If he didn't know better, Dr. Jonathan Crane would have thought he was a different person, a new man. Although he was in the same dreary office, the sunlight seemed brighter as it streamed through the bar-lined window. He turned to the seemingly endless files of lost cause cases and flipped through them. A day ago he had despaired of ever helping them, but today there was a glimmer of hope in his mind. Today the future didn't seem so bleak.

(Jonathan, you're acting like a schoolboy in love. Really I expected more of you than this!)

He continued madly writing notes on some of the cases, jotting down ideas on possible cures for patients who had been, up until now, completely unresponsive to outside stimuli or traditional therapies he had been using.

(Maybe I have misplaced my faith in you, Jonathan. I have great plans for you – for us – and you waste your time on idle fancies, this girl and these patients. Ah, no, Jonathan. We are to be Lords of Gotham, not its servants and not this girl's plaything!)

I am no one's plaything, Scarecrow, if you've noticed by now. And you were wrong about Emily and don't wish to admit to defeat.

(That is not love, Jonathan. She is doing that just to satisfy her desires. She will use you for her personal enjoyment and then throw you away. You never found out what happened between her and Kevin.)

Crane ignored Scarecrow, continuing his note keeping and readying himself to leave the safety and comfort of his office for his morning routine of making the rounds at Arkham.

(Jonathan, you may choose to ignore me now, but I don't want you to get hurt. You have been hurt far too many times before.)

No, Scarecrow, you just want to use me. I know you too well. That's the one benefit I have that you are in my mind. You may know my thoughts – but I also know yours.

(Don't flatter yourself, Scarecrow whispered ominously. You don't know all my thoughts.)

And then Scarecrow went eerily silent. Crane waited almost for Scarecrow to continue on his incessant tangent, as was normal for him, but instead it was quiet, as though he was either giving him the silent treatment or plotting something sinister.

Well let him, I could use the peace and enjoy what small moment of happiness at this point, Crane thought.

He stepped up from his desk, slipped on his pure white doctor's coat and was almost ready to step out into the madness that awaited him outside that door, but then there was a slight click from the speakercom and a nurse's voice piped through:

"Dr. Jonathan Crane, I'm sorry to bother you. It seems you have an unexpected visitor here."

Crane pursed his lips, his eyes turned cold.

"And who is it, may I ask," said Crane, contempt slowly seeping into his voice. "I know it can't be Falcone this time."

"A man here called Eric Syler. He doesn't have an appointment, but he's making scene. Should I call security?"

"No, by all means, show the man in. I think I shall look forward to this."

Crane slyly smiled and removed his doctor's coat, placing it back on the brass hook and planting himself in the leather chair behind the desk before a thunderous knock came at the door.

"Come in, Mr. Syler," Crane said smoothly.

He watched as Syler jerked the door open with such force as if the door was a knife he wished to jab through Crane's heart. Today he was not wearing a black suit, but a pale red button-down shirt and khaki pants. His receding hair was slicked back and he had a hungry, venomous look in his black eyes.

"I'm glad at least you had the guts to see me," Syler said.

He took a seat on the chair opposite the desk to Crane without an invitation. Crane was fascinated by his anger and the brashness of Syler as well as what secret this man must harbor in order to hate him so.

"As you see, Mr. Syler, I am a man of my word. But I am curious – a curiosity which has not been satiated, I dare say since the symposium – as to the reasoning behind your slanderous allegations of me."

"Allegations? Look around you, Crane! All it takes is a walk through your nuthouse to see what a state it's in. A state you personally put it in!"

With the last sentence Syler fiercely jabbed his finger at Crane, his dark eyes flashing at him. Crane slowly leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his suit jacket waist.

"And pray, Mr. Syler, tell me, why the interest in my 'nuthouse'?"

"Oh, no, Crane. Don't you turn this around into a personal issue! Don't you try and start picking at my brain like your poor patients! You won't do that to me!"

"Do you suffer from paranoia, Mr. Syler?"

"SHUT UP, CRANE!"

A slow smile spread across Crane's lips and Syler trembled with barely contained animosity.

"Listen, Mr. Syler, I can't help you if you don't tell me what exactly is bothering you."

"Arkham is a blight on Gotham City, a mass torture chamber, Hell on Earth!"

"Now that's a little extreme – even for me," Crane said coolly. "Although everyone is entitled to their opinion. However I sense there is something or someone personally involved, perhaps a patient, a patient you know? Perhaps I can help you?"

"Oh, no. I'm not telling you anything," Syler cried, his face beginning to sweat.

"Then unfortunately I can't help you. I am sorry, just when I thought we were making some genuine headway too. Would you like to be escorted out now?"

Crane stood up from his chair and reached out his hand to conclude the conversation, but Syler would not meet his gaze and remained fixed in his chair.

"Then perhaps there is something else you wish to discuss," Crane asked. "Maybe a patient housed in this asylum, a patient I might be able to help?"

"You've done enough damage already, Crane," Syler hissed.

