Author's Note: Originally written for the LiveJournal community from the prompt "Heiji, Kazuha, and what each of them fears most". This is my first time writing anything this violent, so please review--but be gentle!

Interpretation

His heart stopped.

As a damp wind whistled outside the warehouse, the pounding in Heiji's chest and the beading sweat on his forehead froze when, through an iron cloak of fog, the murderer he had challenged to submit to the police emerged—with a young woman. Dressed in raven black, the killer clutched the defenseless woman's neck in the crook of his arm and squeezed, causing her to yelp in pain and gasp a single word.

"H-Heiji . . . ."

His jaw slackened in disbelief. Struggling in the large man's viselike grip was Kazuha, her ponytail mussed as if the vile man had grabbed and shaken it. Her normally firm, stubborn knees wobbled with the effort to stand. And as the criminal dragged Kazuha beneath the light of a lone streetlamp, she turned her pleading green eyes to Heiji.

Oh God, no!

Heiji's pulse resumed, beating triple time to drown out all sounds of distant gunshots and sirens. Gritting his teeth, Heiji smirked at the black suited criminal and spat, "So, this is the pathetic way you get what you want?"

"No," the man replied simply, never wavering his icy gaze. Squeezing Kazuha harder, the criminal bared the knife he was holding against her quivering ribs and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed it in the air and pressed its tip against her throat. "Either way, I'll kill you both. This is just your punishment for opposing us."

Slowly, with cold, practiced skill, he sliced the topmost layers of Kazuha's skin, exposing a hairline of crimson blood that trickled from her neck like a vampire bite.

Dammit, you bastard! Heiji screamed inside, his entire body trembling with anger. If this man was serious—and his heartless glare spoke volumes about just how serious he was—he knew the only way to save Kazuha now was to lunge at her, knock her and the knife out of the man's grasp, wrestle for the blade, and hope Kazuha would not do anything stupid like stick around.

But then, the criminal gave Heiji a sinister grin—and pulled Kazuha closer.

"Go ahead, girl," he hissed in Kazuha's ear, as if holding secret conference with his captive beneath the canopy of his hat's wide brim. "Say goodbye to your boyfriend."

Kazuha's cheeks flushed pink; whether from embarrassment or crying, Heiji could not tell. Her jacket slipped from her shaking shoulders; beneath the golden streetlight, its corduroy fabric glowed in russet ripples and, slipping further, it bound her elbows like an unlikely pair of handcuffs. Tears misted and overflowed onto her trembling lips as she finally parted them and spoke. "Heiji . . . I love you . . . ."

What? Ignoring the strange skip in his heart, Heiji growled. Time, dammit, they needed time! Kazuha, what in the hell are you doing? You're not giving up!

" . . . goodbye."

"No!" Heiji screamed, hurling himself toward the idiot who had risked her neck far too many times to follow him, who once tried to die for him, and who now began to slip through his desperate fingers. "Kazuha!"

As if in slow motion, the blade dug into Kazuha's flesh and began to split her throat. Contorting in pure agony, Kazuha gurgled a scream as the knife tore through skin and muscle, scraping bone as hot blood spilled, and then gushed, through the rupture. Heiji's head connected with her stomach then, throwing her body through inky darkness onto the unyielding concrete.

Pushing himself off Kazuha, Heiji first felt the warm liquid soak his shirt—and then he saw it. Her blood had splattered, pooling around her neck, head, shoulders, and the surrounding macadam as if it would soon swallow her and drag her into its depths. Its acrid smell hung in the air, turning Heiji's stomach; he finally retched when he saw, in the midst of that dark, sticky ocean, her ashen face. Her green eyes stared into the night, sightless.

"KAZUHA!"

Her name rang in his ears as he flung the covers from his heaving chest—and noticed both were now drenched with sweat. Sitting up in bed, Heiji struggled to breathe, the dream fresh in his mind yet quickly fading; all that remained were the black cloaked man, blood, and Kazuha. No, not a dream, he thought, as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, more like a nightmare.

Brrrriiiiing!

With a jump, Heiji started at the noise: a loud, yet too familiar ringtone. Arching an eyebrow, he glanced at the buzzing cell phone on his nightstand and the digital clock beside it. Red, piercing digits read 3:40. After fumbling for the phone, Heiji flipped it open and muttered, "Hello?"

"Heiji?" the female voice screeched. "Are you okay?"

Kazuha? Heiji thought, his stomach tightening. All of his usual desire to berate her for calling him in the middle of the night was gone. "Am I okay? What are you talking about?"

