Yay, thankyou for the reviews, everyone! I'm so glad everyone likes this fic! It's fun to write, so I'm happy that everyone is finding it fun to read… Sort of, anyway. :)

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Moving along… Belgium apparently does good detectives (though I prefer their chocolate)…

Hercule Poirot

The doorbell woke him up.

Light wearily raised his aching head from the kitchen table, which was spread with pages of hand-written detective fiction; he had fallen asleep on top of page one-hundred-and-seventy-four of Poison Pen, half-finished cup of black coffee gone stone-cold beside him.

He got up, rubbing at his eyes and barely able to walk in a straight line as he left the kitchen and went down the hall of his apartment to answer the door, so barely-awake that he was only dimly aware that he probably looked like Hell. He leaned against the front door on opening it, mussing his hair.

"You fell asleep, then," L said blandly, folding his arms.

"Huh, I… yeah, I guess so…" Light felt his irritation spike up through his fatigue. "Hey, you asked a lot—"

"From someone who just got out of hospital?"

"From someone in general!"

"So you didn't manage to read all three?"

Light glared at him.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just slam this door in your face," he bit out.

"I can give you several," L countered calmly, "but I'd rather not discuss them out here."

Light was silent for a moment, then finally stepped aside and allowed L to come in, letting the door swing shut loudly behind him.

"What time is it, anyway?" he asked, something of a groan colouring his voice.

"Around eight-thirty in the morning, Light-kun. I saw no point in me coming any earlier than this."

"Right." Light yawned and passed L, going back to the kitchen. He felt godawful, his muscles and spine both aching from having slept fully-clothed at the kitchen table. He was sure he hadn't slept for more than three hours, too – if only that hospital knew what L had begun putting him through, the very day he had been released…

"Light-kun, why don't you go and have a shower to wake yourself up," L suggested flatly from the kitchen doorway, his voice completely devoid of an interrogative rise; watching Light sleepily begin to gather up the manuscript papers. "You'll feel much better for it."

Light paused and glanced up, surprised by his words – by his apparent concern for him.

"So you're not as self-serving as you pretend," he said, allowing himself a smirk.

"Oh, I am," L replied absently. "How am I supposed to work with you if you're stumbling around half-asleep, rubbing the crick in your neck that just won't go away?"

Light's eyes narrowed; but L only shot him an amused smile.

"How well do you propose to know me, Light-kun?" he asked, a cheerful little lilt to his voice.

Light merely gave a snort of disgust in response, stalking past L out of the kitchen. He really did find him very annoying, and right now was no exception – but, at the same time, he couldn't help but be fascinated by him, by the way he spoke, by the process of his mind, by the way in which he was so thoroughly a "detective" he almost became a parody of the term…

No; that was it, wasn't it? That juxtaposition present in even his very reaction to L said it all. He didn't understand anything about him – couldn't decide if he even liked him or not. It was almost as though… he, or his presence, didn't demand that kind of evaluation on the part of whoever he presented himself to.

He was so thoroughly a detective that he was nothing else. He elicited nothing. He demanded nothing. He was simply there – as he was.

Not that that made him easy to read. It was true – Light could not propose to know him at all. But still, the idea that he was so natural, so simple, even his title consisting of only a single letter…

Somehow, that was frightening. Something about the fact that L was knowingly showing him all his cards and yet Light still could not know a thing about him…

Something about that scared Light to death.

He showered quickly, enjoying it; letting the soap and steam and hot water ease away the memory of ache etched so painstakingly into his body by the way he had slept.

Although reading and rereading stories that he had supposedly written had not helped him to remember doing so, he had to admit – albeit begrudgingly – that this kind of tired all-over-ache, the tattoo of the workaholic, was somehow familiar to him. His body knew it, even if his mind could not supply the information or experience to back it up.

