It takes madness to find out madness.

Chapter Seven.

Carousel.

Sweaty.

"...that is one dirty mouth..."

Too hot.

"...You know, Harley-doll, I'm almost sorry to do this..."

Wait, don't...

"Can you live for me?"

I jerked awake, phantom question bouncing around my skull like a jackhammer. Gripping the sides of my head, I squeezed.

"Get outta my head, clown," I growled, as if my heart weren't pounding a tattoo against the inside of my chest. Nothing like a nocturnal visit from Gotham's worst to set your heart racing.

You get out, Secret Harleen yelled, yanking the covers up over her head.

I ignored her, too busy with the dream trying to repeat itself behind my eyelids. I hit pause. My heart couldn't take a second rendition of breath on my cheek and cool fingers gripping my shoulders before I tumbled into oblivion. I'd go into cardiac arrest.

Flopping my arms down on the covers, I looked to my left. Blinky alarm clock says... 6AM. Huh. Better than last night. And the night before that. And pretty much every night since I swan dived out of a helicopter.

Peeling the covers off like dream-soaked banana skin, I tested my leg, hissing breath through my teeth at the sting. Yowza. Three weeks. You'd think it would've let up by now. Nope. First thing in the morning, it sung like a canary. Limping to the bathroom, I spat in the sink. Blood. Awesome.

With my finger I felt the ridges of scar tissue on the inside of my cheeks. I'd been sleep-chewing. Again. Cannibalism. Self-cannibalism. Is that even a thing?

We're making it a thing. Secret Harleen.

Sticking a finger in either side of my mouth, I pulled a goofy face at myself in the mirror.

"You are a mess."

A trickle of bloody drool had dried on one corner of my lips. With the dark, sleepless rings around my eyes and my paling skin, I looked like a maniac.

Cool. Secret Harleen.

I pointed at my ever-paler self. "Stop dreaming, dummy. That's an order."

Secret Harleen blew a raspberry.

Twisting my hair into two knots, I made my way into the living room and shoved back my sofa. A little light acrobatics in the morning to squeegee my brain.

I was swinging in the rafters on my aerial silks watching a spider poop a web and trying unsuccessfully not to think about dreams when the phone rang, startling me into unravelling like a twisted marionette.

It kept ringing with no concern for my being stuck in my silks.

"Just a second." I shouted to an inanimate object.

Freeing my leg, I darted to the receiver. "Hello?" I answered cautiously.

"Harleen, is that you? You sound breathless." It was Doctor A. At 6:40 in the morning. Not at all concerning.

I twisted the cord round my finger, resting my butt on the phone table. "Um, I was, nothing. Hey, what's up?"

He cleared his throat. "Did I wake you? I should have checked the time—"

"I was up." Being tortured out of sleep by the patient neither of us have mentioned since you teased me with the possibility of a session, Doc.

"Good. Good." He paused. I waited for him to cut to the chase. "Listen, the reason I'm calling is—well, I wondered if you'd be able to come in?"

"Now?" My voice shot up an octave. "You mean to Arkham?" Ouch. I winced, dropping the phone cord that had been cutting the blood off to my finger.

Secret Harleen sat up, interested.

"Yes. There's something I want to discuss with you." He sounded guarded. My spidey-senses tingled.

Psychologist Harleen stuck her head out of the bathroom, tootbrush hanging out of her mouth.

Something bubbled in my chest. An early start wasn't the weird part—working in an Asylum, graveyard shifts were a given. It was the last-minute notice that had my brain ticking. That, and the way he sounded was setting off my conspiracy bells.

"Sure, Doc." I answered slowly from around the finger I was sucking. "I can do that."

"Good, that's good. I'll see you shortly, then?"

"I'll be there in twenty."

He hung up.

Well.

Well. Psychologist Harleen.

Well. Secret Harleen. What are ya waiting for, dummy? Go shower!

~oOoOo~

After what may have been the fastest shower of my entire life, I threw on a shirt and skirt, tied my wet hair in a knot and was in my car. A few traffic violations later and voila, Arkham. The sky was still shades of pink and orange, turning the dark shadow of the asylum into silhouette art on a twisted postcard. Wish you were here!

