Welcome to my Matt and Mello story, it has been building in my head for several weeks now, so I felt I had to begin. I know that writing three stories at once could be suicide, but hey. I have never been known for my sense. Beta'd by Virtualdraconium who decided to comment.

B/N: Troubling on me too… I have work to do, and my own stories to write, and homework to help my brother with, still. I should really do that tomorrow…

A/N;I thinks she feels I have been bugging her with all the chapters I have been sending her recently. I do believe though, that my fan fictions are all her fault, and she did agree to beta them…

Anyway, that's enough talk from me and my beta. Please read and review!

Chapter One

"Out."

The command echoed into the joyless room, and out from under the bed emerged a small red haired boy, his face sporting several black and heavy bruises. He stood close to the wall his shoulders hunched. He looked warily through his fringe at the man in the doorway. The man grabbed him and dragged him through the house into a brightly lit, but tatty kitchen.

He gasped in pain as he was dumped into a chair, his lower body finally waking enough to give him the daily inventory of pain. It was always this way though; he didn't understand why it happened, just that it did. Wordlessly he began to eat his cereal, he didn't register the taste he was too drawn into himself to care. He bolted down the water, knowing it would be the last he would have till the evening. Then he was shoved back into his room and the door locked. There was the sound of another door slamming and all was still.

The silence overwhelmed him again and he crawled under the bed, ignoring the pain that came from his body. The silence was always far worse than the events he had come to fear; the silence left him with nothing but the memories of the events to eat away at his soul and mind.

One hand moved forward to scratch at the wooden planks of the floor, his unkempt nails running across the grain, his eyes following their path, even though his gaze was unseeing. He felt dead inside.

…

He started from his daze as the room darkened around him, the night was drawing in. He whimpered slightly, the coming of night always meant he would be returning home. He only hoped he brought company with him. He was never hurt, never abused when another person was in the house. He picked aimlessly at the blood flecks that still adorned his skin; he wanted so much to be clean.

He moved slowly out from his place under the bed, feeling several joints crack and the knife wounds on the back reopen. He had forgotten just what precisely he had done to deserve them. Not that it seemed to matter to his father. The small boy laughed then, as far as he was concerned his father had died the same day as his mother, he only wished he could have followed suit.

With deliberate movements he made his way to the chair the other end of the Spartan room, the chill in the room had forced him to move for a jumper. He refused to use the sheets, on the bed. He looked at the clock on the wall, the only item that adorned the walls, and saw the time was already nine o' clock. He shrugged slightly and winced at the movement, before returning to his place of shelter. A small while later he was asleep.

…

The morning rays of sunshine woke him and he stared at the lit room in surprise, for the first time in years he had been left alone at night, been left in peace. His body screamed at him for his prolonged stay under the bed and begged his mind for water. Dragging himself forward he managed to get to the door. He hesitated then, he needed water, and he needed the facilities in the bathroom desperately, but he also knew he didn't need a beating or what could follow after, for leaving the room. Besides it was locked. He glanced at the clock, ten in the morning. His father was never home then, he decided to risk it.

He examined the door, the lock was a simple design requiring a key, it had the potential to be opened from both sides, and the key was still in the lock. Hmm, the bottom of the door left a good two inch gap between it and the door.

Perfect.

He went to his wardrobe and pulled down a shirt. Then, very carefully, he pushed the shirt under the door covering as much of the other side of the door as possible. The only problem he had now was getting the key out of the door.

He looked around the room, there was nothing small enough or pointy enough to push the key out of the lock. He sighed, to get so close, and yet fail. His need for water and his despair had him suddenly slam his hands against the door again and again, small sobs coming from his chapped mouth. One minute passed, then another; finally there was a small clink. He collapsed down the door, gasping in relief, resting his head on the cool surface of the door. With shaking hands he pulled the shirt back under the door and held the key to himself.

A few minutes later he rose and opened the door. He edged out into the hallway and paused listening for any sound that the man was in the house. He knew it was irrational for him to listen now, but he was beyond the door. This was dangerous territory.

He fled along the passage to the kitchen and used his hands to drink water straight from the tap, the water cascading down his face and neck. His eyes closed in pleasure, as he forced down yet more sobs, he would not cry. With each passing moment yet more of his shield was cracking, but he refused to give in.

What else had he wanted? He couldn't remember, this water was too good. To be clean, of course. He turned to leave the kitchen. His eyes alighted on the fridge and his stomach growled. He wrenched open the door and ate the first thing to come to hand, cold pizza. He gorged on the remains of the pizza, it was cold and greasy, but to him it was the most divine thing he had tasted.

Then, with his chin covered in tomato paste from the pizza, he went in search of the bathroom. He stripped and with a great sigh entered the shower. He scrubbed every inch of skin, biting through the pain ignoring the scars that removal of the shirt had revealed. Not one area of his body had been spared the knife.

Patterns criss-crossed his upper arms and a few trailed down to just above his wrists. While his ankles were encircled by small criss-crossing scars, it had caused the man great delight to cause those to him that night. He gulped, he refused to remember. He let the water cascade down his back the joy of being clean overriding the pain from the cuts, the water turned a dusty pink, before turning back to crystal clear. He continued to wash even as the water turned biting cold.

Finally, after almost more than an hour and a half, he felt clean as he stood under the water, his pale form shivering. When his teeth began to chatter he left the bathroom, drying himself off as he went. He dragged on some clothing, the material clinging to his still damp form.

Aimlessly he moved about the house, his brain still sluggish and dazed. He checked each door and window but, unlike the bedroom door, these held no chance of escape.

He had been withdrawn into himself for so long each thought came into his head with the speed of an advancing ice age. Then his eyes beheld the phone. His brain went into overdrive. One thought echoing in his mind.

