L woke up thinking of Near.

He hadn't dreamt of him; he barely ever slept, making dreams an uncommon occurrence. He'd just simply had the boy's face in his mind when consciousness had come to him.

He wondered if the younger boy would…understand.

Only 13 years old, and his intelligence already rivaled L's. There was no doubt that he'd one day become smarter than him, and the detective was absolutely certain that whenever he died (whether it be next month or in a decade) Near would take his place and excel in it.

Would he understand the reasoning behind L's actions? Would he understand the need, the desperation, the never-ending search for stability, clarity? Could he relate to sitting in bed at three in the morning, fresh cuts slowly bleeding into a bandage, and feeling his best? Would he agree that he felt the most sane, the most in control, only after watching and feeling his blood seep out of an open wound?

Then again…did L want him to?

Touta Matsuda was an idiot.

The most helpful idiot that L had ever known.

(Not that he would ever tell him that, of course. He would rather remain apathetic to everyone he worked with; even Light, who he considered his first friend.)

Faking the man's death had nearly been more than the detective was willing to do. But, as the rest of the team had seemed quite insistent that the boy stayed alive, L had complied and gotten him back safely.

Saved his life by pretending to end it.

The whole ordeal definitely had its benefits; Matsuda had come back with direct information about Kira, even possibly narrowing their search down to a mere eight people. However, he didn't doubt that the task force, without Matsuda's help, would've come to the same conclusion as they were at now. It just would've taken time.

Time…meaning the lives of countless innocent people.

L would've been willing to sacrifice those people – what choice would they have had, anyway? – but he knew that the rest of the team wouldn't have been on board.

So, he supposed, despite the pounding headache it gave him, Matsuda had done a good job.

Not that he would ever know.

"Ryuzaki."

L turned his chair to face Light, the boy looking at him with wide eyes, excitement dancing around in the dark, amber orbs. It was the same kind of energy that had Light bouncing in his seat when he had just figured out Yotsuba's involvement in the case.

He. He had figured it out. Not L. The greatest detective in the world, being surpassed by a college student. When he killed L (if he was going to die during this case, he was almost positive that it would be by Light's hand, and that his last sight in the world would be those eyes, those always searching, mysterious eyes), would he take his place? Would he act as L, act as him to the outside world?

Staring at the teen, at that perfectly masked face, no emotion unplanned, he knew the answer was yes.

And the thought of him – of Kira – having that much power, defeating L in such a way – it made him so suddenly nauseous that he briefly wondered if he was going to throw up the cake he just ate.

He moved slightly, so his arm pressed into his chair, and a million tiny shocks of pain traveled through his body. His brain refocused, his headache lessened a tiny bit, and he ached for more.

It wasn't even ten o'clock yet.

"Mmm." The detective didn't feel like articulating the words Light-kun. "What is it?"

"When are you planning on having Wedy bug the meeting room?" Eager, that's what Light was. Looking more closely, L could even see passion floating around in the boy's eyes. Obviously it could be intentional, forced – but something about it seemed genuine. If he was Kira (or had been, if L's suspicions were correct) why was he throwing himself into the case so thoroughly?

Maybe…

Maybe he didn't remember being Kira.

"Tomorrow night," L answered, the majority of his brain not thinking about the words that were leaving his mouth. "I've already told her to start collecting the supplies she'll need."

If Light didn't remember being Kira, it would explain the general benevolentness he'd displayed as of late (although there was still that touch of arrogance, the hint of something dark lurking inside him – L suspected that was just normal Light Yagami). It would explain why whenever he said I'm not Kira, the detective felt inclined to believe him. It would explain that look – that damned look – L saw on camera, during Light's confinement. He had been Kira, definitely Kira, but it had only taken him a second to change, to become…innocent.

Light Yagami was innocent. Or, at least, he truly thought he was. He believed he was. Wholeheartedly.

Would he be surprised, if he ever learned of his past crimes? More than likely, his brain would adapt, rationalize – he would become Kira again, just a slightly different version.

L wondered if the memory loss was intentional. It was probable, given the fact that without memories, the boy sincerely was not lying when he said he wasn't Kira. It made his faultless façade (that wasn't even a façade to him) seem all the more real.

But his memories would come back. Kira wouldn't sacrifice his power for too long, definitely not sacrifice it entirely. He had a plan – a plan that, if L knew Kira (which he most certainly did), was already in action.

Was there any way to stop it?

There was. There had to be.

L never lost.

"Ryuzaki." Light's voice, louder and closer, pulled him out of his thoughts. As he refocused, he realized the teen had moved his chair closer to him, and was staring at him with wide and concerned eyes. (He wasn't currently Kira; he didn't want L dead; that's why he genuinely cared.) "You've been staring at me for the past two minutes."

"My apologies, Light-kun." The detective turned back to his desk, picking up a plate that had an unfinished slice of strawberry shortcake on it. "Did you need anything else?"

"No, I guess that's-" Light paused, and when he spoke next, his voice was laced with confusion, "What's that on your wrist?"

L's entire body froze. His eyes quickly darted to his arm, where the sleeve of his shirt had rolled down his arm slightly, revealing one of the cuts from his fuck up (which was nearly a week and a half ago; of course he'd reopened the wound several times). From Light's position and distance, he wouldn't be able to tell exactly what it was…

"Oh, hm." He tried to feign disinterest as well as possible, even though his heart was pounding – "It appears to be some strawberry glaze." He ran his thumb across the wound, making it seem like he was simply wiping it off, and then quickly pulled his sleeve up, so Light wouldn't be able to tell that it was still there – that it wouldn't go away. He then put his thumb in his mouth, as if he was licking the strawberry flavoring off, and glanced at Light. "Thank you for bringing that to my attention."

