DISCLAIMER: The entire Detective Conan series belong to Gosho Aoyama. This is a non-profit fanwork.

Code (30/11/2017)

Something's wrong – whatever it might be. You know because you know her, because you've known her for nearly a decade. Because you've learnt to read the creases on her brow and the twitching of the corners of her mouth. You've learnt to listen to her silence – and soon discovered it can be as telling as her words, if not more. Shiho is what she does and says, but also what she doesn't, what she hides. Both what's shown and what's concealed, only time can teach to decipher.

You judge her posture and the focus of her gaze while revising internally what her day might have been like. Up since early, busy till late. She usually handles that well enough, doesn't she? But even the strongest break down at times, even she (as resilient as she is) might feel tired and need help – a help you're more than willing to offer, to make her feel better.

'What's wrong?' you ask.

And she answers. Her face would seem hardly eloquent for anyone else, but not for you. You read the worry, the fatigue and the anguish on her skin, the way they contort her mouth and press her forehead.

So you hold her hand and tell her everything you can think of that might help. And maybe it's all not much or even very helpful, but then the magic happens, as it always (sooner or later) does.

She smiles.

Not fully, not widely. But the corners of her lips turn upwards and her light blue eyes gaze at you, and her brow relaxes and the two tense arches of copper that held it up turn into soft threads resting above her tender eyelids.

She mutters, 'Thank you.'

And it feels good.