other people. He might not have been my boy by the time it finished.
He knew this. So when he came to me and asked me in that not-child voice to please kill him if it came to it, I couldn’t say no. Not when his bright eyes pleaded and glistened with harsh tears.
I knew it would kill him to hurt her. It would kill him to hurt any of his young friends, his only real peer, or even the other not-child. It would kill him in a way that those black-coated bastards couldn’t even manage, not with all their gadgets or their drugs or their goddamn evil souls.
So I agreed. Just to lessen that pain just a little, I agreed.
When the time came, against all odds, I was there. I was there and I could keep my promise. He and his father aren’t the only good shots in the family. He didn’t feel any pain.
They didn’t take him.
And they’re not going to take me, either.
Comments and critiques are always welcomed.