The boy was staring at him. His expression was unreadable – L couldn't tell if he could see through everything he had just done, or if he was wondering why he associated himself with such a strange creature.

He sincerely hoped it was the latter.

"You're…" Light seemed at a loss for what to say. "You're welcome." He moved back to his computer, and, straightening his back, starting doing work again.

L just silently ate his cake while absentmindedly clicking through Yotsuba's website.

His eyelids were so, so heavy.

It was as if tiny weights were pulling them down, keeping them shut, and he briefly considered just letting the weights win – it was so much easier than trying to pry his eyes open.

The smallest movements, the simplest of thoughts – they all felt like they were sucking the energy out of him. Maybe he should just go back to sleep; nothingness was far better than this.

But he couldn't. There was something nagging at him, tugging on his brain. There was also this pain, this ache that went up and down his arm. Any movements made it sharpen, like a thousand daggers were in him all at once. Something in the back of his mind told him the daggers were why he couldn't sleep – but he didn't understand.

He was so tired…why couldn't he just go back to sleep?

No. He couldn't.

He couldn't.

Gathering his strength, he opened his eyes – just a little – and looked around.

Everything was white and blurred and unfocused. He tried to make out details – where he was, what he was doing there – but it all took so much energy.

His eyes started to close, the darkness welcoming and warm – no. He widened his eyes a little, making his surroundings a little less unclear (he was in a bathroom, that much he could tell) and looked around again. He looked down, saw the blue of his jeans, and –

Red. Red. Red.

A connection was made in his head, and he recognized that much red to be alarming. He shouldn't have that much red – it wasn't the normal amount, was it?

You're bleeding out.

L snapped into clarity so fast it made his head pound, his whole body shake, a shiver run down his spine.

He had cut too deep – that much was very obvious. He had cut too deep, and, ultimately, blacked out (not an entirely uncommon occurrence, although he had never had this much confusion after regaining consciousness). Logically, he knew he needed to go to the hospital, have doctors stop the bleeding, stitch up his wound. Illogically, he thought of doctors seeing his scars, putting him on suicide watch – as if he wanted to die! – and he knew that a hospital was not an option.

That left…

Quillsh.

Using the small amount of energy he had left, he pulled his phone out of his pocket with his uninjured arm (uninjured as in not bleeding – there were still cuts up and down the length of it). L opened a text message, typed out a single word – help – and quickly pressed the send button.

His phone tumbled out of his hand, exhaustion overtaking him. Quillsh would come eventually, most likely sooner rather than later. He could sleep until he arrived, because staying awake was far too difficult…

"Lawliet."

L blinked himself awake, recognizing, after a few seconds, a human form – Quillsh. He then recognized the use of his true last name, something Quillsh had always done to get his attention as a young child.

Evidently, it still worked.

The detective sat up a little, the movement sending tendrils of pain down his arm. Only, this time, it served to heighten his coherency, make him focus, rather than muddle his brain, slow down his thinking.

"Wammy."

"I stitched and bandaged the deepest cuts." The man's voice was a sigh, disappointment and worry dripping off his words. "I…I thought Kira had gotten to you."

"No, no…" L's mind ran wild at the thought of Kira choosing to kill him in such a way. What a chaotic, beautiful mess that would be. "Light doesn't have my name…"

"I know." Quillsh was kneeling next to him, a damp, red washcloth lying next to him. (L suspected it wasn't that color to begin with.) "I thought you had stopped this, L."

"I never stopped." What was the point in lying? After that day, the day that he found out, they had only mentioned it again a handful of times – it just so happened that during those times L was calm, only cutting once every month, sometimes longer. It was really only natural for Quillsh to assume he had stopped altogether.

"I am aware that work has been rough, but…" The older man looked away from him, and L could sense grief and stress in his demeanor. "Things will get better. We will catch Kira."

"I know we will." The detective sat up again, the pain in his arm only sharpening him further. "My intent is never to die, I promise you."

"It doesn't seem like it, Lawliet."

L wanted to huff at the second use of his name. "I just needed to clear my head, Quillsh. That's all it ever is." He paused, then added, "Tonight was just a…mistake. A miscalculation."

"Miscalculation of what, exactly?"

"How deep of a cut is considered safe. There were also most likely a few veins that I forgot about."

Quillsh sighed and picked up the washcloth, holding it in his hands. "You need to be careful."

"I always am." It was, regrettably, a lie.

And L knew the older man could sense it, too. "Except when you aren't."

"Except when I'm not."

The two were silent for a few seconds, just staring at one another, and then Quillsh stood up, placing the washcloth in the bathroom sink.

"I assume this is to remain an isolated incident, not mentioned to the task force?"

"Yes, obviously." L slowly stood up, his entire body feeling shaky and drained. He wondered if he would sleep more than four hours. "Thank you for your help."

"This is not the first time I've saved your life." Quillsh glanced at him. "How many times have you saved mine?"

L felt his lips curve into a smile. "The time will come, Wammy. Don't you worry."

"Whatever you say, Lawliet."