“Imagine a scene, L,” Quillsh said.

And L closed her eyes, imagining it as the words touched her ears.

“A man is dead, after a violent illness. He was ill for several days to weeks, the symptoms being mostly nausea, weakness, and headaches.”

“Who was this man? Describe him,” L said. Her eyes were still closed.

“He was in his early to mid-30's. Handsome, a romantic. Somewhat, but not entirely, wealthy.”

In other words, a cad. “Where did he die?”

“His bedroom.”

Ironic place to die. “Any photographs of the scene?” Several of these theoretical cases had staged photographs that went with them.

After all, L was in training. She had been for the past few months.

Quills would bring her case files, testimonies, photographs, sometimes even video―as little as possible, in order to solve cases anonymously, as L wanted to do. The key to the matter was figuring out as much as possible, without actually needing to be there.

A file was placed in her hands, and she opened her eyes. Obviously, a staged photograph―she recognized the bedroom as one from the Winchester house, but it made no difference to her. Most of the photographs given to her were staged, anyways. It was only training.

She saw the corpse in his bed, a mug at his bedside, a photograph, books everywhere, curtained windows, a doctor peering plaintively from the door frame, a kettle of some kind, an abandoned blanket, a bucket full of sick. The story gained more depth.

“Those books,” she said, pointing to them. Quillsh leaned over and saw where her finger was. “Is one of them a diary?”

“Yes, it is,” Quillsh replied. “And you can tell by how...?”

“Far more elaborate than the rest, and the ribbon sticking out of the spine. See, there?” she said, tracing the barely-visible ribbon. “Is a copy of it available?”

“Yes, indeed,” Quillsh said, and produced from the large box of “evidence” for the “case” a photocopy of the diary's pages. “You're in luck, he began a new one each year. He died in March.”

“I see,” L said, and began flipping through the diary to his last entries. She skimmed over them, quickly. “He mentions getting sick a lot.”

“And what do you make of that?” Quillsh said. L continued to read.

“Nothing, yet,” she said. “It's unusual, though.” She flipped through the pages, and an eyebrow raised. “Who is this Evangeline woman?” she asked.

“Pardon?” said Quillsh.

L folded back one of the pages and trust a passage of writing towards him, pointing to a name. “This Evangeline woman,” she said. “It sounds like her and this man were rather close. Before breaking up. Correct?”

“That appears to be the case,” Quillsh said, feigning thoughtfulness.

Of course it would appear to be the case. L frowned as she continued backwards. “My, my, they certainly were intimate,” she said dryly, as the diary entries delightfully and vaguely recounted the meetings between the man and Evangeline. “He's an awful writer.”

“It's a diary,” Quillsh said, smiling a little embarrassedly, “you can't expect it to be a novel.”

An apology from him, no doubt; this was a fabricated case, anyways. Quillsh was a smart man, but his writing skills were more than questionable. “No, I guess I can't,” she replied, and flipped to the end of the diary. “Evangeline is, no doubt, the first person suspect?”

“Yes, the first one interrogated by the police, outside of the man's family,” Quillsh replied. “What makes you say that?”

“There's somewhat of a motive. If my guesses are correct, this man was an absolute annoyance to her and just about anyone else he encountered,” she said. “Dreadfully clingy. Just listen to this.” She flipped to a page that was marked with her finger and began to read in a ridiculously inappropriate monotone. “'Oh, how I miss my dearest Eva. It's been nearly two weeks since I last heard from her, or even seen her beautiful, delicate face...' et cetera, et cetera. Makes me sick.”

“I see,” Quillsh said, smiling a little.

“Anyone would want to be rid of such a problem,” L continued, returning to the final pages of the diary, “unless they were absolutely mad. From what's written in here, this Evangeline woman wanted more than to be rid of this man. Whoever he is. So, a motive.”

Frowning, she flipped through the copy of the diary again, and her left leg sneaked up to her chair. “Hm. So, what means could she possibly have used?” she muttered to herself, and looked at Quillsh. “Get me any sort of testimony Evangeline might have made, as well. Are there autopsy reports available?”

“Of course,” Quillsh said, and neatly laid the documents, in crisp manila folders, in front of L as she read and re-read passages of the diary.

She took up the autopsy report in her other hand after a while, and skimmed it quickly, before finding something. “Death of arsenic poisoning, huh?” she said, and returned to the diary. “My, I wonder...”

“Wonder what?” said Quillsh.

She continued to read the diary, before a brief, electric smile graced her face, and she pointed towards a series of passages that took place in February. “Evangeline, it seems, was poisoning him,” she said. “You see this here? Each time he visits her, he reports being ill. Still...” she said, and glanced sideways as she chewed on her thumb for a moment. “Hand me her testimony, please.”

Quillsh did so, and L went about reading it, swiftly, much like she did the diary. “So the police came to the same conclusion as I,” she eventually said, even though the police weren't real. “They're asking her about what she served him every night.”