The gates still freaked me out, screeching as they opened to let me through. All that twisty, dark metal. If I was being honest, they reminded me of Batman. Big, dark, imposing. Keeping the loonies in the bin.

"Morning, Louie," I called to the security guard who'd buzzed me through from inside his box.

"You're early." He sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. There was a coffee stain on his shirt. He gave me a suspicious look. "You supposed to be here?"

"Doctor's orders." I winked, holding up my badge.

He snorted, but didn't laugh. Taking my badge in one hand, he stared at it for way longer than necessary before handing it back without a word. I took it between two fingers, making a mental note to dip it in some kind of chemical cleaner before I put it back on.

When I reached Doctor A's office, the door was closed. I lifted a hand to knock when I heard voices coming from inside.

Without a second thought, I leaned in.

We need to talk about your instincts. Psychologist Harleen folded her arms, disapproving.

Shut up, I'm trying to listen.

"…but is it ethical?" Doctor A asked someone.

"Ethical is a funny word, Jerry, one that's open to interpretation depending who you talk to." I knew that voice.

"Doctor Crane," I muttered.

"What's good for one person, might not be so good for another," Crane continued. I heard footsteps. Someone was pacing.

"So, no." Doctor A was blunt.

"I didn't say that. I think there's definitely some professional merit in what you're suggesting." Definitely Crane. I'd never heard someone else talk with the same relaxed authority. I'd only talked to him a few times, but every time left me feeling a little off-kilter. If there was a cosmic joke, he was in on it.

The footsteps stopped. "He's been refusing." Doctor A said.

"To speak to Joan? Well, that's not exactly surprising. Their personalities are—incompatible would probably be the kindest word."

"I feel like, at this stage, it's either try this or stop treatment altogether."

Are they talking about who we think they're talking about? Secret Harleen's eyes were wide.

Shush!

"That's one option."

"But then what?"

"Leave him to rot, I guess." Crane's voice was a shrug.

"So." Doctor A hesitated. "We bring her in, then."

My heart dropped like a mallet on a high striker. Ding ding ding.

"You've been playing with the idea long enough. Only one way to see how it plays out."

The sound of chair legs squeaking on the floor. "There's something different about the way he interacts with her." He sounded like he did the night of the party. Fervent. "I've never seen it before."

"Clearly, she has a high threshold for fear." Crane mused. "Maybe he wants to test her limits."

My heart skipped a beat.

"Yes." Doctor A answered, quieter. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"What are you doing?"

I backed up so fast the door could've been lava. Doctor Joan Leland stood a few feet away, clipboard to her chest, one eyebrow raised. I'd spoken to her maybe once since I started my tenure, and this is how she found me. Hand in the cookie jar.

Crappy pink elephants crap. "I was—"

The door opened. Joan and I turned simultaneously. Doctor Crane looked back and forth between us. "Good morning, Doctors." There was a small smile on his face. Like he knew he was missing something, and he thought it was funny. He looked like what someone might imagine a college professor would look like, if one were in the business of crushing on college professors.

"Good morning, Doctor Crane." I gave him a bright smile. Blood rushed to my cheeks.

"Morning, Jonathan." Joan's tone was conversational. "Early meeting with Jeremiah?" She caught my eye. I looked away.

"In fact, we were just waiting on Doctor Quinzel, here." He gestured to me. "Why don't you come in, Harleen?"

"Sure." I scooted into the office, Joan following behind.

"Doctor Crane—" she began.

"Is that Doctor Leland?" Doctor A cut her off, looking up from his notes. From the look of his stubble, I'd say he hadn't been home. "Good timing on your part, Joan. Sit down, both of you." He closed his file, expectant.

For a second, Joan looked thrown, her mouth still open to rat me out. Doctor Crane seated himself to the right of Doctor A. After a beat she took a chair, waving a hand at me to do the same when I hesitated. "Sit down, Harleen."

My nerves spiked. I took the seat beside her, accidentally-on-purpose squeaking it against the floor. Her lips thinned.