Truthfully, however, he didn't see what good it would be either way – whether he remembered writing the books or not, and Death Note in particular, it didn't change the fact that some lunatic was out there copying the murders from the book in question. Even if he could recall sitting at a desk and uncapping his pen and writing with smooth, confident strokes until his hand ached, it surely wouldn't make any difference.

L wanted him to be the author of Death Note so that he could pick his brains to solve this case – but Light didn't see the value in him being the author, really.

L wasn't Ryuk, after all.

He smelled fresh coffee as he changed into clean clothes; unsure of whether to be grateful of or irritated by L's apparent making-himself-quite-at-home to the extent where he was quite happy to ransack his cupboards.

Not that that was anything new, by the sounds of it.

He re-entered the kitchen in black jeans and a white T-shirt, a grey button-down shirt open over it, with his auburn hair damp, the colour a little darker for its condition; L had left the coffee filter in the middle of the kitchen table to settle, and was preoccupied with quickly and deftly reorganising the sheets of the manuscript Light had left scattered across its surface.

He had taken off his trenchcoat, fedora and jacket; so that Light could easily observe that the Noir Detective Theme didn't end with only those items of clothing. The style still clung to him, present in his white shirt, black slacks, loose tie, the cut of his grey waistcoat, and…

Braces. Light was even a little amused. L couldn't be more than twenty-four or twenty-five. Nobody that age wore braces – and even in men forty-five and over, it was uncommon.

Still, maybe he wasn't surprised; at least not anymore. And L didn't seem overtly bothered by what people thought of his appearance, anyway.

Which, admittedly, was something Light kind of admired in a person (though it was not something that he personally would ever employ).

Besides, it wasn't like L was a slob. He was dressed well – just… wrong.

"I made coffee," L said, glancing up at him.

"I can see that," Light replied blandly, sitting down. "…Thanks." He reached for the filter and poured the hot black liquid into each of the small cups L had put out, then rose and headed towards the fridge. "Milk?"

"Oh, yes." L nodded as he put the papers back in their box. "I apologise. I forgot."

"You don't have to apologise," Light replied, a little bemused. "Do you take sugar?"

"No." L sat at the table and looked at him as he came back with the milk carton. "…Let me guess: That surprises you."

Light shrugged, pouring a little milk into each coffee cup.

"Well, maybe you just remind me of someone," he said stiffly.

"Someone you remember?" L asked, drawing his cup towards himself. "Or someone you don't?"

"I don't know." Light sank back into his own seat. "Anyway, I said 'maybe'."

"True." L sipped at his coffee. "To be perfectly honest… I've never tried coffee with sugar. It's never appealed to me."

"I have."

"Any good?"

"I prefer it without."

L gave an absent nod; and for a long moment there was complete silence between them.

"There's been another murder," the detective said finally, his tone completely emotionless, plucking the statement utterly out of the blue.

Light spat his mouthful of coffee onto the table.

"And when exactly were you planning to get to that?!" he spluttered, slamming down his cup and adding to the pool of coffee already splattered over the table's surface.

L simply rolled his eyes.

"Well, I admit that I did take you for rather the drama queen," he said dryly. "Incidentally, I did just share the information with you – and did not care to do so any earlier in mind of wishing to avoid an outburst exactly like that one."

"Well, it didn't work," Light replied sourly, getting up to fetch a paper towel.

"I noticed." L disinterestedly watched him mop up the coffee. "Either way, I didn't think you would welcome that news on opening the door to me."

"How considerate of you." Light tossed the towel into the bin and sat down again, leaning across the table towards L, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "So spill already."

"There's been a sixth murder," L rattled off flatly. "Politician. Aged fifty-one. Name of Takahiro Hoshi. Arsenic poisoning. Enforced, naturally – but, again, mirrored after a suicide mentioned merely in passing in Death Note."

Light leaned back again, sighing.

"Those damn books," he murmured, looking up at the ceiling.

"That's hardly fair, Light-kun – to either yourself or the thousands of non-murderous fans of your novels."

"I wish I'd never written them," Light said bitterly.

