Fic: Conspiracy
Dec. 21st, 2009 12:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darklunaTitle: Conspiracy
Rating: G !!!
Characters: L and Watari
Warnings: It's silly!
Word Count: 576
Notes: I always have crazy dreams when I'm on drugs for the flu. :D This is a little piece written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dn_contest's "flu" week.
Summary: L's enemies were obviously much more devious than he'd given them credit for.
"Watari, I hab uncobered a bery extensibe conspiracy."
L knew this announcement would have had a greater impact if he hadn't been so congested. It might also have helped if the stacks of papers he had amassed around himself on the hotel-room floor had not been coexisting in a nest of blankets and used tissues.
"Have you?" Watari began collecting the rubbish. L huddled deeper into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and nodded up at him seriously. He was not sure Watari was giving this the appropriate significance, though it was difficult to tell. In the year Watari had been looking after L, he had never condescended to him.
"Yes. I will show you the ebidence." It was like an archaeological dig in miniature, working his way back down through the strata of papers, cough-drop wrappers, and faxes. He'd seen his exact symptoms in the New England Journal of Medicine, he knew. Or had he dreamed that part? It had seemed so clear; he remembered thinking he couldn't look in Lancet, because that started with L, and was exactly what they'd expect.
The page he eventually plucked from the drifts about him was handwritten in his painstaking copperplate, so regular it looked computer-generated, nothing like a normal nine-year-old's. But then, L had never known normalcy, and so had never missed it.
"See here, the man sitting behind us on the flight from Cobenhagen was American. So were the peeble across the hall from us at l'Hotel d'Angleterre. And the tourists where we got strawberry tart... They were French. But they had American cigarettes."
"You believe someone has made you ill, and that the Americans are the ones with the motivation to do so?"
"Precisely," L said, pleased. "I make them look bad." He yawned so hard, his ears popped. The last case he had completed had been marred by friction with the FBI, which had not appreciated having one of their longest-standing cold cases picked apart in a matter of days by someone who wouldn't even meet with them in person. L had realized he would inevitably step on a lot of toes in his chosen field, and had decided it was not worth worrying about.
"Bud here is the most impordend thing." He unearthed the New York Times from the day his symptoms had first appeared. In the crossword, "ell," "black death," and "induce" all crossed one another. He pointed this out to Watari. "Their oberconfidence will backfire."
To Watari's considerable credit, L would think later, after his fever had broken, he didn't even crack a smile. "Then it is fortunate that you are on antibiotics. Besides, the last answer across is 'recover.'"
L considered this. He wasn't sure how he'd failed to include that in his calculations. It had all seemed so clear when he'd figured it out--the coincidences, the timing of his getting sick--coming to him in flashes as he'd dozed on and off from the first dose of antihistamines, as if his subconscious were making up for his illness having forced him to take time off. "So no one has an andidode?"
"I'm afraid not." For the first and last time, Watari scooped L up, blanket and all, and took him to the bed. "No antidote but time and rest."
"Hm. You may be right." L yawned again as he snuggled down into the pillows. "And we can't ignore that it said 'recover.' Thangk you, Watari."
"Of course, L."
Rating: G !!!
Characters: L and Watari
Warnings: It's silly!
Word Count: 576
Notes: I always have crazy dreams when I'm on drugs for the flu. :D This is a little piece written for
dn_contest's "flu" week.Summary: L's enemies were obviously much more devious than he'd given them credit for.
"Watari, I hab uncobered a bery extensibe conspiracy."
L knew this announcement would have had a greater impact if he hadn't been so congested. It might also have helped if the stacks of papers he had amassed around himself on the hotel-room floor had not been coexisting in a nest of blankets and used tissues.
"Have you?" Watari began collecting the rubbish. L huddled deeper into the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and nodded up at him seriously. He was not sure Watari was giving this the appropriate significance, though it was difficult to tell. In the year Watari had been looking after L, he had never condescended to him.
"Yes. I will show you the ebidence." It was like an archaeological dig in miniature, working his way back down through the strata of papers, cough-drop wrappers, and faxes. He'd seen his exact symptoms in the New England Journal of Medicine, he knew. Or had he dreamed that part? It had seemed so clear; he remembered thinking he couldn't look in Lancet, because that started with L, and was exactly what they'd expect.
The page he eventually plucked from the drifts about him was handwritten in his painstaking copperplate, so regular it looked computer-generated, nothing like a normal nine-year-old's. But then, L had never known normalcy, and so had never missed it.
"See here, the man sitting behind us on the flight from Cobenhagen was American. So were the peeble across the hall from us at l'Hotel d'Angleterre. And the tourists where we got strawberry tart... They were French. But they had American cigarettes."
"You believe someone has made you ill, and that the Americans are the ones with the motivation to do so?"
"Precisely," L said, pleased. "I make them look bad." He yawned so hard, his ears popped. The last case he had completed had been marred by friction with the FBI, which had not appreciated having one of their longest-standing cold cases picked apart in a matter of days by someone who wouldn't even meet with them in person. L had realized he would inevitably step on a lot of toes in his chosen field, and had decided it was not worth worrying about.
"Bud here is the most impordend thing." He unearthed the New York Times from the day his symptoms had first appeared. In the crossword, "ell," "black death," and "induce" all crossed one another. He pointed this out to Watari. "Their oberconfidence will backfire."
To Watari's considerable credit, L would think later, after his fever had broken, he didn't even crack a smile. "Then it is fortunate that you are on antibiotics. Besides, the last answer across is 'recover.'"
L considered this. He wasn't sure how he'd failed to include that in his calculations. It had all seemed so clear when he'd figured it out--the coincidences, the timing of his getting sick--coming to him in flashes as he'd dozed on and off from the first dose of antihistamines, as if his subconscious were making up for his illness having forced him to take time off. "So no one has an andidode?"
"I'm afraid not." For the first and last time, Watari scooped L up, blanket and all, and took him to the bed. "No antidote but time and rest."
"Hm. You may be right." L yawned again as he snuggled down into the pillows. "And we can't ignore that it said 'recover.' Thangk you, Watari."
"Of course, L."
