Author's Note: First of all, thank you to all of you who reviewed the last chapter. I really do appreciate it. Secondly, can we just pause for a moment and notice that only about 24 hours has passed between updates? I mean, seriously, aren't you all proud of me:-) I had some free time today, so I thought about doing the massive amount of editing that is waiting for me for my poetry classes (can I get a collective yuck?) and then I decided hey, it would be fun to just write fanfiction, especially considering that it won't help me graduate... :-) So, here you go. Once again, not proofread. I think I'm just to lazy for it now. Okay, I'll let you read.

At eight o'clock that night, Temperance was still working with the remains that Booth had brought her that morning. Angela had left at six thirty and she had let Zach leave at seven, making Temperance the last person left in the lab. She straightened her spine and stretched; after eight hours of leaning over the examination table, her body was beginning to protest. She sighed and covered the remains before snapping off her latex gloves and dropping them in the bio-waste bin on her way to her office.

Maybe it was weird, but Temperance liked being in the Jeffersonian alone late at night. The hallways were quiet, and as she walked she could hear the idle hums of computers and other equipment. Everything was still. She rotated her head from side to side as she approached her door. Being alone in the lab always made her feel like she had room to breathe, room to think. Praying that this would help with the creative process, she slid out of her lab coat and hung it on the rack before slipping into her chair and clearing the screen saver. She loaded the small amount of work she had done on her book onto her screen and took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keys, willing the words to come to mind.

"Dammit," she muttered five minutes later. The blinking cursor seemed to mock her, and she suddenly felt irrationally resentful of the fictional characters in her story. Why couldn't she write anymore? She had felt completely blocked ever since this case started. She never felt blocked. Sure, sometimes her writing wasn't particularly good or inspired, but getting something on the page had never been her problem. She hated that it was a problem now.

Admitting defeat, if only to herself, she clicked out of the program and walked over to the stack of books she had convinced Hodgins to pick up for her on his lunch hour. The glossy new covers of the Ophelia Stone novels glared up at her as she approached.

"Alright," she said out loud, even though she was alone. "Let's find the plot line for the new body."

She began flipping through the books, reading the back covers and skimming through the chapters, looking for the sections of the story that outlined the victims. She saw the now familiar stories along the way—the man in the grave, the woman in the river—and she even caught herself drifting off into the stories now and then. The smell of clean pages drifted from between the cheaply illustrated paperback covers, snaking into her nostrils and filtering into her mind. She loved the smell of new books. It was so fresh, so pure, so unsullied…how ironic, given the subject matter of the books.

An hour later, however, she was failing to find the connections between the books and the body that Booth had brought her. With a sigh, she dropped the book she had been flipping through and reached for a new one. As she did so, she heard the faint sound of shoes approaching her door, and then soft knocking. She glanced up to find Booth standing in her doorway, looking tired and disheveled.

"Hey, Bones."

"Hey. Anything?"

"We got jurisdiction, but the local police gave us hell." He waved a file at her before lying on her desk. "These are copies of some of the crime scene photos of your apartment, I thought you might want to look them over." He nodded towards the books that now lay strewn about. "What have you found?"

She let the book in her hands flip closed. "The skull from my apartment definitely goes with the body. It's male, like I originally thought, in the age range of 18-25. He was about 6 feet tall."

"Cause of death?"

"We sent for a toxicology report. It's not technically my specialty, but the lining of his stomach was somewhat eroded."

"He was poisoned?"

"I can't say for sure, but it seems likely right now. He did suffer blunt force trauma to the head, though, not enough to kill him, but enough to knock him unconscious. He was probably given the poisons after he was out."

Booth shook his head. "Poisoning, stabbing, drowning…this guy just can't seem to pick a method, can he?"

The two were quiet for a moment before Booth nodded toward the books again. "Found a match?"

Temperance shook her head. "No, nothing even remotely like this."

"Well, we definitely know it's related, given the state of your house…maybe he got tired of the Ophelia thing, ya know? I mean, these crazies," he whistled slightly, shaking his head, "they aren't exactly playing with a full deck."

"The victims don't seem to follow distinct patterns either, aside from the novels."

They were silent for another moment, both thinking.

"Have you talked to Ophelia? I mean, she must have written some short stories or stuff like that for minor publication. If this guy really has a fetish for her, he might be acting out on something of hers that's more esoteric than the novels."

Temperance nodded. "I'll call her tomorrow."

Booth nodded back. "Good."

Another moment of quiet ensued, more uncomfortable than the one preceding it.

"So…" Booth said.

Temperance just glanced up at him.

"Look, about the other night…"

Temperance groaned. "Look, Booth, don't worry about it. I understand."