"And that is rather arrogant." L sipped complacently at his coffee. "I presume that Death Note is nothing but a model, or a scapegoat, for this murderer. If it did not exist, they would undoubtedly have moulded their agenda around something else."

Light glanced at him.

"You… don't think Death Note inspired the murders?" he asked.

L shook his head.

"No," he replied levelly. "It's a springboard, perhaps, and a distraction, certainly – even something of a message. But the murderer most certainly was not inspired to kill politicians by your books alone. They will have had issues, either mental or simply with politicians, to begin with."

Light couldn't help but smile wryly at him.

"So you're not a firm believer in the whole 'Literature can inspire' thing, then?"

"I don't like to think that it could inspire somebody to murder, at any rate," L replied.

"And you consider that a satisfactory basis on which to completely rule it out?"

"Well," L countered calmly, looking right at him, "that's entirely why I'm here, isn't it?"

Light returned his gaze, but could formulate no reply; watching L look very intently at his coffee and waiting for him to speak again instead.

"Incidentally," the detective said eventually, as though obeying Light's silent order to say something else, to cover for his own lack of articulation, "it shouldn't be my job to defend literature, Light-kun. I would have thought that was rather more your field."

"I'm not going to defend those books," Light bit out stiffly. "If they're even—"

"Oh, come now," L sighed. "Blaming a book for these deaths is ridiculous. Even within the fictional confines of Death Note itself… the notebook was nothing but a tool. It did not kill anyone – the person who was using it did. So please don't blur the line between fiction and reality any more than it has been already. I could do without that kind of handicap entirely."

Light gave an impatient sigh, glancing up at the kitchen ceiling.

"So, what about the murder?" he asked at length.

"I was rather hoping you wouldn't mind accompanying me to the crime scene."

Light looked back at him again in surprise.

"You haven't been yet?"

L shook his head.

"No. I like to let the police do what they will first. They're like vultures. It really is a rather appalling method of conduct they employ, but I suppose that's not really any of my business."

Light gave an absent nod.

"When do you want to go?"

"Whenever you're ready."

"Okay." Light finished up his coffee. "I guess we can grab breakfast afterwards, right?"

L glanced up at him in amusement.

"Sure," he replied. "…That is, if you still have an appetite by then."

As was to be expected, the apartment was heavily cordoned off with a bright yellow cat's-cradle of police tape. There were also several uniformed NPA officers scattered around, to most of which L disinterestedly flashed his license when it was so demanded.

Fancy apartment. High-rise building, eleventh floor – one of the walls was entirely window, overlooking the best part of downtown Tokyo. Cream walls, thick burgundy carpet, white leather sofa. There were signs of struggle, of course – the glass coffee table was smashed in directly through the centre and the entire CD collection, alongside several ornaments, scattered the floor.

Also on the floor was the body of Takahiro Hoshi. Eyes wide, more discoloured white than pupil, face contorted, remains of arsenic-laced foam at the mouth.

Light found that he had to look away after a moment. A dead politician, having met exactly the same fate, had been described in Death Note. To have written it, he presumed that he had done some kind of research, even if he now – mercifully – didn't remember it. But even so…

In writing, it was not nearly so horrible as seeing it.

It didn't have the same effect on L, who stood over the dead man in complete silence for a long moment, clearly immersed in very deep thought.

Of course, to L and those like him – these men in uniform who milled about, muttering to one another over paper cups of cheap instant coffee – this was little different to an office. Pen, computer, photocopier, corpse on floor…

He understood. They were desensitised (or maybe they'd simply never been sensitised in the first place). This was just a workplace. Another nine-to-five. Nothing to write home about—

But something to write a novel about – or so it seemed to be a good idea, when the author drew his pictures from only his imagination and not his experience or memory.