Syler turned his dark eyes up toward Crane and they were filled with venom.

"Tom Syler, does that ring a bell?"

"I'm afraid it does not. Please refresh my memory," Crane insisted.

"Everyone was talking about your unconventional methods, you're so-called 'miracle cures.' Well I brought in Tom, my brother. He had attempted suicide before."

"Ah, yes. I am beginning to remember now," Crane said, his eyes distant. "Suicide cases always are difficult and bear in mind, Mr. Syler, there is no 'cure' for suicidal patients, just therapy and –"

"He died under you're care! It's you're fault he died! You failed, Crane! You murdered him!"

"He was a suicidal patient, Mr. Syler, all I could do was –"

"Damn you, Crane! DAMN YOU TO HELL!"

Slyer slowly rose from his chair and shakily yanked out a pistol from his khaki pant's pocket. His sweaty hand trembled as he held the weapon point blank at Crane.

"I'm here to avenge my brother, Crane. I'm here to avenge his murder. May God forgive me."

Crane stared into the frightened, wild eyes of Syler, keeping his gaze locked and mesmerized much like a viper does to a mouse. Slowly Crane raised his arm, as though to reveal he had no weapon, that he was defenseless.

"Take it easy, Slyer, take it easy, it's okay," he said in a soothing, calm tone.

"You let him die," Syler cried, tears running down his face.

Crane's face suddenly set to a cool mask and his blue eyes turned to crystalline ice. A puff of gas unexpectedly hit Syler full in the face from Crane's sleeve and in the obscuring haze a gunshot tore through the room. Early morning sunlight filtered through the haze; there was a pregnant stillness after the shot before he staggered a few footsteps and collapsed heavily to the floor.

Dr. Steven Westmeyer stood by the nurses' station and watched as the morning routine was busily underway at Arkham Asylum. As much as he admired what his longtime colleague and former roommate Dr. Jonathan Crane was doing at the asylum, it was far too hectic for his taste. He had a cozy and well-run private psychiatry practice catering to the elite of Gotham City. Crane often didn't mince words with Westmeyer that he was helping those who needed help the least – the wealthy. Westmeyer, on the other hand, was quick to point out Crane had his own private practice apart from Arkham, which also had a few wealthy clients.

"That is for personal reasons," Crane would quickly add.

"You mean for money," Westmeyer would say. "What you're doing at Arkham is great and noble, Jonathan. But you have to pay the bills, just like me."

Now Westmeyer was observing Jonathan's 'great and noble' intentions first hand this morning as nurses guided patients through the hallways, some with severe dementia, other with vacant eyes, others trembling and with erratic behavior.

No, I'm glad I'm not working here, Westmeyer thought.

He turned back to the nurse filling out paperwork at the desk.

"Do you know how much longer Dr. Crane will be busy with his patient?"

"It's not a patient, it's a visitor," said the nurse. "And I really don't know, Dr. Westmeyer. I suggest you take a seat."

Westmeyer looked at his gold watch and observed the ticking second's hand. He had hoped to catch his old friend early in the day before the first of his morning appointments; he didn't have much time to spare in his busy schedule. But if he missed him today, so be it. Truly it was Westmeyer's fault for making this surprise visit; he should have called to let Jonathan know he was coming.

Westmeyer picked up his leather briefcase and began to turn to walk not for the long row of waiting area seats, but the exit when a sharp gunshot rang out. Nurses, doctors and orderlies in that moment froze in shock, not knowing where the gunshot came from or – worse – if the gun was in the hands of a lunatic patient. Westmeyer suddenly, without even thinking, ran in the direction opposite of the exit.

"No, Dr. Westmeyer! You are not authorized," screamed the nurse from the station.

But he didn't care. If there was one thing he remembered clearly from his time at school with Jonathan was that danger somehow always found him. Jonathan drew perilous situations to himself like a magnet and he never seemed to care. He always remained cool and collected, even flaunted it somehow. There was a saying that circulated in the psychiatric department at Gotham University while Jonathan was there:

Jonathan Crane, the man without fear.

Westmeyer always added something else to that slogan:

Jonathan Crane, the idiot I had to keep getting out of trouble because he was too much of a fool to be getting into dangerous situations!

He was now running at full speed as he rounded the corner, knocking a few of the stunned nurses and some doctors out of the way. He knew where Jonathan's office was by heart after visiting it several times over the last couple of years.

At last, panting, his lungs burning, he skidded to a halt as he saw the thick maple door with a brass plaque emblazoned with the engraved name of Dr. Jonathan Crane, Head Psychiatric Physician. Westmeyer briefly knocked, but when there was no response, he grabbed the door handle and shoved it open.

The room was dark in contrast to the bright, fluorescently lit hallway outside. The thick curtains had been drawn over the windows and for a moment Westmeyer thought he saw nothing in the darkness as he took a few tentative steps inside, but then he saw the faint outline of a crouching figure looming over a prostrate man. The figure seemed to slip something off its head and to smooth back its rough, scraggly hair.

