It was well after 4:00 am by the time Edward made it back to his office. He'd thought briefly about going home to rest up for a bit, but his unexpected rendezvous with Dr. Young had made him too agitated to sleep. He sighed as he hung up his cane and coat on the rack in his office.

"Well," he murmured. "That could have gone better." That was an understatement. He hadn't even been able to broach the subject of Sharp before she'd decided to turn their meeting into one of those therapy sessions from Hell he recalled from Arkham. Other than her obvious need to be treated for post traumatic stress disorder, the only new detail he'd managed to uncover from their little chat was the fact that Aaron Cash could no longer be considered a credible suspect. Not that he'd been that high on the list of suspects to begin with.

Edward sat at his desk, put the journal he'd taken from Dr. Young' office in his top drawer and booted up his computer. Now that Cash was all but eliminated, that left him with nearly a hundred members of Arkham security to comb through. He'd begun to run down the list of employees he'd obtained from Sharp earlier that week and had ruled out any connections between them and anyone currently employed on Sharp's campaign staff. That would've been too easy, he thought. Luckily, he'd programmed his software to run the names of the employees against criminal records from the GCPD and obituary notices.

Edward sighed. Even with this short cut, it would take a while to track anyone who was still alive, let alone anyone who could be a potential subject. Slowly, the program began to return names. Alvarez, Maria. Deceased. Boxer, Patrick. Deceased. Butts, Henry, Deceased. Kirkpatrick, Adam. Deceased...Ten more names followed. All but one were deceased.

Edward shook his head. "You really outdid yourself Joker," Edward would be the first to admit that empathy was never a strong suit of his and he remembered threatening a guard or two in his criminal career, but he'd never enjoyed the act of violence. It had always been a means to an end, not something to be indulged in for its own sake. What Joker did at the asylum...well, even someone as self-centered as Edward freely admitted to being was taken aback.

Don't insult me by pretending that you care about me, or what happens to the people at the asylum.

Edward frowned and began to tap his finger while waiting for the program to finish. Fine. So maybe he didn't care about anyone at the asylum on a personal level. Why did that matter? Would mourning the loss of a non-entity like Kellerman help him find his murderer faster? Would showing up in a black suit and bowing his head at the memorial on Monday for people who'd never seen him as anything more than a burden, a freak, as Bullock was so fond of calling him, make them any less dead? Did any of them mourn Jonathan? Edward was honest when he said that he didn't hold anything against the doctors at Arkham, but he didn't owe them a damn thing.

No, he freely admitted the real reason he was here was for the challenge. Even if the old compulsion to leave riddles was gone, the drive he had to solve them, to learn and know everything there was in this city was as alive as before. It made perfect sense for him to leverage that into a profitable and high profile career. It kept him occupied, didn't it? It kept him away from crime, even if the work wasn't nearly as fulfilling as before. And working with Sharp and solving this case was a win win situation for everyone involved, even if people like Bullock, Wayne, Ryder and that insufferable woman couldn't see it.

All you care about, all you've ever cared about, is being the smartest man in Gotham and making sure the whole world knows it.

Edward tapped his finger against the desk a little more insistently. And? He'd never denied that. Not as the Riddler and not now. He'd never claimed that he had Gotham's best interests in mind when he'd committed his crimes.

"Riddle me this Dr," he murmured. "When your actions lead to the deaths of almost a hundred people, does it really matter why you did it?" Edward shook his head. Why was he letting the rain vings of one disgraced Arkham professional get to him? He must be more tired then he thought.

Putting her words out of his mind, he turned his attention back to his computer. It had gone through fifty more names and only produced two people who were still alive.

Edward set his glasses down onto the desk, leaned back in his chair and yawned. At this rate, he wouldn't be getting any substantial work done until daybreak. It wouldn't hurt to take a short break. Just to clear his head and get his thoughts under control. Edward felt his eyes close and he drifted off into sleep.

He was in the asylum again. He couldn't see any of the guards, orderlies or doctors, but he knew the sterile, oppressive atmosphere from anywhere. He wasn't in his jumpsuit, but in his traditional green get-up. Was he escaping? Returning? He wasn't sure. He'd been wandering the intensive treatment center for what seemed like forever. He couldn't see anyone. Where were the other patients? A voice from behind him interrupted his thoughts.

"What time is it when an elephant sits on your fence?"

He turned and saw the source of the voice. A dark, looming shadow was moving towards him. He thought he could make out a cape and cowl and the hair on the back of his head stood up.

"I know you. Maybe better than you know yourself."

Any other time, he'd be irritated at the presumption, but instead, his heart started pounding. Edward slowly backed away, frantically looking for an exit, but there was nothing but the two of them in the empty hall. To his horror, Edward found himself cornered at a dead end with the shadow continuing to walk towards him.

"Riddles are your addiction. Your compulsion."

"No," Edward murmured desperately as the shadow closed the distance. "No, they're gone, the compulosion's gone, I'm a changed man, please, leave me alone,"

"And the riddle that everyone knows is worthless." The shadowed figure stopped before him. Edward recognized him instantly as Batman.