The sigh that crackled on the other end was punctuated by a shuffle and a thump; Heiji figured that Kazuha was slumping on her bed. "I-I had a nightmare. A crazy guy in black threw you against a brick wall, held a gun to your head like some sick execution, and . . . ."

Heiji gripped his blanket; it was still soaked with sweat. "And?"

Kazuha sniffled. Was she crying? "He . . . made me watch him kill you."

That's almost the same dream! Heiji thought, swallowing to try and calm himself before responding. It had to be a coincidence; things like that were not possible or even logical. "Kazuha, it—it's just a dream," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm fine, really. Go back to sleep."

"But what if it was a premonition?" she cried, choking back a sob. The squeaking springs of her mattress told Heiji that she now leapt from the bed altogether. "You said you had to go to Tokyo soon, right? Why won't you let me come with you?"

Heiji groaned, unsure what to say. Kudou, that's why.

He remembered the hushed phone conversation and the shrunken detective's words exactly: "If you're still willing, I need you to come here in a few days. I can't go into details yet, but . . . be prepared for anything.

"Heiji?"

Anything, huh? Heiji mused. An image flashed of Kazuha's blood gushing from her throat like a fountain of death. He would never allow that—never.

"Heiji! Answer me, you idiot!"

"Sorry, Kazuha . . . I can't tell you." Before his childhood friend could further protest, Heiji added, with a small smile, "Maybe dreams aren't premonitions. Maybe they don't tell us about the future—just about ourselves."

"L-like," Kazuha murmured, after a moment, "what we fear the most?"

What we fear the most? Heiji thought, echoing the question in his mind as he furrowed his brow. Wind whistled through the cherry trees outside, making Heiji wonder where he had heard the sound before. Then, he blinked. My death . . . is that what she fears the most

"Heiji . . . I love you . . . ."

Remembering the whispered words, Heiji suddenly felt a strange sweetness throb inside him—and he blushed. What the hell's wrong with me? he thought, shaking the memory away. Rubbing furiously at his head and burning cheeks, he finally mumbled, "Um, maybe. But it's almost four in the morning, idiot, so go get some sleep."

"Hmph! Fine, but don't do anything stupid in Tokyo like letting yourself get killed, or I'm going to kill you first!" she yelled. Beep!

Heiji chuckled at the impossibility of her threat, but then pictured Kazuha flinging her cell phone across the room only to panic, dive for it, and inspect it to make sure it was not broken.

With a yawn, Heiji reached beneath his tee shirt to scratch his stomach; just then, a gentle breeze stirred the bedroom curtains, rustling them and allowing moonlight to spill onto his dark face. Blinking, he lifted his gaze and watched a relentless shower of new cherry blossom petals float past his window.

Sinking into his pillow, and feeling oddly grateful for its softness, Heiji pulled the covers to his chin and sighed. The pale blossoms danced in the black night with a freedom that somehow soothed him. Even though he could not understand why, he began to wonder if, perhaps, losing Kazuha like that was what he feared most. He never wanted to find out.

As Heiji's eyelids grew heavy and closed, however, it was the tender feeling in his chest that slowly wrapped him in its warmth and lulled him to sleep.

The Kudou Files omake: "So I Saved My Wife From An Axe Murderer"

Slam!

The bedroom door whacked Kudou Shin'ichi in the nose, flinging him into the hall and knocking him flat on his butt. Though he clutched his pillow and blanket angrily as he staggered to his feet, the detective's frustration came more from his own stupidity than anything else.

"Daddy?" a small voice asked. Looking in the direction of the staircase, Shin'ichi spied Conan's outline in the dark; the little boy padded toward him in his pajamas, clutching a wobbling glass of water. "Did Mommy get mad at you again?"

Scratching his head, Shin'ichi offered his son a nervous chuckle. He figured some things might be difficult for a boy his age to understand, especially when they concerned certain events in the past. "Well, I accidentally said something I shouldn't have. It's nothing."

To Shin'ichi's surprise, however, Conan rubbed his chin in deep thought and soon glanced up—beaming.

"Oh, that's it! Mommy's mad at you for telling that story about how you went to a mountain villa and saved her from a bandaged man, right?" Conan chirped, causing his father's jaw to drop to the floor. The oblivious boy then whirled on his slippered heel, righted his tipping glass, and glanced over his shoulder with a smile. "I bet Mommy's just worried that all your stories about scary axe murderers are going to give Auntie Kazuha nightmares. G'night!"

As Conan trotted away, Shin'ichi smacked himself on the forehead and grimaced, vowing never to tell Hattori Heiji a damn thing again.