"Who are you," the figure demanded.

"Westmeyer, I'm Dr. Westmeyer. Jonathan, is that – you?"

"I am Scare- NO! I'm sorry, Steven. I just was shot at. I am not in my right mind."

"Jonathan, how horrible. Let me call the police."

"No, I'll be fine in a moment. Just give me a moment."

In the darkness Westmeyer strained to see what Crane was doing. Whatever he pulled from his head and was holding in his hand he now hid somewhere in the shadows. Slowly, from the faint outline in the darkness, Crane stood up and flicked on the lights. What Westmeyer saw in the glaring lights shocked him. On the floor was the man he clearly remembered as the troublemaker from the psychiatry symposium. His eyes were closed and for all purposes he looked dead. A gun lay upon the floor, just a few inches from his lifeless fingers.

"Is he dead, Jonathan," Westmeyer asked.

"No, unconscious."

"And you, Jonathan? Are you wounded?"

Jonathan Crane's face was ashen; his normally bright eyes were dull and pale.

"No, the shot was close, but not close enough. The bullet hole is in the window frame. I closed the curtains – not wishing to look at it."

"Jonathan, we should get both of you to the hospital and call the police."

Crane shook his head, his eyes fixed on the unconscious Syler.

"No, I will be fine and he will be too. He's sick, Steven, sick, just like his brother, but sick in another way. I can cure him too. I will cure him. I won't fail like I failed with his brother."

"Jonathan, you need medical attention and most importantly you need rest! You nearly were killed today!"

"Mental illness doesn't stop for 'rest,' Steven. You should know that by now."

Gently Westmeyer took his old friend by the hand and began to lead him out of the room.

"First I think we need to get you out of this place," said Westmeyer.

"There were some things he did say that were true though, Syler. About my failure. I am a failure in some respects, Steven."

"We need to get you some help, Jonathan. First let's get you some help."

They both entered the corridor and nurses and doctors alike started pushing into them with questions. Dr. Crane suddenly changed in appearance, adopting a cool, in control appearance for them all.

"Do not panic anyone. It was not a gunshot, just a high-pressure oxygen tank that exploded. Nothing to worry about please. Return to your normal routines everyone ladies and gentlemen."

Almost in disappointment the curious crowd departed. Now the two doctors were left alone again and Crane began walking with Westmeyer. Only when they were halfway there did Westmeyer realize they were not heading for the exit.

"Jonathan, where are we going? I thought we were going to the hospital and that you were going to call the police on Syler?"

"I told you I was a failure, Westmeyer, and this proves it."

Westmeyer was about to insist that they abandon this ridiculous adventure when Jonathan clearly was a success in many respects, but somehow curiosity was preventing him being the good friend. He wanted to see what Crane's dirty secret was if he truly was a failure in at least one case.

Crane stopped at Room 221 and paused before unclipping his ID card and slipping it through the key lock. Crane opened the door for his friend and then entered himself. The room and the patient was such a familiar sight to Crane now; and every time he entered it seemed his heart grew heavier.

Crane turned toward the patient and sat in the chair opposite her, gently taking her hand.

"It's been three years now," Crane sighed. "Three years since she's spoken anything to me."

"You can't blame this on yourself, Jonathan. It's not your fault what happened to your mother."

"It's my fault I can't cure her. For all my so-called genius and 'miracle cures' what good is it if I can't cure her?"

Jonathan gazed at his mother staring blankly back at him, not acknowledging her son now sat before her, not realizing her son's life nearly had been snuffed out just a moment before. He gazed at her nearly white, tangled hair, which once was such a rich brown and at the haphazard scratch scars that marked her cheek as she imagined phantoms coming and tearing at her face in the dark hours of the night. Jonathan fought back the tears in his eyes.

"Jonathan, it's not your fault," Westmeyer whispered. "Now it's time to get you some help."

But suddenly a cell phone rang in Crane's breast pocket. He slipped it out and held it to his ear, finally ending his call with:

"No problem, I'll be there."

Crane turned his eyes to Westmeyer with a bitter smile upon his lips.

"I'm afraid my 'help' will have to come at another time, Steven. It turns out that she-devil Rachel Dawes also is coming to pay me a visit today and I must be ready."


Not Human: Hey! I'm glad to see you again and thanks for the review. I noticed you have a couple of people clamoring for a sequel or at least another chapter to your story. May I also chime in and say I'd like a continuation to Jane's adventures? Also please post on the forum when you can. We miss you! hugs

fightdirrty: Oh, I rock? Thank you very much! I don't know if I can get more kisses in, but I'll try. ; )

MyOtherPenName: Thanks! I'm glad you think this fiction is working out well and better yet that Emily isn't a Mary Sue (I really didn't want her to be). I definitely have more surprises in store.

Blodeuedd: If anyone can masterfully pull off a romantic scene with Crane you can do it with even more grace and poetry than I ever could. But thank you so much for such high praise! It means so much receiving such excellent reviews from such a gifted author.