Edit 09/25/11: Fixed up some typos here and there and (hopefully) smoothed out the transitions.

-laughs nervously- It's been a long time since I posted something up, hasn't it? I've always wanted to try doing a crossover, though, and I've noticed there are far too few L and Sherlock Holmes interactions on this website.

Please forgive me for any horrible historical misconception and blaring mistakes. I'm no great studier of history, and most of what I know comes from the Sherlock Holmes stories themseleves.

Hope this works out...

In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge

"I'm surprised—he has such a thick skull, I didn't think anything could knock him out."

"Well, he did hit his head rather hard on the table."

"Really? I thought it was the books that fell on him that did him in."

"Sherlock Holmes, was it? Hardcover, too. I'm surprised. I never thought he would be one into fiction like that."

"Huh. I just hope he didn't get hurt too badly. We still need him."

All eyes turned on Light, who flushed and defended himself hotly. "What? It's true!"

Matsuda snorted. "That's pretty rich coming from you, Light. It was you who knocked him out in the first place, wasn't it?"

"I said I was sorry!"

The older detective rolled his eyes. "It doesn't count unless you say it to his face."

Light scowled. "How was I supposed to know he wasn't going to catch himself falling down?"

Soichiro sighed. "You should have known better anyway, Light. What were you two fighting about this time?"

Light absently touched his swelling eye as he thought back. The fight had started easily with the usual narrowed eyes and waspish remarks and was almost casual in the ease and familiarity with which the detective and the suspect exchanged blows. Light still wasn't completely sure how he had gotten the better of L—it had been fine, a stress relieving exercise, at least until he dealt a final rapid succession of blows and L fell, head colliding with a sharp corner of a table with an earth-stopping thunk.

The books that had been piled carelessly on top teetered dangerously, and Light had to leap to save L from a horrible death by book stoning. He'd only managed to catch some of them, though. An impressive collection of Sherlock Holmes' stories ended up falling, sharp edge smacking the man's temple. Light had frozen, stunned at the sight of the detective collapsed on the floor, blood already beginning to stain the floor.

He glanced away from his father's sharp gaze. "Uh…I believe it was something about who got to use the bathroom first."

Soichiro shook his head sadly.

The investigation team was assembled awkwardly in L and Light's shared bedroom, quite at lost as to what to do now that their leader was unconscious and sprawled on the bed before them. Matsuda poked L's limp arm hesitantly and Mogi slapped his hand away. Light shifted from foot to foot, for once aching to start working.

Watari looked up from where he was putting away the first aid kit and smiled warmly. "You should start working. The most we can do is ensure L is comfortable and wait until he wakes up. I'll take care of him, don't worry."

Just like that, the tension broke and the investigation team trickled out of the room, almost eager to get away from the oppressive atmosphere.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." Soichiro said as they left. "Watari is right; don't worry so much."

"I'm not." Still, Light couldn't help but glance back at the prone figure stretched across the bed, a swathe of white contrasting oddly with the black spikes of hair. The handcuffs and chain lay on top of the night table, unlocked with the keys he'd taken from L's own pocket. Beside them lay the thick book that had fallen on him.

The entire thing was an odd sight, definitely.

"I just wonder what he's dreaming about," Light murmured to himself, rubbing at his wrist where the cuff had chaffed.

What L was dreaming about, indeed.

For a long moment, his mind simply shut down, awestruck at the scene that unfolded before him, so different from what he was used to. For an entire minute, he could not do much more than gape and stare. How…?

The sounds hit him first; foreign noises of metal striking stone, of the clattering of horse hooves and the soft chatter of people. Then came the smells, wet and low, smoky and subtly pungent—a thousand scents he'd never scented before.

And the sights.

Cobble-stoned ground, gas lit streets, soft light illuminating horses and horse trams, hamson cabs and people. But people, mostly.

Everywhere, they moved with a certain alertness rarely seen. Both carefully private and almost embarrassingly open, their gestures were something that L, who has long prided himself on his familiarity with body language of all cultures, would have happily studied for days. Two men were striding down the street discussing politics in a formal, detached speech L had never seen in anyone else but himself. Directly across from him was a woman loudly sobbing into her son's shoulder.

L himself stood just inside the mouth of a grimy alley. Barefoot, he saw with some consternation. Never before had he wished so strongly for a pair of shoes, but today seemed to be full of surprises.