“Indeed,” said Quillsh. “And her reply?”

She glanced at him, wishing he would stop the act for a moment, then speaking. “That she's not poisoning him at all,” she said. “Even though arsenic was found in her home. Says it's for poisoning rats.”

“So, logically, she's the suspect, as you said,” Quillsh said.

“Reaffirming my hunch, yes,” L replied, and returned to the diary. Something else caught her eye. “Interesting...” she said, and picked up the photograph. “What was in this mug?” she asked, pointing to the china cup that rested on the bedside table. “Is there a report?”

“Hot chocolate, I believe,” Quillsh said, producing a list of evidence at the scene, his eyes flitting over it. “Yes, it's hot chocolate.”

“Hm,” L said, and looked up. “Well, that's it, then. This man, whoever he is, poisoned himself in a very, very slow suicide.”

Quillsh's eyes widened. “Is that what you believe?”

L nodded. “Absolutely. It's far too suspicious,” she said. “If you want to frame someone for murder by poisoning, what better way than to implicate them through a diary?”

Shrugging, Quillsh said, “It's an interesting way to go about it.”

“The diary itself is far too specific and obvious in implicating that Evangeline was the culprit,” L said, pointing towards the thing as she held it up. “Even if she had arsenic in her home as rat poison. I would test rats around the home for arsenic poisoning as well, to see if her excuse holds up. I bet it does.”

“And what else have you gleaned from this?” Quillsh asked, his smile growing wider. L could already tell that she had won.

“From what I read in the diary, the fracture of the relationship between this man and Evangeline was very violent,” L said, flipping through the stapled copy of the diary. “I can tell, because his writing becomes a lot more unnecessarily flowery and whatever when he gets upset. Very stupid.” She smiled slightly. “He's got even more of a motive to get revenge on her. Plus, he'd be rather depressed by this whole turn of events, wouldn't he?”

“Surely,” Quillsh said. “Tell me, though, why was the hot chocolate at his bedside important?”

“I don't know,” L said, shrugging. “It just reminded me that he was poisoned. And if he was ill, and they didn't know he was poisoned, wouldn't he be taking water with medicine, instead?”

“Logically, yes,” Quillsh said.

“Then that means,” L said, smiling more as she realized what she had inadvertently discovered, “he was feeding himself arsenic through the hot chocolate, where he didn't have to taste it.”

“Indeed,” Quillsh said, smiling warmly.

“So, Evangeline is wholly innocent,” L concluded, grabbing her other leg and nodding. “Unless you think it's a crime to break the heart of an annoying man. Right?”

“I suppose,” said Quillsh. “Is that all?”

“Absolutely,” L replied.

Quillsh thoughtfully took the evidence back from L, put them into their manila folders, and set it away. “You're finally ready,” he said.

“Huh?” L said, tilting her head. “Ready for what?”

“Your career,” Quillsh replied.

-///-

“What, so he gave you a real case?” Josiah said from his chair, after L requested he be brought to her room later that evening. “After a whole bunch of fake ones?”

“So it would seem, somehow,” L said. She was making her bed, having rumpled it quite nicely by walking all over the coverlet, trying to keep all her energy towards productive matters in her excitement. “It's a real case, but the evidence was made to look like he had just made it up for me, like the rest.”

“I see!” said Josiah. “So what are you going to do about it?”

L readjusted the pillows. “Find a way to make a name for myself,” she said.

“A name for yourself?” Josiah said. She nodded.

“Quillsh is going to find a way to get me known in the detective, federal, et cetera... world,” L replied. “Find a way for me to get access to current cases, instead of just closed ones and cold ones.”

“Oh, that's exciting!” Josiah said, nodding and smiling as L proceeded to tap her foot impatiently on the ground and look for something to do. “So, how's he going at it?”

“No idea,” L said. “He's currently talking with Roger about it.” She pinched her chin in thought for a moment, then sat on the bed.

“You're certainly fidgety,” Josiah, when she began kicking her legs. “Excited?”

“Definitely,” L said. She fell on her back, and sighed. “How long has it been since October?”

“Five months?” said Josiah. L sighed again.

“Only that long...” she said. Her eyes followed the steady rotation of the ceiling fan for a while. “That long to do all that training. Glad I was over and done with it quickly, though.”

“Are you?” said Josiah. L did nothing. “Well, if that's what you say.”

There was a knock on the door, and Quillsh entered. “L, would you please come to my office? Roger and I need to speak with you.”

“Okay,” L said. “Sorry, you,” she told Josiah, “I'll be back later.”

Josiah winked at her and smiled. “Good luck!”

L shrugged as she went on her way, and joined Quillsh in his office with Roger. “So, what are we going to do?” she said. All of them were standing.

“I have an idea of what we'll do,” Quillsh said. “Roger, elaborate.”

