AN: The first of a...four? I think it's four...part storyline, featuring murder and no mayhem.
SwordStitcher: Oh, the barbed wire is for tying you up. He's kidding. Yeah, he wasn't too happy. Whatever. The bonfire was an accident, there was no need to drive the car on rooftops to get to Arkham. Monster. I'm not kidding. And indeed, that was the most unpleasant car ride I have ever taken. HE'S KIDDING, I SWEAR. I most certainly am not. I never 'kid'.
Even though it's a hospital, Arkham's medical wing is difficult to get into. Many a time he's been on his deathbed and received the diagnosis of 'common cold'.
But not this time. This time he's getting in there if he has to shatter an ankle on the way.
He's already got broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder (but they put that back), and that might be enough. But just in case…
"Come on, Crane."
They tug him semi-gently from the van and he slumps against them with a low groan.
"Get up."
"I-I can't see very well."
That's true. His glasses have been broken again and they took the remains lest he shove an earpiece into someone's eye. That's not his style, but still. What matters is that he could.
"Come on, you'll get a check-up when we're inside."
Yes, but just to make sure…
He groans again and forces his body to go completely limp, slipping out of the man's grasp and falling to the asphalt.
"Shit."
"I didn't do it."
"Don't look at me!"
Is he going to have to lay here all night? This is incredibly uncomfortable and besides, think of the germs! He isn't the first to bleed here, after all.
"Jonathan?"
Bless her for that. He'll drop her a hint when he's sure they're not looking-the first (and last) time he didn't…it hadn't gone over well.
"What'd you do?"
"He just…"
"We don't have to explain anything to her."
Hell hath no fury…but they don't need to know that, do they?
"Go and get help, you idiot."
Hopefully she won't get herself into trouble. The last thing he needs is for her to worry in solitary for a week, find out he's fine, and slip something poisonous into his morning mush.
"Um…"
"Move!"
"Kitty…" He musters up a weak cough, which really does hurt, and follows it with a whimper of agony. Well, he hopes it's agony. Close enough.
Footsteps start running towards the asylum and there's the clink-thud of a handcuffed individual kneeling on the asphalt next to him.
"Jonathan?"
He blinks a few times. There's a large blur a few feet away-the remaining guard. He shouldn't hear anything as long as he keeps his voice soft.
"Shh. I'm fine, I just can't deal with group therapy right now."
He can feel the relief melting off her. She really does worry too much. It's not healthy. All the same, he's oddly touched.
"Don't scare me like that." she hisses.
"It's just a couple of broken ribs."
"It could be an impaled lung."
"It's not. Don't worry."
The blur moves a bit and when she speaks again, her voice has that scared edge again.
"It'll be all right, love, just don't go to sleep."
He coughs again-ouch-and closes his eyes. Where is that damned guard? It's starting to rain again! If these two had worked for him, they'd have been fired on the spot.
There's the rattling of cheap, poorly-attached wheels. About time.
"Come on, Richardson. Up."
"P-please…please get him to a doctor…"
"Come on."
He's picked up-do they really have to be so rough? What if they injure him further?-and placed on the rickety gurney. Better. Moderately. Now, about that trip to medical…
He's blinded by cheap lighting when they enter and when the cart finally stops, there's the smell of cleaning supplies, medicine, and fabric softener. At last.
"Mr. Crane? Jonathan?"
DOCTOR. DOCTOR Crane, you imbecile!
He groans and blinks a few times.
"K-Kitty?"
"No. Nurse Wilkes."
She's not so terrible. She lets him read if he asks nicely.
"S-sorry…"
"I'll take it from here. You two go on about your business." He hears them leave. "What hurts?"
"Ribs…shoulder…really dizzy."
"I'll keep you overnight and we'll see how you feel in the morning. Sound fair?"
Good! Plenty of time to come up with vague, potentially life-threatening pains that will keep him out of group therapy for a good long while.
"I think I may be in danger of a rib impaling my left lung." he murmurs.
"Is that so?" She doesn't sound worried. Damn. "We'll see. Think you can get into pajamas, or do I need to help you?"
No, thanks, he can manage just fine.
If he were at home he'd accept the help, though.
Once he's in bed-one hand cuffed to the side as a precaution-she turns out the lights.
Sleep. At last.
THE END