It occurs to me now that I must have stolen Bartholomew's first name from crowscrow because no where else does he seem to have one? Certainly not in canon. Anyways, I quite liked his appearances in BTAS. He always came off as a mollycoddling milksop to me.
Content Warning: Animal abuse (nothing graphic); mentions of violence, self-directed violence, and murder; language; black humor
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After much strenuous soul-searching, endless therapy, determination, and all the rest, Professor Jonathan Crane had graduated from in-patient status to that of an apparently reformed out-patient. And that had been hard. Due to a recent scandal though, one with which the now ex-rogue could scarcely be bothered as far as teasing out the details went, his usual therapist's schedule had suffered from a few dramatic shifts, and rather than continuing his sessions with Dr. Leland, he was forced to make the switch over to Bartholomew. That had been worse, because unlike Joan, Robert was as soft as the flab on his saggy old face. He was the snuggly new-aged counterpoint to the head doctor's aloof methodology or the hard-edged "pop-a-pill" philosophies held by Dr. Young. No, it was all hug-therapy, gratitude journals, and insipid chunks of half-baked advice from here on in, undoubtedly lifted straight from some B-listing young adult novel.
Pacing leisurely through his new apartment, Jonathan heaved a sigh and snapped the book in his hand shut decisively, awaiting what would amount to being something like his seventh housecall from Arkham Asylum's surrogate senile pappy.
The professor looked around his space. He'd been living there alone for a little over a month now.
This new dwelling of his—comfortable, but practically a single room— was of course nestled in one of Wayne Gardens' many complexes. It was tidy—aside from his desk, naturally— and furnished as much to his liking as safety regulations would allow. He was only allotted enough space for one bookshelf, pity, and the bedroom already came complete with one sagging mattress, how long it had been there the professor could not say. But that was halfway house living for you.
As the afternoon sun dimly glowed through the Venetian blinds, Crane's thoughts turned again to the Chinese fire drill that was his doctors' battered schedule. Didn't the staff at Arkham know that such a radical shift could tax his recovery process?
They were lucky, he'd mused, that this fate had fallen upon himself and not some other, less stalwart patient.
He sighed again, peering irritably between the window-shade's slats, and then at his wristwatch. If the man was going to insinuate himself into Jonathan's life and start making changes willy nilly, the least he could do was be on time for his mangling sessions. He'd done plenty of damage already without the help of tardiness.
As if on cue, the sound of four little scritchy-scratching paws approaching from down the hall echoed plainly, and Jonathan was thus reminded of spoilage long since set in motion.
The cause of the noise was called Howard, the braindead scotty-dog to which he'd been assigned, or rather, that which had been assigned to him. As a "comfort animal," Bartholomew had said.
Despite what Howard seemed to think, the feckless pooch was no friend to his new master, not with his habit of etching claw marks into the nice wood floors, nor his tendency to leave formerly tidy spots in varying states of disarray, his great appreciation for the robust flavor of good leather shoes perhaps, or least of all his penchant for strategically planting surprises in various corners of the house. He was supposed to be fully trained already. Supposed to be.
Howard had the sunniest temperament his reluctant foster-owner had ever had the misfortune of knowing in any animal or human being. Dogged loyalty was named such for a reason, and this creature was the very most prototypical model thereof. And Crane loathed him for it.
He was not fond of animals at the best of times, but if he were to have anything, the academic would have preferred a cat. Sleek, low-maintenance, and as ambivalent as they come. However, the only available feline in this entire comfort animal program (barely-funded as it was) was a black cat. It was a silly point of contention, the patient thought, but according to Doctor Share 'n' Care, an animal so closely related to witches and the occult in popular conscience would intensify the chances of a relapse. Bullshit.
So instead, Jonathan got a dim-witted terrier. Slobbering, straggly-chinned, loud, and hyperaffectionate. On good days, the beast was ignorable, but on bad days…
Well
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"Jonathan, I am very disappointed in you." Bartholomew stared at his charge through tented fingers in a manner which seemed to be playing at looking authoritative. The ensuing effect could only really be described as "confused grandpa."
Crane remained unfazed, leaning back into the leather office chair that he found himself occupying. He did his level best to imagine that the strait jacket wrapped around his person wasn't actually there, for the sake of his pride.
"I believe I'd already made my disinterest in participating in this program clear, doctor. Several times, in fact. Just what exactly did you expect?"
Bartholomew's frown puckered. "A little self-control, perhaps."
"I knew what I was doing."
At this, squeezing the pads of his fingers together until they turned a uniform and sickly indigo was all that Robert could do to keep from sighing and burying his face in his hands.
"I really expected better from you," he said helplessly. Crane barely shrugged. His doctor continued his speil, occasionally—not very discreetly—making eye contact the orderly parked just outside his door, who was staring in with deadly focus.
The doctor continued. "You do realize this means that you'll be moving back into your old cell, on the high-risk ward. That, and you've lost your privileges to owning and wearing a belt."
His patient nodded, almost sagely, as if he'd been tapped by a desperate man for a glimpse into the future, and not an exasperated doctor who'd recently caught him in the process of lynching a puppy. "I never had those privileges anyways," he said.
It was true, and perhaps the first honest thing Jonathan had said all day. The things that man could do with a belt—to himself and to others—were ghastly enough to curdle milk. His skill in the realm of misusing waistwear now apparently extended to dogs as well. Howard had lived through the ordeal, but he was now called Snickerdoodle and resided under the permanent care of one Dr. Robert Bartholomew, who lived alone due to a recent and nasty divorce. He was also relegated to a vibrant new world of canine PTSD, spinal injuries, and a very tiny wheelchair.
With a few crooks of his finger, Bartholomew summoned the guard outside, who obeyed the silent command robotically.
"Mr. Wrigley will escort you back to your cell. You'll be rooming with Humphrey Dumler." Jonathan winced inwardly.
There was a beat as Arkham's tallest returning graduate wobbled to his feet, brusquely rejecting assistance by shimmying his shoulders, knocking the orderly's hand away. At the white-clad worker's allowance, he salvaged as much of his dignity as he could and made for the exit.
"Now Jonathan," the doctor said, following Crane and Wrigley across the floor. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
The newly rechristened Scarecrow paused in thought, though that might have only been for his keepers' benefit. Then he spoke up.
"The head janitor at Wayne Gardens. Do you know of him?"
Bob's brows gathered in concern. The same head janitor who'd disappeared last week? 'Please God, don't let him say what I think he's going to say.'
He coughed once, uncertain. "I suppose."
"He's buried in the courtyard. Under the petunias, if memory serves, for something like four days now."
The psychiatrist clenched his teeth and poorly masked a longsuffering groan. His response to the patient's confession seeped out as little more than a stiff whine. "Thank you for your honesty, Jonathan."
Crane gave another tiny nod, and he was gone.