But he was lucky. It could have been worse. There had been worse murders than this, after all. The faux Seppuku, or the man who had been pushed from his apartment window. He had not seen those, not the ruthless butchering, nor the smear on the sidewalk…

"Light-kun?" L touched him on the shoulder, making him turn to him – the motion perhaps a little more abrupt than he'd intended. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, it's okay…" Light gave a little shake of his head. "I just…"

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought you here after all."

"It's fine," Light insisted, starting to grow slightly annoyed by L's apologetic treatment of him in regards to his apparent inability to be completely 'Whatever' about seeing the corpse of an arsenic victim sprawled out of the floor of his own apartment as little more than a piece of meat for – L's analogy aside – these law-enforcement-vultures.

"Well, I'm ready to go now, anyway," L said calmly.

"Already?"

L shrugged.

"Believe it or not, there's not much to see here."

"Is that right."

L tilted his head at him.

"Confusing fiction and reality again, Light-kun?" he asked curiously. "This isn't like the movies."

"But you didn't even look around the apartment!" Light countered. "You could be missing some kind of valuable clue, or—"

"I think I can manage," L interrupted coolly. "Shall we?"

Light had no choice but to nod and begin to follow him; but halfway across the apartment they were intercepted by two figures, both male, fairly young, one with blonde hair and the other a flaming shade of red. Neither was in uniform – plainclothes and then some, apparently, with the blonde all in black and the redhead in black-and-white stripes and heavy cargo pants.

"I'm going to assume you have a license," the blonde said drolly; though his body language was more subtly aggressive than his tone.

"Of course." L didn't seem offended – on the contrary, rather amused – as he handed it over for inspection.

"Hn." The blonde snorted. "Private, huh?"

"Last I checked." L arched an eyebrow at them both; the redhead gave him a nonchalant shrug. "Though this is most certainly a two-way road, gentlemen."

The blonde's dark eyes shot up.

"We were brought in specially by the NPA," he bit out. "This is our case."

"Oh, I'm not calling you a liar," L replied airily. "But I also have no basis on which to form a concrete belief that what you're telling me is the truth."

The blonde opened his mouth – but the redhead laid a hand on his shoulder to silence him, and handed across his own license, dug from one of his pockets.

"Leave it, Mello," he said coolly. "This guy's not the enemy here."

Mello glanced at him; then huffed out an impatient little sigh, found his own license and thrust both it and L's own card at him. L pocketed his and glanced at both of the new cards he'd been given – Light looked over his shoulder to read them.

The text on the licenses was in English. Like L, they both seemed to go by (what he presumed were) codenames. The blonde, as they knew by this point, was 'Mello' and the redhead went by simply 'Matt'. Each had a different code number, but other than that, most of the information the two licences was identical – both held the rank of 'Investigator', employed by an investigative agency called Wammy's House.

"Based in Winchester, England, am I right?" L asked lazily, looking up from Mello to Matt.

Mello didn't respond, but Matt gave a small nod.

"You know it?"

"I know of it." L gave them both their licenses back.

"Hey," Mello said sharply, giving a sudden nod towards Light. "What about him? Is he authorised to be in here?"

"Oh, he's with me."

"That's not what I asked," Mello said coldly.

L smiled.

"Ah, you don't recognise him," he observed. "I presumed as much."

"Should we?"

"Well, I hardly have him follow me for the means of pop-quizzing whoever I might run into," L responded, "but given the nature of this case… I do think you might have done your research a little more thoroughly."

Mello glowered at him; L didn't seem overtly bothered, but Light sensed the tension rising and decided it would probably be best to diffuse it. After all, he could sympathise with Mello's irritation; L did have a particularly condescending manner, whether he intended for it to seem quite so disdainful or not.

"I'm Light Yagami," he said, stepping forwards and extended his hand towards Mello. "Or 'Kira', as, I regret to say, I'm better known."

Mello eyed him warily for a moment, then shook with him.

"The author," he supplied finally, though he looked more at L as he spoke; averting his gaze from Light entirely as he shook with Matt too.

"Just a little asset I picked up," L agreed blandly. "He has yet to prove his worth."

