A and B were both thirteen. Both were residents of Wammy's House, and both were supposed to one day take over for L, the "world's greatest detective." A had once read a Sherlock Holmes book and laughed at how he was called by that same title. B became mad about this and said the author was an idiot. Luckily before B did anything reckless, A reminded him that the book was before L's time. A and B did basically everything together. They played chess with each other (B would almost always win), they made crosswords for the other to solve, they even read manga together. B was rather fond of Higurashi no Naku Koro ni; A's favorite was Akazukin ChaCha.

A was the only one who seemed to keep B under control. She would make dolls out of hay to distract him from his anger. Eventually, their friendship grew to a point where B would tell her everything. Well...almost everything. You see, from the time B was born, he was able to see people's names floating in red letters above their heads. That; and a number, or series of numbers, that B didn't quite understand. I never told A because he didn't want her to think he'd gone completely mental. This bizarre power was from his eyes, which were often red. B had to concentrate very hard to "turn off" his powers, and when he did, his eyes were the color of ash.

A had a pet rat; a scrawny little beast, but she loved it. But then, it died. 3. 2. 1. Dead. That's how B learned what the numbers truly were. They started out as hours; the number of hours a person or animal had left the live, but then, during the last hour, the numbers would switch to something that looked like this, "0:59:59" Hours: Minutes: Seconds. B ran his pale fingers through his raven hair as a desperate grin grew on his ivory face.

A's number was one, "That couldn't be." B thought, but there was nothing he could do. Or was there? His crimson eyes glistened and turned to their ash-brown color. He had seen enough for now. A looked so pretty in her black and white dress, carrying around a little hay-doll; B grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her to the attic without a word.

Was it possible to hide from death? B wasn't sure. Quietly, the two solved crossword puzzles together, until they both noticed there was concern on the other's face. The two orphans just looked at each other for several minutes, until finally B whispered, "I'll go get some jam from the kitchen. It's apparent we both need to think." It was strange to B that for once, he was the one trying to keep things calm. He wasn't sure he liked it; calmness.

He climbed back down from the attic and first went to his room; the room he and A shared. He looked at his clock and set an alarm. If the numbers were correct, A only had 42 minutes left. 41. He had to hurry. He tore through his drawers looking for some sort of watch or timer he could take with him, but he found none. 39.

He quickly decided to check a different room and hastily ran through the halls. On his way, he crashed into someone; someone he didn't quite recognize. The boy he ran into looked just like him. They had the same unruly raven hair, the same rounded shoulders, the same eye-color (at the moment), and even similar outfits; baggy jeans and long-sleeved shirts. B's was black; the other boy's was white. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" B asked harshly.

"I..." the boy paused, "am L." he finished, putting his ivory hands in his pockets.

"Liar!" B accused, his eyes turning red as he lost focus and control. But then he saw it. Sure enough, this boy's name was L. L Lawliet. "You can't be; you look no older than me!"

"That would be, because I'm not older than you, B." L said.

"You...know my name?" B asked, secretly wondering if L had the eyes as well.

"Of course," L smiled slightly, "Where is A?" At that, B gave a nervous chuckle and ran his left hand through his hair again. Then it hit him. What was he thinking, wasting so much time? He ran to the nearest clock which was in Roman numerals, luckily he knew those. 28 minutes left. Time was running out. B ran to the kitchen, knowing A would be confused if he returned without jam. He searched and searched, but he couldn't find it. 25. 24. 23. Eventually he gave up on the jam altogether.

Empty-handed and full of worry, B returned to the attic. But where...where was she? "You don't have time for this, A..." B growled at no one. Again, he went down the ladder, through the hall, and into their room. "She always does this. She's always goes at the most inconvenient times..." he ranted, kicking the foot of her bed. 16. "Where the Hell is she?" He was looking everywhere from the closet to out the window. The day was covered in snow. "Is she out there?" he wondered angrily.

The snow looked soft, but was very cold, much like how A herself could be. If she was out there, B couldn't see her from the front porch, so he didn't venture far. "Damn you, A." Freezing, and feeling defeated, B returned to the warmth of Wammy's House.

And there she was, A, crying her eyes out, and holding a jar of strawberry jam, standing between B and L. Then she ran through the kitchen, leaving the jam on the counter and reaching into her bag. B ran after her grabbing for her wrist. "What did he say to you?" he asked angrily. He got a good firm grip on her arm again and repeated himself, something B did not like to do.

"Just leave me alone." A cried dashing to the bathroom. And she slammed the door in B's face.

"Damn it, A, I could kill you for this." B went to the counter, picked up the jam, and walked to the bathroom door. Then from across the hall his alarm went off, and the jam-jar slipped from his grip and shattered at his feet.

"A!" B screamed barging into the bathroom, almost slipping on strawberry jam.

The first thing he saw was her leg hanging over the edge of the tub. At first that's all he saw, that and an L written in blood on the wall, but the rest of her was there as well. Her arms were covered in self-inflicted lacerations. B couldn't control it, he started laughing. The knife she used was stuck through the chest of her doll. B ran his hands through his hair again, cackling like mad.

For an entire hour he tried to stop something she did to herself. Then he turned to face the mirror. There was blood in his hair. Was one of the cuts already there when he grabbed her wrist? He looked down at his blood-stained palm. How had he not noticed that? He just laughed even harder, not even sure what he was laughing at anymore.

He looked back at A. How pretty she looked in her black and red dress. B took her by the hand and pulled her lifeless body up to his. He looked in the mirror. He's eyes were red, but he saw no names, no numbers, over he or A. He gently sat her down on the floor, a crumpled-looking corpse. He dipped his finger into one of A's wounds and wrote "L" over his own reflection on the mirror.

No, that was wrong. He pounded his fist against the wall and changed that L to a B. If A was not to be L, neither was he, he would just have to outsmart him; be better than him altogether. The rest of the letters came so naturally. "Beyond Birthday."

Beyond Birthday scrubbed the entire bathroom leaving A in the tub, looking exceptionally beautiful, like Snow White. He then mopped up the jam and swept the glass, straightened his room, made A's bed, and he even changed into a different shirt; a long-sleeved white one.

With his new name and A's knife, he walked out of Wammy's House for the last time, leaving A's blood-stained doll nailed to the front door.