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Solitude

Aftermath

May 10th 2001

New York

He'd been pacing around this table for hours, stalking it from all sides in a predatory motion reminiscent of some large feline, his sable gaze never leaving the contents responsible for his anxious movements. Every 20 revolutions, he'd change from clockwise to counter clockwise, his bare feet squeaking on the hardwood floor and the rustling of his two sizes too large jeans the only sounds in the room.

You'll find all the information I have, as well as some other personal effects. You can dispose of them however you please. Consider the contents yours, now.

But they weren't his, were they? This was evidence – all of it – in one of the most significant cases of his life. One of those cases that could either make or break someone's career. In his case, it had made his career. Made it in such a way, that he was now the reckoning force of his profession – an entity so dangerously capable that his very existence deterred any miscarriage of Justice.

And it was one of those cases that left a vile aftertaste in his mouth – a taste he'd become bitterly accustomed to. Lady Justice, he thought in an attempt to describe it, eyes uncovered and defiled by the darkness of men's hearts. A violation of that immortal beauty that he, L, had played a hand in.

He stopped pacing, and cast a glance over his bony shoulder to the basket of congratulations, that the American government was so fond of sending, sitting in the corner. It had been there for days, untouched and rotting; a testament to him having completed his task for them satisfactorily like an obedient little pawn. He'd wanted to send it back, burnt and abused, along with his fee, but he'd refrained. He kept it there instead, for some reason still unknown to his consciousness.

After all, they weren't privy to all the information regarding this case. As far as they were concerned, he'd tracked down the suspect, given them known whereabouts, and they'd captured the suspect.

Case closed. Outstanding work. Hope to work with you again. Here's a nice gift basket.

Now get lost, and never speak of this.

L returned his attention to the evidence in question. The case was solved, so there really wasn't a need to turn any of it over. If he did, then all parties involved would be aware of all that had transpired. What possible purpose would that serve?

It would get two of his top three identities red-flagged as renegade immediately, for one. Eraldo Coil for treason and some kind of conspiracy or obstruction of justice, among other things, and L simply because of association.

She'd told him once that governments were never fond of allowing brilliant minds to run around in the wild, unchecked. And now, L had no doubt that they were just looking for an excuse to turn on him publicly.

So, why go through with an unnecessary and potentially harmful action? They would never find out otherwise, especially with that MI5 dossier now in his possession, which is supposed to be the only one of its kind.

L started pacing again, his circling tighter this time . . . closer.

Did he really want to know after all? He'd went through months of what could only be described as emotional hell to find the truth; and now with it right in front of him, he wasn't so sure he could cope.

He pulled at his bottom lip nervously. He had no choice but to look, and then keep whatever he found. He'd agreed to do so, the fact that he'd been . . . incapacitated notwithstanding.

Still, did he have to do it right now? If it had been left to him, these things would still be sitting in their safety deposit box, and he'd still be madly ritualizing with the key. He'd spent almost a week hiding the wretched thing in odd places.

He'd wander around randomly before stopping in a doorway to one of the unused rooms, and he'd throw it into one of the far corners. The first time, he'd left it there for a few hours before retrieving it. Each time after that, though, the length of time would shorten. The last time, he'd held out for almost three minutes before manically running back to snatch it up, terrified it wouldn't be there.

Then he'd given it to Watari, and told him to hide it and not ever tell him where. That had lasted through two days of obsessive searching through everything, including Watari's personal effects, until L had found it on the third day - taped to the underside of a hard drive inside an unused computer.

After that, Watari had taken it upon himself to empty the box, and now the contents were finally here - calling him, scorning him.

If anyone else had pulled a stunt like that, he would have dismissed them on the spot at the very least. But L trusted Watari completely, and Watari never did anything that wasn't guided by logic. If his handler, the man responsible for both protecting the World from L and protecting L from himself, brought these things here, then that was the right call.

L stopped, the beeping from her phone on the table interrupting his neurotic session. This was the fifth time it had went off in the past hour. Picking it up, he read the number on the display. It was Merrie. With a click, he dangled it next to his ear.

"Yes?"

"Hello, detective." The distinct voice of an American woman greeted him.

"Hello." He replied curtly, deciding against telling Wedy not to address him as such.

"How's it coming along?"

L remained silent for a moment, his eyes darting back to the table. "She told you."

"She did. She asked that I inquire about your status."

"I see. Is there anything she hasn't told you?" He hoped so. Discretion had been a part of their agreement.

"There's a great deal, most of which you'll find if you haven't already."

"I haven't."

"Is there a reason for that?" She inquired, not unkindly.

"Yes." L hoped his tone conveyed that he wasn't in the mood for further questioning.

"I won't pry then, but . . ."

L tuned her out, giving her autopilot responses, while he delegated the rest of his attention to the chain of events that had led up to this.

He'd been agonizing over the last 6 months nonstop. He ate them, drank them, slept them . . . they were always in his mind, being replayed and dissected every minute of every day. His existence was literally bursting with the information, and there was nothing to be done for it.

He always came back to the same piece that had been his undoing. Eraldo Coil. A man he had underestimated not once, but twice.

L dedicated much of his life to solving cases and systematically eliminating his rivals, gunning for that top spot with such intensity that everything else of what one would call a life had taken a backseat. For those years of his life spent laying the groundwork for L, he'd become something of a machine . . . completely immune to anything human . . . seeking out and destroying those he deemed hazardous.

And he'd saved Coil for last, clearing the field of all other opponents before engaging the last of the great post-war detectives. He'd enjoyed taking the codes of all the greats, including Danuve; but Coil he'd savored, because he'd become enamored with that detective's code. He'd loved the way Coil worked: his secrecy, his efficiency, and his loyalty.

And he'd wanted nothing more than to annihilate the man, and assimilate his reputation, his way of doing things, into L.

L snapped the phone shut, and returned it to the tabletop. That woman tired him out sometimes, but he knew she meant well, and she was loyal. A loyalty that would be his now, he remembered.

He pushed the phone away from the edge, disturbing documents and containers. One in particular caught his attention, his head turning slowly to follow his gaze as he fingered the clear plastic. He recognized the contents as a SIM card of his, the matching phone no doubt sitting in a landfill somewhere.

He'd lost a great deal that night . . . his phone, his sense of security, his clothing, right down to his boxer shorts. And he'd never expected to see any of it again.

This will be rated M for: detailed sexual situations, lightly used foul language, murder, suicide, rape, self-love and any other deviant circumstances I can think of.