"Weren't you in a car accident?" Matt asked Light.

Light nodded.

"Several months ago now," he replied. "I just got out of hospital."

Matt raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I'm glad to see you've made a full recovery."

"Thanks—" Light started; but L cut him off:

"Hardly a full recovery," he said expressionlessly. "Let's not forget the severe amnesia, Light-kun – as ironic as that statement may be."

Light shot him a sour look, but offered nothing.

"Severe amnesia?" Mello repeated cautiously, glancing at Light.

"Trauma-induced," L went on. "He actually doesn't remember a thing about being Kira or writing those books."

"Have you finished?!" Light snapped, irritated by L's callous, emotionless bedside manner.

L blinked at him.

"Well, let's not have any pretence here," he responded curtly. "You don't remember either of those things. I'm not saying it to insult you. It's simply fact."

"Well," Mello said a trace of a smirk ghosting across his face, "I'd hardly call him an asset, in that case."

L shrugged.

"I admitted that he has yet to prove his worth as such," he murmured. "Anyway, we were just leaving. Excuse us." He cut between Mello and Matt, making for the door; Light floundered for a second, then nodded to the two young detectives and quickly followed L, leaving them both standing in the middle of the apartment.

Silence.

"What?" Matt asked finally, his tone a little impatient.

"I didn't say anything," was Mello's reflexive, rehearsed reply.

"Well, I did warn you," L mused; watching Light play uninterestedly with his food.

Light glared up at him.

"Yes, you seem to be rather the authority on me, don't you?" he snapped; and he speared a nori roll with a chopstick and put it into his mouth more out of defiance than anything else.

L shook his head, more to himself, and sipped at his tea.

"Anyway, never mind about me," Light went on, swallowing his mouthful of sushi and pointing at L across the table with his chopstick. "What about you?"

L blinked and looked up.

"What about me?" he asked.

"Well, what do you think about the case, and about the sixth murder itself, and, I mean, those two, Mello and Matt… they didn't seem exactly thrilled by your presence."

"Oh, that," L replied dismissively. "I'm not surprised. You heard what Mello said – they've been brought in specifically by the NPA. They're working for the authorities, and on top of that, they're actually members of an agency."

Light shrugged.

"So?"

"Well, you've read Agatha Christie, haven't you, Light-kun?" L tilted his head. "It's a fact that most of her detective stories were about the 'gentleman detective' – that is, the English format, in which an amateur detective, typically of the British upper-class, solves the mystery, most usually after the authorities have failed to do so. Examples included Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey as well as Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot."

"What's your point?"

"My point is that detectives working for the authorities don't like detectives not working for the authorities."

"That's ridiculous."

"I know."

"No, I mean it's ridiculous that you're making that assumption based on Poirot stories," Light corrected icily. "Besides, you're not an "amateur". You're a proper, licensed private detective."

L shrugged again.

"Either way, you heard Mello. He was rather possessive when he said "This is our case" – as I'm sure you'll recall."

Light couldn't argue with that and fell silent, going back to toying with his sushi.

"As for the murder…" L paused, looking up at the ceiling. "It all seems perfectly redundant. It's simply fallen into a pattern of copying the murders from the book."

"Isn't that exactly what it was in the first place?"

"Yes, but at this point it has become purely methodical." L smiled at him. "But don't worry. I'm just waiting for the murderer to get as bored as we are, bored enough to change the game-plan; and when he does—"

"Wait, L!" Light interrupted incredulously. "You can't just… I mean, just letting him kill until he gets tired of copying the murders in my book… You can't do that! Who knows how many people he'll kill before that happens – or… or maybe it won't happen at all, and then—"

"I might have known you'd react like that," L interrupted calmly; seeming, for some reason, rather satisfied by Light's outburst.

"Think of something else, Mr Real Detective," Light bit out coldly in reply.

"I'm trying, Light-kun," L sighed; and he went back to his tea.