"Did you hear me? Worthless! Just like you, Eddie." The shadow repeated. His voice had changed from Batman's familiar gruff tone to something even more terrifying to Edward.

"No," Edward barely managed to say. "Please, not you,"

'Batman' said nothing else. Instead, he took off his cowl in one fluid motion. Edward collapsed to his knees with a strangled cry. He knew this man. Even in the earliest days of his recovery, when he could barely recall his own name, he remembered the face of his father.

The specter of William Nashton glared down at him. "You little moron. Who're you trying to fool? You ain't smart. You're a crook. That's all you're ever going to be!"

Edward shut his eyes and held his hands over her ears, trying to gain to drown him out.

"No," he whispered. He hated how small his voice sounded. His father had been dead for fifteen years, but just his appearance stripped away any trace of the persona Edward had so carefully constructed since he'd left home. "I am smart. I'm a genius. I'm not that man anymore."

"Don't lie to me boy," his father growled.

"I'm not lying," Edward said.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, you worthless little shit!"

Edward got to his feet then, and gave his father his best glare. "I'm not lying! And I'm not worthless! You're the moron! It was always you! I'm-"

His father brought his fist back and punched him in the face. Edward sprawled backwards, hitting the wall. Before he could even pull his arms up to defend himself, his father began to rain blow after blow on him.

"Liar!" He yelled at him, in Batman's voice again. He aimed lower, driving his fist into Edward's stomach. "Freak!" He yelled, in Bullock's voice. "I ought to put you back in a cell, you animal," he growled, in a voice thatsounded like Aaron Cash. "You don't belong out there."

Finally, the attack ceased. Edward slumped to the floor, curling into a ball and desperately holding back tears. "No more," he cried out. "Please, Dad, no more."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, a thin, southern toned voice reached his ears.

"Edward?"

Edward cautiously looked up. "J-Jonathan?"

Instead, there with his father stood Selina, a mace in her right hand. She smiled cruelly at him. "Don't be afraid," she purred. She then brought the mace down on Edward's head, hard. His world turned red, then black, then bright-

Edward bolted out of his chair with a gasp. He quickly grabbed the back of his head, to make sure that his skull was still intact. As he held on, he became aware that his breath was coming in deep, shuddering gasps. "Calm down," he told himself. "It was just a dream. Your father's dead. Jonathan's...not here. Focus, Edward." He took deep breaths and mentally recited every dime store riddle he'd ever learned to focus his thoughts. Finally, his heart beat slowed to normal.

Still on edge, Edward pulled out the top drawers of his desk and rummaged through them.

"Come on," he said, pulling out paper and stationary. "Where are you?" After throwing an old notebook across the room, he found the small prescription bottle he was looking for. Edward unscrewed the lid, took two pills and swallowed them. He never liked taking medication. It dulled his senses, he thought, and he couldn't afford to operate at less than a hundred percent, but the anti-anxiety medication Leland had put him on when he'd been mentally cleared was the only thing that could keep him grounded after one of these episodes. That annoyed him six months ago. Now it frightened him.

Edward ruefully examined the bottle. He only had four pills left. He'd need to get his prescription refilled, but seeing as how that would involve actually talking with Leland, it could wait. Preferably until after this case was solved. Once he felt calm enough to proceed, Edward looked at the clock. 10:45 am. Well, he'd gotten about six hours. That was better than usual.

While he'd been fighting with the deeper recesses of his mind, his computers software had completed running through the names of the old security guards at Arkham. Out of the one hundred and five people who had been employed at the time of the Joker's break out, only ten were still alive. Of those ten, four of them had left Gotham altogether, two were still employed at Arkham, including Lyle Bolton of all people, and one was a patient at Arkham themselves now. Lovely.

That left three potential suspects for Edward to track down. Two people who were now employed by Wayne Enterprises, and one who especially caught Edward's interest. Joe Bryant, a former security guard who had left voluntarily, and who now ran a victim's advocacy group. It was his organization in fact that was sponsoring the memorial on Monday. Bryant had no criminal record, but he'd been vocal about his disdain for Sharp since he'd left the asylum, penning numerous letters to the editor of the Gotham Gazette.

Edward smirked a bit. Low level security guard with a definite grudge? Definitely someone worth his attention. Edward got up out of his chair. Firstly, he'd go back to his apartment. He needed to shower and change his clothes. Then, he'd track down this Joe Bryant. With any luck, he'd have this case cracked and his face in the paper by that evening.

As he began to leave, Edward realized that in his earlier search for his medication, he'd placed the journal he'd 'borrowed' from Dr. Young on top of his desk. He hesistated. He'd only barely begun reading into his case history when she'd interrupted him earlier that morning. He knew there was more. Maybe there was something in that journal that could end his constant temptation to backslide. Maybe he could find an answer to why he couldn't sleep at night without being haunted by the ghosts of a past he could only barely remember. Maybe-

Edward shook his head. "The murderer, Edward, remember?" He reproached himself. "Catch him first. This little stroll down memory lane can wait." And with that, he walked out of his office and into the bright Gotham morning.