AN: The silver hammer reference in this chapter, in case you don't get it, is from the song "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" by the Beatles. If you haven't heard it, do, or at least find the lyrics somewhere, it's lovely.

Thanks for the reviews!

Scarecrow wasn't a split personality, per se, if he were, Jonathan wouldn't be aware of him. He was more similar to a person who was generally quiet and timid, but became assertive and loud if made angry enough. Scarecrow was more a facet of his personality than a separate entity; a very vocal facet that was always shouting in the back of his head like some sort of anti-conscience.

So, theoretically, Jonathan still should have had enough control of himself to come up with a plan in the time before the Joker walked in. Something like pretending to fall asleep and bludgeoning the Joker once his guard was down, or hiding behind the door and jumping him, or something like that. Both ideas that had a chance of working, however slight, and the rational part of him—which had been reduced to that voice in the back of the head, in the present situation—was begging Scarecrow to consider one of them, or something else. Anything, as long as it was subtle.

Unfortunately, at that moment Scarecrow was feeling about as subtle as Maxwell's silver hammer, and went with the plan he'd come up with, which consisted of launching himself into the hall and on top of the Joker. Not the wisest thing, as Jonathan let him know in a series of mental shouts.

The Joker fell back with a small cry, more from shock than any pain, and lay there for a moment, probably too confused to put up a fight, while Scarecrow threw punches. He didn't care where he hit, as long as he was hitting the clown. "You son of a bitch!"

"Er…okay?" He sounded confused, Scarecrow noted as he landed a right hook to the Joker's jaw. As if it made a difference. He could play innocent about this one all he wanted, it wouldn't save his life. "Uh…can I ask what you're—ow!" he said, annoyed as what remained of Jonathan's nails raked down his face, cutting swathes through the make-up. "Jonny, what the hell are ya doing?"

"Bastard!" The blows he was landing didn't seem to be causing any real pain, so he settled for grabbing hold of the Joker's hair and pulling, hard.

"Oookay." He sounded significantly less amused now. Scarecrow felt gloved hands take hold of his arms, flipping him over so he was the pinned to the carpet. "Can I ask what this is about?"

Scarecrow, trying and failing to pull free, settled for spitting in his face.

"Dude. Not helping out here, scaredy cat. What the hell is wrong with ya?"

"You bastard!" He pulled one leg up to his chest and kicked out, kneeing the clown in the groin. There was no effect whatsoever, and somehow that didn't surprise him. "Do you think I'll let you get away with treating her that way?"

"What?"

He managed to wrench one arm free and slapped the Joker's face, hard. "You hurt my friend and you're going to pay for it."

"I've got a great idea," Joker said, grabbing hold of him once more. "Let's assume for a second that I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, okay? Now calm down and tell me what's going on."

"As if you don't know." He was still furious, but it occurred to him that the Joker's confusion seemed genuine. But it couldn't be, because that made no sense.

"Are ya high or something? How many of those pills are ya taking?"

"You hurt Harley! Don't try to play innocent, I'm not going to fall for it. What I'm going to do—" He kicked again, to no avail. "Is rip your throat out, as soon as I get up."

"Jonathan, calm down." It was the first time he'd ever heard the Joker use his real name, and it was disconcerting enough to stop him for a moment, to note the absolutely bewildered look on his face. "What are ya talking about, that thing on the bus? You're just now getting mad about it?"

"I'm talking," he spat, "about carving up her skin, you son of a bitch. What, you thought I wouldn't notice the blood?"

Joker stared. "All right, I have absolutely no idea what you're going on about." He stood, making his way toward the break room, deflecting Scarecrow's blows with one hand, not even needing to look back to block him.

Harley didn't wake up when he switched on the lights. He crossed the room to her, looking down at her sleeping form, the cuts visible from where Jonathan had rolled up her sleeves. He stared at them, blinking, then turned to Jonathan. "What the hell did ya do to her?"

"What did I do?! Why would I cut her up? Don't try and blame this on me!"

"Well, it wasn't me." Joker glared at him. There was a faint sound, sort of a metallic whoosh, and Jonathan looked down to see the blades sticking out of his shoes. "Which tells me that this is your fault, and let me tell ya, scaredy cat, I don't like other people ruining my things."

"Eh…" Both of them turned at the sound to find Harley sitting up on the couch, eyes darting between the two of them. She yawned, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands, leaving faint smudges of blood on her face. "What's going on?"

"What the hell happened?" they asked at once.

She blinked. "What?"