After they were done and had left the café, they began to head back towards Light's apartment; L more interested in the cigarette he appeared to have magicked up out of thin air than he was in his companion.

"You really shouldn't smoke," Light said in disgust.

"That's amazing," was L's droll reply as he held out the pack in front of him, examining the small box on it in which 'SMOKING KILLS' was scrawled in big threatening letters. "They even have sound now – to squawk in your ear about the early grave you're undoubtedly sending yourself to with every drag."

"I don't know why you think this is a joke," Light snapped.

L shrugged.

"I don't know why I do it," he admitted, "but I do, so there. Besides, Poirot smoked."

"Oh, don't start this again," Light groaned. "Sherlock Holmes did cocaine. So what?"

L simply smirked and didn't say anything else.

Light was ahead by the time they reached the floor his apartment was on, fishing in his pocket for his keys; on looking up, however, he found his front door obstructed by a woman.

A very beautiful young woman with long blonde hair – he recognised her, but only from posters and movies.

Of course, they'd met. Allegedly. But he didn't remember.

She seemed to, however.

Which still didn't explain why she – a famous movie star – was standing on his doorstep.

She turned towards him and her pretty face lit up; and he felt L rest a hand on his shoulder, clearly amused.

"I'm not going to take credit for this," he said, "but still… it's something else, right?"

Okay, so, at this point, it maybe seems like I'm just cramming in cameos from Death Note characters by the boatload – but Mello, Matt and Misa (and Mikami) all have important roles to play.

ZOMG, so many 'M's… O.o Should have gone for broke and put in Matsuda, Mogi, Mido, Misora (Naomi), heh heh heh…

Fun fact: The name of the politician, 'Takahiro Hoshi', is an amalgamation of names of Code Geass voice actors – 'Takahiro' coming from both Takahiro Sakurai and Takahiro Mizushima (the voice actors for Suzaku Kururugi and Rolo Lamperouge, respectively) and 'Hoshi' coming from Soichiro Hoshi (voice actor for Gino Weinberg – though his first name is kind of ironic, ne?). So when you need a convincing-sounding Japanese name, look to your Code Geass R2 soundtrack CD! Booyah!

Not-so-fun fact: You know, this is pretty much completely unrelated, but I figured I would mention it here because… well, this fic follows the storyline of some crazy killer murdering, essentially, because of a book. It's meant to be a parallel to Death Note itself, the murder weapon in that actually being a book (of sorts), but I wondered if anyone had heard about the recent and, frankly, shockingly-high number of attacks by insane Twilight fans on… pretty much everyone else. I didn't know much about it myself until recently – which is partly why I'm mentioning it here. Because it surprises me that there hasn't been more publicity about it, given how (undeservingly) famous Twilight is. I mean, seriously, one guy had acid thrown in his face. ACID. The forum 'Twilight Sucks' has been collecting a "directory" of the attacks – there's a link to the list on my profile (it's the last link) if anyone is interested in looking. I mean, seriously. Nothing has fans like this. Harry Potter doesn't. Naruto doesn't. Batman, Star Wars, Lord of the Rings… I mean, yeah, you have your obsessed fans, but they don't attack "non-believers". Jesus, last I checked, attacking people who don't agree with you was a form of terrorism/oppression… O.o

I hardly respect Stephanie Meyer as it is, and although I don't blame her for the attacks (I'm sure that wasn't her intention, whatever else we might say about her), the fact that she hasn't said anything to these insane Twihards is not remotely comforting. If she doesn't know or just doesn't care… neither is acceptable, really. She needs to say something about it. Seems like she's the only one they'll listen to.

So, yeah, maybe that was kind of a strange thing to mention in relation to this fic, but the violence of some of these attacks makes me worry that somebody is going to be killed over a stupid vampire book. Honestly, if they were kids from religious groups or a cult or something, it would be plastered all over the news…

Um, anyway, thankyou for reading! :)

RR xXx