There is a world outside. There is a world outside. There is a world outside. There is a world outside.

He wrenched the receiver up and dialled the emergency services. An age, an eon passed, before the line connected.

"Hello, how can I direct your call?" A female operative came on the line.

"Help me," he said, his voice coming out as a sob.

"Oh my," she gasped, as the child wailed down the line, "I will direct you to the police they can help you. Please hold on, whatever it is we can help."

The line garbled for a moment and another voice came on the line.

"Hello police. Please state the nature of the crime and your location."

"Help me," he repeated, his voice constricting his throat, the sound coming out as a tear filled scratchy croak.

"Trace this call!" Another voice on the end of the line shouted suddenly. He flinched, at the sound.

"Help me." He said again, sobs wracking his body. He repeated his mantra over and over, his voice cracking as he fell to his knees.

"Yes, we will," the new voice said, "we are on our way, please stay on the line. We are coming for you."

He tried to stop, to say something else, but he couldn't. It was as though his very soul was crying out for all the pain he had suffered.

In the distance he heard sirens coming steadily closer, then a steady banging on the heavily reinforced front door. A loud crash, the sound of many footsteps, then strong, but gentle arms were lifting him up and out of the house with so many nightmares. He looked back at the house over his saviours shoulders before passing out in relief, letting the dark safety of his mind consume him.

"…. And on top of those scars, there were signs that this child has been abused in other ways as well by his captor."

"My God."

"It gets worse," said the first voice, "the registered owner of the house was his father."

"The poor boy, has he woken up yet?"

"No he has been sleeping since he arrived here. No doubt with all the trauma he could never truly rest before. Has anyone found his father?"

He flinched at that; they weren't possibly going to send him back were they?

"Yes," the second voice replied, "he was one of those shot in the raid organised against one of the major criminal groups operating in the country. He died instantly mores the pity, I would loved to have roughed him up some for this."

"As a cop you know you shouldn't say things like that," the first voice chided, "particularly with L working so closely on this case. You don't want his representative to hear you say that, it could affect your career."

The second voice said nothing.

"Come on we should leave, we could wake him up," the first voice said suddenly. There was the sound of footsteps, a door opened and closed then all was peaceful. The silence descended on him like a lead weight.

He opened his eyes and viewed the surroundings. He was in a white room; everything was white, from the sheets to the walls to the surfaces. It was all so clean. He had never seen a room like it. The bed was in the middle of the room too. He frowned; it would have to do.

He slid off the bed and crawled underneath, taking note of the bandages that adorned his person. They were quite strange to him. He immediately felt safer, able to see the door from here, but not be seen. He felt himself settling into his non-thinking daze.

He was thrown out of this gradual progression as the door quietly opened and a pair of jean clad legs finished by two bare feet entered the room. He shrank back slightly as the legs approach. Then they folded bringing the owner of them into view. He had messy black hair and his thumb was positioned on his bottom lip. The boy stared at him, he was so unusual for a moment the boy forgot his fright.

"Hello Mail."

He shrank back further at the sound of the man's voice, his reaction automatic to someone talking to him.

"I promise I won't hurt you. Can I join you down there and talk with you for a while?"

Mail considered this for awhile. Then decided he was going to trust this man. He nodded. The man folded onto his side and moved only slightly under the bed.

"Why are you hiding down here?"

"The silence."

"The silence? Well I shall endeavour to keep talking and keep the silence away." This worked entirely to plan as Mail smiled.

"What's your name?" Mail asked, he didn't bother to ask how the man knew his name.

"L," the man said smiling.

"You are the one who got my father shot," Mail stated. This made L blink.

"How do you know that?"

"There were two people talking about it in here. Kinda stupid of them really," Mail said, he paused for a slight second as his eyes dimmed slightly, "Thank you."

Then quite suddenly Mail began to cry, he finally realised he was free. He felt arms pull him forward and lift him up, holding him so carefully that he didn't feel scared.

…

L held the small boy, he would not usually have actually come and interacted with someone like this, it was dangerous, but the boy he was holding had sounded so traumatised and alone when his voice had come over his speakers… He had to come and see this boy was safe personally. He sighed, and tentatively raised one hand to pat the crying Mail on the head.

He started as the boy moved closer one hand clinging to his shirt, his small face burying into the soft material. Slowly he pulled him closer.

"You were the voice on the phone at the end, weren't you?" Mail murmured, as his tears subsided.

"Yes, I was," L said, further astounded by the insights this boy was capable of even in his current state. This settled it; there was only one place L would be satisfied this boy could go to. He would go to Wammy's, L could keep an eye on him there. Oh, and he had to have Wammy help him design a new voice synthesiser if he could be identified so easily.

"Thank you for saving me," Mail said smiling up at L. L smiled sadly back, he didn't know what he could say in response. Then he felt something digging uncomfortably into his side.

He shifted slightly and pulled the gameboy out of his pocket. He was never quite sure how he managed to fit it in there. Mail's eyes focused on it.

"What's that?" he said, sniffing slightly.

"This is a gameboy," L said smiling, "would you like to help me with a level I am having some difficulty with?"

Mail nodded.

A half hour later, when a tall man in a long black trench-coat came in search of L, he found a small boy sat, very happily playing on a gameboy, in L's arms.

"I need to leave now," L said quietly to the boy in his arms when he saw the man enter.

"Oh," Mail whined.

"I will be back for you, don't worry," L said hurriedly, patting the boy on the head. As he stood the boy held out the gameboy to him.

"No, you keep it. You are much better at the games than I am anyway," L said smiling. Mail beamed and held the gameboy close.