“We'll introduce you through a television signal, when Quillsh goes to meet with Scotland Yard about the case you solved,” Roger said. “We can prepare a microphone and send it with an image on a screen. He'll carry a camera so you can communicate with them as you wish.” He reached behind him and pulled out a white piece of paper, with a large black L written on it in lovely, Gothic script. “We were thinking of using this, what do you think?”

L tilted her head as she looked at the thing. “It's all right,” she said, utterly loving how intimidating it looked. “We can use that. Who came up with the idea of using that sort of L, though?”

“That would be Quillsh,” Roger said, smiling at them as he put the sign away. “He thought it suited you.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, then frowning. “Wait, did you say you're going to Scotland Yard with this?”

“You heard me correctly,” Quillsh smiled, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, his hands in his pockets. “Why?”

“You can't possibly go as 'yourself,'” L said. “Don't you think that'll compromise our privacy?”

“Privacy?” Roger and Quillsh both said.

“You're a famous inventor and millionaire,” L said, crossing her arms and glancing over them both as if they were children. “People will want to know how you know me. You need to be anonymous.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Roger said, sighing slightly. “We need a way to get in contact with Scotland Yard in the first place.”

“Easy. Wear a mask, or something,” L said flatly.

“I'm afraid I can't rightly do that...” Quillsh said, smiling slightly and scratching the back of his head.

“Then a trenchcoat and hat will suffice,” L said, putting her finger on her chin as she thought. “Just something to obscure your face, but not look increasingly odd. Don't you think?”

“Yes, but we still need to get into Scotland Yard,” Roger said. “They won't so much as listen to us without good reason.”

“Then say that you have information on the cold case I solved,” L said. She crossed her arms again. “It's not as hard as you're making it out to be, Roger.”

“Then we need another alias...” he sighed, “...seeing as we don't need one for you, L.”

“No, we've already discussed that,” L said. A tone of impatience seeped into her voice. She began tapping her foot again. “...wait a minute, I have an idea.”

“Idea for what?” Quillsh said.

“Your alias,” she said, with a smile. “How do you like Watari?”

“Watari? Why Watari?” Quillsh said, blinking.

“It's simple,” L said. Her chin fell, and she looked at him from the top of her eyes. “You always make that one mistake when we study Japanese. You always say 'Watari wa...' instead of 'Watashi wa...' don't you?”

They had been studying Japanese for the past month or two, after getting past German and a little bit of Russian. His frequent mistake had become a bit of a pet peeve of hers, and it didn't surprise him that she would choose such a word as his alias. “I quite like the ring of it,” he said. “What do you think, Roger?”

“I don't mind,” Roger replied, honestly.

“It begins with the same letter as your last name, too,” L said cheekily. “So, you could call yourself W, just as well. Right?”

“I suppose I could,” said Quillsh. “Watari it is.”

Knocking her knees together and glancing at the ceiling for a moment, L looked at Roger and said, “Well, if I'm going in front of Scotland Yard, I need something decent to say. Let's get on it.”

-///-

A dark figure in a long overcoat waited in a corridor somewhere in Scotland Yard, heavily laden with equiptment. Most of it lay on a rolling cart with a television sitting atop it, along with a video camera below attached by cables. Although it could not be seen, the figure was anxious.

The door to the meeting room it was waiting for opened, and a highly-decorated police official with a bald head peered his head through the door. “Uh, Mr. Watari? We're ready to see you now.”

“Just Watari,” the man replied, and wheeled the cart into the room, where the rest of the officials for the hearing were seated. In silence, he plugged the television, the camera into the electrical socket, but left both of them off.

The bald official sat back down, and looked over the form that represented the request he had received that morning. “Now, Mr. Watari, thank you for coming today. Would you like to take off your coat?”

“No, thank you,” Watari replied.

“Right.” The official cleared his throat. “Now, you say you have information regarding the Alaeonzo Murder?” he said, in the highly skeptical manner of a scientist, although he was a police officer.

“Not I,” Watari replied. “It is my associate, L, who has this information.”

“L...?” another official said, expecting a last name. He did not receive further information. “L who...?” he said again.

“Just L, as in the letter,” Watari said. “My associate is a very cautious person, hence the abbreviation.” His words strayed and dashed far from the pronouns L hated.

“So I see,” the bald man said. “Is this... L with you?”

“Through the power of technology, yes,” Watari said, and turned the television on. It was tuned to a specialized signal that only the Winchester house was able to transmit (thanks to a little tinkering from Quillsh), and with an almost eerie crackle of static, the gothic, black L appeared on the screen.

“You will be able to speak with L through this camera,” Watari said, placing it beside the screen as the officials turned to each other and twittered, confused and fascinated at the same time. “Consequently, L will be able to hear and see what you are saying.”

The camera was turned on, and Watari said, “L, you may speak now.”

“Thank you, Watari. Good day, gentlemen,” the warped, distorted voice spoke through the television. “Thank you for allowing me to speak with you today.”

“I am L, and I know who killed Emilon Alaeonzo.”