He looked at her for a moment, assessing her statement.

"Really," she added. "You were just being a nice guy. Thank you for not trying to take advantage of me."

He nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Yeah. Yeah, I was. So…so are we…okay?"

She forced a smile. "Sure. We're okay."

"Okay," he said nodding, forcing a smile back. "Okay…well, I going to go…"

"Yeah," Temperance answered. "It's late. Have a good night."

"You too," he said back. They gave each other another round of tense smiles. "Okay, well…night, Bones."

"Night."

Booth turned and walked out of her office then, heading back towards the parking lot and his car. His face fell as soon as he reached the doors of the Jeffersonian, just as Temperance's face fell after he closed the door of her office. Things aren't okay they both realized. Things really aren't okay.

Temperance let herself into Angela's apartment with the key her friend had given her at 11:30 that night. She was tired from the day, but she did her best to move around quietly, acutely aware of the fact that Angela was already asleep. Temperance washed her face quickly and slipped into a grey tee shirt and a pair of over-worn gym shorts. She then lifted the folded blanket off the back of the couch, cocooned herself in the soft green fabric, and quickly drifted to sleep.

She was standing in the middle of a large and busy shopping mall. Temperance looked at her hands and saw that she was already holding two heavy department store bags. Her arms twitched under the weight, and for a moment she wondered if she would be able to walk while carrying them. As she was thinking over this problem, she looked up and saw a woman standing a few feet in front of her. Her back was turned toward Temperance, but something about her got Temperance's attention. While all the other people in the mall were moving around quickly, seeming to take no notice of Temperance and her shopping bag problem, this woman was standing perfectly still. For a moment, Temperance wondered if she was even breathing.

The woman, as if sensing Temperance's stare, turned slowly, until their eyes met. Now it was Temperance who couldn't breathe. She was looking at her mother.

Temperance tried to release the bags in her hands, but it was as if the handles were stuck to her skin. She tried to shuffle toward her mother in spite of the weight, however she was dismayed to find that with each step she took, it was as if her mother took one step back. She was unable to get any closer.

She felt the strong urge to shout 'Mommy!' despite the fact that she had been fifteen when her mother left, and had stopped referring to her mother as 'mommy' when she was eight. Her mother smiled at her, as if she had heard what Temperance had wanted to say in spite of the fact that she hadn't actually said anything.

"Osman," her mother said, with a knowing smile.

'What?' Temperance thought. 'I don't understand.'

"Her name is Cindy Osman," her mother answered.

'But I know that,' Temperance thought back. 'We know that already.'

As Temperance continued to look at her mother, the face morphed into Angela. The change was barely registered in Temperance's consciousness.

"Osman, Osman, she will never guess that Rumpelstiltskin is my name!" Angela sing-songed the pseudo-nursery rhyme in Temperance's direction.

'But what does it mean?' Temperance thought back.

Now Angela's face was replaced once again by Temperance's mother. "It means there are three days."

'Three days?'

"Three messages. Three chances. I have three days to guess your name."

'Or what?'

Now Angela was standing beside Temperance's mother, and the two were speaking in unison. "Or you'll kill my baby."

The shopping mall suddenly grew dark, and Temperance was vaguely aware of the fact that there were no longer people milling around. The two women staring at Temperance smiled and faded into the darkness without another word.

"Save them." Temperance heard the words, though they seemed to come out of nowhere. Then, as Temperance was looking straight ahead, she saw Hodgins run into her field of vision. She wanted to yell to him, but once again found herself unable. In the next second, however, she saw Booth run up behind him and quickly shoot him in the temple.

"NO!" Temperance screamed, her voice suddenly back.

Booth turned and looked at her. "You aren't safe."

Reeling from the sight of Hodgins' body on the floor, Temperance was unable to do anything but cry.

Booth was standing close in front of her now. "They'll see what you did."

Temperance looked down and saw the blood covering her hands. It seemed to be crawling over her skin on its own. She then looked in her shopping bags, finding the gun in one, and Hodgins' head staring up at her from the other.

Booth was at her side now, his hot breath whispering in her ears. "Hell doesn't fear you, Temperance…" he hissed her name, and she felt herself begin to scream again as he relentless said her name over and over. "Temperance…Temperance…Temperance…"

"Temperance!"

Angela's shouting and shaking jolted Temperance out of her nightmare. Still dazed and confused from the dream, Temperance lunged into an upright position, vaguely noticing how cold the air felt on her tear-stained cheeks. Her breath came out in hard, shallow gasps.

"Sweetie, wake up, wake up! It's just me!"