With a start, he realized he probably looked incredibly stupid, frozen at the edge of his street with an open mouth and bugged eyes, looking for all the world was if he had never seen a city before.

He had, just never one that looked for all the world like it just stepped out of a history book.

Or maybe it was he who had stepped into one.

And the worst part? He couldn't remember how he got there. He could remember Kira, remember Light, remember the handcuff that he himself had snapped onto their wrists. He could remember the investigation, and getting into another fight with Light and…

Then it stopped. Not matter how much he concentrated, he couldn't remember what (if anything) happened after; it was as if there was a tall stone wall in his mind that refused to allow him through.

Sighing, he gave up and resigned himself to the exploration of this place. Stepping away from the alley, L pondered his situation as he walked down the street. He was either in the most incredible historical diorama in the world or it actually…

On an impulse, he brought his hand up to his lips and sank his teeth into it. He flinched, and quickly released it, rubbing at the crescent that was rapidly reddening on his skin. Probably not a dream, then.

He was suddenly shoved aside, into the path of a rather prim-looking businessman. He glanced back with a slight scowl on his face, to see quickly receding backs of two grubby boys. "Sorry, sir," the taller boy called and waved, then sped up to catch up with his companion.

The businessman quickly stepped away from L, an undisguised look of disgust on his face. "Foreigners," he snorted, then strode away.

L blinked, then had to move quickly to dodge a paper-boy, loudly proclaiming his wares for the entire street.

It had been a long time since a stranger looked upon him with such a look of repugnance, and even longer since he had thought himself as a foreigner of anything. But here, it was plain to see, he was a stranger in every way possible.

And then to make things worse, it began to rain.

It started out as a slight drizzle and progressed to pounding buckets of rain in what seemed like no time at all. Water soaked his clothing, turning the dirt and dust on the street into slime that clung to his feet. His hair was drenched so locks of it hung in front of his eyes and dripped down his neck. On the street, umbrellas appeared and people disappeared into the relative safety of their homes.

L just tried to keep his head bowed and hurried on his way—to where, he didn't know yet. Inside, probably. Maybe a church. People were free to enter places like those, right?

Suddenly, his eye caught sight of something white lying on the side of the street. From what survived the torrent of rain, L could make out parts of what seemed to be a newspaper article.

His eyes were drawn to the only name he recognized, and he almost dropped the paper in shock.

Surely it couldn't be…?

He looked down and read it over again. No, the name was still there, perhaps wetter than before.

Sherlock Holmes.

He peered closer in an effort to read the rest of the article, but could not make out more than a few sentences from the smudged ink. But it was enough to know that, in this world at least, the famous detective was just as real as he was in his, not just fiction.

A brief smirk flitted over L's features. Here was an opportunity he couldn't turn down.

It took some searching to find Baker Street, and by the time he had, L had a fairly good sense of the area. He'd lost track of the number of roads, side streets, and alleyways he's wandered through to find the place, as well as the number of people he'd asked for directions. Most wouldn't even look at him, but one kindly girl had pointed it out for him.

He looked up, rechecked the address with the soggy paper still clutched in his hand, and ascended the steps and knocked on the door. He tossed the newspaper away.

L know he was probably acting with childishly blind enthusiasm, but he couldn't help it. Trapped apparently in the world of his favourite book? Why shouldn't he explore a bit before returning? Kira's case had been at a standstill for the past few weeks—and to tell you the truth, he wasn't very eager to return just yet.

He will have to soon, but for now…

The door swung open with a groan, and a middle-aged woman peered out, a hopeful face falling when she caught sight of him.

"May I see Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" L asked in his pleasantest voice. "I wish to meet with him."

She cast a dubious eye over him. "Are you one of the Irregulars? You speak too politely to be one of them, though." She sighed. "But I suppose it's fine. He'd been driving Dr. Watson and me quite crazy with his restlessness."

She welcomed him inside and introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. L quickly cleaned his feet as best he could and stepped inside.

"Please wait a moment," she said, then went upstairs, presumably to alert Holmes and Watson of the arrival of a guest.

Clatters, scrapes, and footsteps sounded from above, and L hid a smile of amusement. It continued even as Mrs. Hudson returned and told him that Holmes was ready to see him.

