This is to J-Horror Fan 4-Ever, who has helped me through some hard times lately.Also in special thanks is Nyeh Creampuff, Blondymc360, Grace Dark, and as always, my first reviewer-Heir to the world.

I'm sorry it's taking so long to update. I'm trying to get back onto my feet again.

Sorry Minerva's cat...

"That's not him." Gordon was backed into a shelf, a knife at his throat.

The Joker pushed the blade forward a little, his teeth baring. "I don't like liars, and you are not my favorite person at the moment."

"No, I swear, that's not-"

Gordon stopped breathing as the knife was pushed firmly into his neck.

"Why should I believe you?" The question wasn't forced or sarcastic, it was merely curious. There was no laugh in his words.

Gordon just looked at him helplessly. He was backed up against a box of rubber gloves and syringes and he was asking the Joker to trust him.

But god, he didn't want to die. Not now, not at this time, not with a wife and sons at home waiting for him. They must be asleep by now...

When Gordon didn't answer the Joker pulled back. "You wanna' play head games? Because I will always win."

"No, I'm trying to tell you, That's not him."

The Joker let Gordon go and moved back to the body of the false Batman.

"All right, I'll play along. So why did you shoot McDead here?"

"I wasn't trying-"

"Alright, I'm bored already. Tell you what, we can go fetch the bat that you think you didn't kill. I'll tag along and as soon as you give up on your little game I'll- well I'll have to think of something on the way."

Gordon was clutching at his heart, almost panting for air. "Where are we going"

The Joker looked at him in surprise. "You tell me."

"What?" Gordon staggered onto his feet and looked up at the Joker.

The clown rolled his eyes, pushed the body off the gurney and lay down on it, his knees folded. "You are really not a very good cop. I wonder sometimes how you made it so far in the force. You are quite dim."

"You want me to go chasing after Batman?"

"If you don't want to that's fine. I can kill you now." The Joker made a move to get up but Gordon quickly put a hand up. "No! No. I'll find him."

"I'm sure you will."

Alfred Pennyworth stared down at the boy he had raised for the past fifteen years. He had grown into a fine man.

Alfred had not seen the full extent of his wards injuries. Bruce had been extraordinarily good at hiding the various bruises and cuts that he had sustained from his late night escapades. Now that Alfred could see just how badly his master had taken a beating he was wondering how he had ever let the young Wayne continue with his insane plan.

The whole of Bruce's chest was a mass of scar tissue, bruises and cuts. Three stab wounds had been clumsily sewn shut with blue thread. The job had been rushed, the stitches were uneven. Alfred cut them carefully with the small black embroidery scissors he had learned to keep close.

He began to fix the thread, closing the wounds efficiently. He stared at the one wound he had yet to clean and close, the badge of honor, the bullet wound just over Bruce's heart. It was puffy, singed on the edges. There had been blood, a lot of blood.

When Alfred had first seen his ward, lying so still, so silent, and so bloody, he had feared the worst.

He had almost given up on him.

And then Lucius Fox had stepped out of the van and carried the young Wayne up the steps, Alfred had felt his world begin to spin. The site of the last of the Wayne legacy so pale against Lucius' black suit. The bullet, the knife wounds, the bruises. They all swam together.

Alfred had loved many people and he was loved, but he had never, in all his years, felt as much pain and loneliness as when his young charge had been carried up the steps.

He wanted to shout out to Bruce, wanted him to get up, to walk proudly up those steps not as a billionaire playboy, not as Batman, but as his father's son, as the man he had never had the chance to be.

And then the relief of the heartbeat, the overwhelming, knee buckling breathlessness of finding a pulse, the realization that life could go on.

And that Bruce Wayne was not dead.

Lucius must have felt it too. Bruce Wayne didn't have many friends, he had lost Rachel, his parents. All he had left was his company CEO and his old butler.

But what loyal friends they were.

Alfred taped a piece of gauze on the wound and sat down, staring at his ward. He could remember when he had reported his ward missing. Phoning friends, schools, enemies, waiting for a ransom note or a call saying someone had found the lost prince of Gotham. The endless weeks waiting by the phone investigating every siting no matter how unlikely.

The day that his death had been declared, Alfred had worn a hole in the carpet, his shoulders tense.

The day he had grieved the Wayne family. The nights where he lay awake at night wondering where his master was. Wondering why he hadn't drawn any money out of the account.

He remembered, the angry tears that had threatened to fall when Bruce's will had been read. The sensation of waiting for seven years, waiting for a phone to ring, waiting tensely everyday for the one person he considered family to be found.

And then the day that Bruce Wayne had dialed his old butler, the day that a familiar voice had tentatively asked to be picked up, like it hadn't been years, like it was like any other day.

But it was the day that had renewed Alfred pennyworth's hope. The day that he his persistence had paid off.

Bruce Wayne would keep fighting.

I'll have an update by next weekend... I promise on my mother's grave.