Temperance was still breathing quickly as reality broke over her. The couch. Her shoes near the doorway. The lamp that was left on in the kitchen. Angela's face. She was at Angela's house. Her breathing slowly began to calm.

Angela stared at her friend with scared and concerned eyes. "You were crying in your sleep, and screaming…honey, what's wrong?"

"Just…just a…bad dream," Temperance stuttered out. She was awake enough now to notice the rumpled state of Angela's hair, to see the faint red mark on her friend's cheek from where she had been leaning on her pillow, sleeping.

"I gathered that." Angela gave Temperance a once over with concerned eyes. "What was it about?"

Temperance shook her head. "Nothing, it was stupid."

"Didn't sound stupid."

"Just…stuff from the case. It's just on my mind."

This statement gave Angela pause. "You're having nightmares about the case?"

"No, just…a little."

"How long has this been going on?"

Tired, Temperance answered virtually without thinking. "How long has the case been going on?"

"Wait, you're telling me you've been having these dreams throughout this entire case? Have you slept at all?"

Temperance shrugged. "I'm fine."

"What happens in these dreams?"

I kill people. Usually you. "I don't know, they don't really make sense. I guess there isn't a real reason why they should bother me, actually, it's just that when you're tired you're mind can play tricks on you."

Angela looked at her skeptically.

Temperance glanced around the apartment. "What time is it?"

"A little after three."

"You shouldn't be up."

Angela continued to survey Temperance.

"Seriously, Ange, I'm fine. You need to go to bed. We both need to go to bed." She gave Angela a reassuring smile, and after a few moments, Angela relented with a nod. The two bid one another goodnight, but only after Angela had made Temperance swear that she was fine. Angela and Temperance then laid back down, Angela on her bed and Temperance on Angela's couch. Angela was asleep within ten minutes. Temperance stared at the ceiling for the rest of the night.

Temperance was feeling tired and irritable the next day at work, though she did her best not to show it by doing work in her office. At ten o'clock, she decided to call Ophelia.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Ophelia, it's Temperance."

"Oh, hello, Temperance, how's the case going?'

"We're looking into some new leads. Actually, I wanted to call you about something. We have reason to believe that we have a new victim, however the individual doesn't seem to fit in with any of your books, which is unusual in this instance."

"Oh, I see. Well, maybe this victim isn't from the same killer?"

"It seems unlikely. The main reason I'm calling is to find out if perhaps this victim fits in with a fictional victim from one of your stories that we don't have. Perhaps one that was published in a magazine as a short story? Or maybe one that's out of print?"

"It's possible, I have two books that have gone out of print, and I did publish a few short stories before I started writing complete novels."

"Did you ever write a story in which a victim was decapitated?"

Ophelia was quiet for a moment, thinking. "No, not that I can think of. I did write a story in which a victim was hung."

"No, that doesn't match with our information."

"Oh. I'm sorry then, no, I haven't published a victim like that. It's strange that you should bring it up, though."

"Strange?"

"Well, just because before you called I was on the phone with my editor. I just sent him a first draft of a book in which a victim is poisoned and decapitated."

"Poisoned?"

"Yes, that's what actually kills the man, but the killer decapitates the man and sends the head to his ex-girlfriend. The victim was dating the killer's ex."

Temperance was quiet for a moment, to shocked to respond. "Has anyone read this book yet?"

"Just Danny. He's my editor. But other than that, no. Like I said, I only have a first draft."

"How long ago did your editor get the draft?"

"Only a few days ago, but he knew the general points of the story before I sent it to him. We're good friends, and I often bounce new ideas off of him. He's the one who actually suggested the poisoning, said it made it more sensational."

"It certainly does," Temperance responded, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Do you have another copy of the manuscript?"

"Sure," Ophelia answered. "It actually mostly on my computer, but I can print out another copy if you want."

"That would be great."

"Okay. I would let you come get it today, but I have an appointment. Can you come by tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow would be perfect. Thank you so much, Ophelia."

"Anything to help. Talk to you later, Temperance."

When Temperance hung up the phone, her mind was reeling. The murder matched one from a story that wasn't published yet? How was this possible? Her thoughts ran back and forth over the case as she absentmindedly picked up the file that Booth had left the night before. She dumped the photos onto her desk and began to flip through them.

She paused when she came to the picture of the writing on her wall. hEll haS no FearS of YOU, TEmperAnce bReNnAn. Her mind was momentarily brought back to her dream the night before, and she shivered slightly. She rested the photo on her desk, and then reached into her top side drawer, where she pulled out the copies of the other notes the killer had sent. She stretched them out before her. Come on she said to herself. Figure this out.

Reviews are welcome at this point in the story