L nodded in thanks and climbed the steps—there were seventeen in all, he remembered. The stairs ended in a landing with only a single door and another staircase continuing its way upwards. Unhesitant, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," a muffled voice called from within. L did.

The room was in a state of casual disarray, though a hastily-stacked pile of papers and a suspiciously overflowing trash can seemed to suggest a recent attempt at cleaning up. A smoky smell permeated throughout. Two men stood in the largest empty space in the room—directly in front of the door.

"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, I believe?"

Both groups were momentarily speechless at the sight of the other. Holmes recovered the fastest, managing to reply, "Yes. How may we help you?"

L blinked and straightened slightly. "I would like to know what date it is today."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It is the twenty-fourth of September."

"And the year?"

"1895."

"Thank you."

A long period of silence, where Watson fidgeted uneasily, Holmes studied L, and L tried to think back on his history classes.

Holmes broke the silence. "Is that all?"

L thought. Was it all? "Yes, I suppose so."

"So there is nothing else you need?"

"No." Apart from a new set of clothing, shoes, shelter…sugar would be nice as well. "I guess I should be leaving now. Good bye." L turned to leave, but Holmes called after him.

"Wait. If it doesn't trouble you too much, I would like to have a talk with you. You intrigue me."

L stopped. "How so?"

Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Well, your manner of speaking and dress all mark you as a foreigner. Your eyes, hair, and stature mark you as an Oriental, but your pale skin and proficiency at English suggests someone of European nature, perhaps even British. Oh, please do take a seat."

"Not particular astute observations from someone of your reputed calibre." L replied, sitting down in his usual crouch while considering the two men who sat opposite to him.

"I don't believe you've given us your name," Watson spoke up, bristling at the thinly veiled insult.

"L. You can call me L."

"Elle?" Holmes asked. "Is that not usually a woman's name?"

"It's 'L'—just the letter."

"You are named after a letter?" Watson exclaimed, taken aback.

"It is a name I answer to."

"Then, pray tell, what is your real name?"

L gave a small smile. It seemed as if the two were as inquisitive in this…whatever this place was, as in the stories. "It would not help anything even if I did tell you."

Holmes leaned forward with interest at the enigmatic answer. "Curiouser and curiouser! You truly are a strange boy—how old are you, by the way? If you don't mind me asking." He may have sensed L's small hesitation, and added, "Your age cannot betray so much that you are reluctant in the giving of it."

"Not at all. I was just wondering what age you perceive me to be." L grinned internally—this was the most interesting conversation he had in months.

"I am ashamed to say that I am not sure," Holmes professed. "No more than eighteen, I am sure."

"Twenty-three."

A look of surprise appeared on the detective's face. "Really?"

"Would I lie?"

Holmes shrugged. "How would I know? You refuse to tell who you are, or even to reveal your name, and yet you name both of us easily and seem familiar with my techniques. You are not from London though, I will say—possibly not even from this continent. You speak English smoothly and fluently, but bluntly in a way I have never heard before. Except perhaps from an American, but somehow I don't believe you are from there."

"True," L said wryly.

"You also don't care much for appearances and don't appear to have much wealth anyway, or you have fallen upon tragic times, for you are dressed worse than urchins I've seen in the street. Or perhaps you are just extremely forgetful."

"Holmes!" Watson admonished.

"It's alright. Hearing his observations really are very interesting, and I don't mind the things he concludes from me. Most of them are true, anyway."

"Only most?" Holmes did not sound disappointed at all. "What did I conclude incorrectly?"

"There is the possibility that I do not like the stiff collared shirt and suit, and despise the confines of socks and shoes, and that is why I dress like this."

"I am inclined to think not, as I doubt one would willingly walk through the sludge of London, especially on a rainy day. Without an umbrella."

"Well, it's true that I didn't have a choice with the shoes or the umbrella," L muttered, "But the rest of my outfit, as you say, was chosen for comfort, not appearance."

"How strange," Holmes murmured. He reached out and pinched the sleeve of L's white shirt, now grey and muddy with dirt. "I don't recall ever seeing that type of weave before. Where is it from?"

"A distant place," L said, jerking out of his grip. "Where I came from."

"And how did you get here?"

"I don't know." Truth.

"Really," Holmes mused. "This is most—"

Whatever it was most of, L and Watson never got to hear because the door suddenly burst open at that moment, startling the inhabitants within.