"You and the blood and—and the cuts!" Jonathan managed. "What happened?" He shot her a glance which he hoped she was able to interpret as "If it was the Joker, let me know and I'll kill him for you."

If she had interpreted it correctly, she didn't say so. Rather, she glanced down at her exposed body, face reddening as she pulled her sleeves back down. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" he repeated, dumbstruck. "What do you mean, don't worry about it? You're bleeding!"

"Not anymore," she mumbled. It was slowly dawning on Jonathan that Joker may have been being honest about having nothing to do with her injuries, and the realization that came with that was even more unpleasant.

"H-Harley, you…" He stared, not wanting to go on, not even wanting to think about it. Of course she hadn't, she couldn't have. She would have no reason to. But then how else could she have ended up like this? "Did you do this to yourself?"

She didn't say anything, just sighed and looked away, but that was answer enough.

"B-but…but you…how—"

"Why?" the Joker asked, his voice steady, calm.

Harley sighed again, burying her head in her hands. "I don't know. Because after what I did today, I felt…dead, I guess. That's the best way to describe it. Empty inside. Not depressed, not angry, nothing. I thought maybe sleeping would help me get over it. It didn't. When I woke up I felt the same way."

"So you did this?" Jonathan asked, horrified. Self-mutilation wasn't an uncommon reaction for someone feeling apathetic; he knew that as a psychiatrist. It was a way of feeling again, even if the feeling was only pain. But Harley wasn't some patient he could care less about. This was his friend, and he'd sat by and done nothing while she suffered. Unforgivable, really.

"Yes. I know it was stupid, all right? It's just…I had to feel something. Anything."

"Why 'ha ha ha'?" The Joker's tone was still flat. Jonathan couldn't tell if he was irritated or amused.

"Because I was trying to make myself see the funny side," she whispered.

He felt an overwhelming urge to hug her, cut short by the Joker's next question. "Ya used one of my knives, didn't ya?"

"Yes. I found it in the bags."

He slapped her across the face, shoving Jonathan backwards when he tried to intervene. "Stupid bitch."

She just looked up, expressionless, skin already reddening from impact.

"Don't ever touch my knives without my permission."

Unbelievable. What, he cared more about the weapons than her mental health? That would be just like the Joker. He got back to his feet, not in time to stop the clown from slapping her again, feet twitching as though he was considering kicking her with the blades on his shoes.

"And don't ya ever do something like that to yourself again, idiot. It's not funny when you're the one getting cut up." With that, he turned and stormed out of the room. He didn't bother to announce where he was headed, and Jonathan couldn't care less.

"Sorry," Harley muttered, rubbing her face.

"Harley…" he stared at her, unable to look away from the faint patches of blood showing through her clothing. The sight of blood had never bothered him before, but now it was sickening. "Harley, we should get out of here. Look at what this relationship is doing to you."

She sighed, lying back down. "It's not him, Jonathan. Really, it's not. I knew what I was getting into when I broke him out, this is all me. He didn't do this," she indicated her arm. "I did. And yes, it was stupid. Let's just pretend it didn't happen, okay?"

"You wouldn't have if it weren't for him!" he protested. "You wouldn't have done any of this if he hadn't—" he stopped, staring at her in disbelief. She'd already fallen asleep again. Ridiculous. It might be amusing if it weren't so sad. As it was, the whole thing came across as more tragic. And somewhat pathetic.

He stood above her, contemplating his choices. She couldn't stay here, that much was certain. What happened the next time one of the clown's schemes had an impact on her? What if she ended up killing herself? He shuddered, picturing it. No, she couldn't stay, that much was obvious.

It was also obvious that she wasn't going to leave on her own, for no comprehensible reason. Wild horses couldn't drag her from the Joker, utterly sick and wrong as their "love" was. Even so, she had to get out of here, and that would mean intervention on his part.

She's going to hate me for this, he thought. But it'll be worth it, if I get her away from him.

He knelt before her, careful to keep quiet, gently putting his arms around her. When she didn't stir, he stood, lifting Harley up with him, bridal style. Her breathing changed, but only for a moment, and then returned to normal. When it became clear that she wasn't going to wake, he tried taking a step forward. There was no change.

He tried another step, then another, then another, until finally he was walking through the hall and making his way down the staircase, out into the parking lot. She never even stirred, which he took to be some sort of divine intervention on his behalf. The van was still there, unlocked and empty. He lay Harley across the backseat, careful not to wake her throughout the process.

So what if she hates me? He thought, turning his attention towards hotwiring the engine. If it keeps her alive, fine. I can take it.