(A/N) I live. Kind of. Wrote this a little while ago, but I still like it. L doesn't belong to me, but I totally think he writes counterpoint when he's not busy doing other things. Criticism is, as always, appreciated.
There was a strangeness in the way he moved; a certain inhuman grace. He danced with himself in the light, oblivious to watchers, because it never occurred to him that anyone could be watching. The room was empty, but for the computer. He tried not to clutter his space with things; he never got anything done that way. Music poured out of the sound system; strange, otherworldly music in a never-ending natural minor. Light flickered in soft colors from the ceiling. It was his own invention, that ceiling, one insomniatic night in the middle of winter. Like the curving walls; always a challenge to climb, and the magic of the music. All part of his carefully crafted world.
"L." The name, the letter, that facet of the world shivered through the air. He spun, dropping into an accustomed slouch. In an instant, he crouched in front of the computer hands dancing over the keys. The music was gone, still minor, still unresolved.
"Yes?" His voice was hoarse with disuse. He had been left on his own for some time now, he realized. The next room was filled with odd things he had no use for. "What is it?"
"Murder," the voice told him. "All over the world, condemned murderers are dying of heart attacks."
"Ah…. Thank you." Shadowed eyes eager, he bent again over the computer searching police databases, compiling data, motivation, information.
For now, the music would have to wait…