"So, here I am." I glanced between Doctor A and Doctor Crane. Looking at them both, it started to come back to me. Getting busted by Joan had made me momentarily forget what I'd overheard. Butterflies filled my stomach.

"Harleen." Doctor A steepled his fingers. "You may remember a conversation we had the night of your mother's party. About treatment, once you returned."

Doctor Crane watched me, pale eyes hard to read. Joan was a statue.

Stone Joan. Ha ha.

"I remember." I shifted in my seat, resisting the urge to dry my palms on my skirt.

"You've been back for a week or so. How would you say your sessions have been going so far?" His face showed genuine interest. I would've relaxed, if not for the strange gleam in his eye.

"Um." I glanced at Joan. If anyone could review my performance, it was her. She'd been a silent sit-in for most of my sessions. If clipboards could talk… "Good, I think. I like to think I've made some progress with some of the less volatile patients. I mean," I glanced at Joan again. She didn't turn. "A little progress. It hasn't really been that long."

A small laugh from Joan. "No, it hasn't," she added, flicking lint from her skirt.

I narrowed my eyes. She ignored me, pretending to examine her nails. Turning back to Doctor A, I continued, "I'd say I've made progress, though. Definitely, considering how little time and practical training I've had so far."

Joan stiffened. Ha. Take that. It was true, too—she was always too busy with her own patients.

He nodded, running a finger across his chin as he spoke. "Under usual circumstances, I'd never consider something so serious at such an early stage. But things don't always happen the way we might plan for them to." He held a hand out to Joan. "Joan, would you mind passing me patient file #0801?"

Doctor Crane glanced at him, then at Joan.

Joan's mouth popped open. She clutched the files she held closer to her chest. "Why?" she asked bluntly.

Doctor A shifted, uncomfortable. "In previous meetings, you've expressed concerns at the patient's failure to co-operate." He tried to inject authority into his tone. "Doctor Crane and I agree a new approach is warranted…" At Joan's expression, he trailed off.

"So, what?" She gestured at me, lip curled. "Are we so out of options we'd stick someone with less than a month's experience in with the Joker?" The look she gave me was acerbic.

We were right. Psychologist Harleen.

Oh shit, we were right! Secret Harleen whooped.

I blinked. Don't mind me, I'm just going into cardiac arrest. My hands were shaking. Everything looked a little shiny.

"So," I looked at Joan, who looked as though she might snap, then at Doctor A, "Just to make sure I've got this right—you want me to therapize patient #0801, a.k.a., the Joker." It was hard for me to get the name past the bowling ball wedged in my oesophagus.

"The patient seems to react to you in a way we think it would be good to explore." Doctor Crane cut in, turning his gaze on me. Any other time, I would've reacted to the intensity of his eyes. At that moment, I felt floaty. Like I was watching myself.

Now you know how we feel. Secret Harleen pointed her telescope at me, one eye super-magnified.

"In a patient like that, any kind of response is worth investigating." Crane tugged the file from an unwilling Joan, coming to sit before me.

Flipping through the pages, he showed me notes from multiple therapy sessions that repeated the same thing over and over: "Subject unresponsive". Closing the folder, he handed it to me. My fingers tingled.

"He's usually the one calling the shots, in his universe. He thinks of himself as untouchable. For someone to survive him twice, well, it bears looking into."

I took a deep breath. The file felt hot in my hands. Okay. We can do this. I can do this.

I can do this. Psychologist Harleen was teetering on mania. She'd just won the professional lottery.

Sugar, I can do this. Secret Harleen swung a baseball bat, hitting a homerun. She winked.

"Okay. When do we do this?"

Joan gritted her teeth. Clearly, she didn't feel like sticking around for the show. "If it's okay with everyone, I've got other patients to see to." She stood, gathering the rest of her files. "Jeremiah, don't blame me when this goes badly." Her heels clicked as she left. Doctor Crane watched her leave with a bemused expression.

At her words, a shiver ran up my neck. I brushed it off. "So?" I turned back to Doctor A, half impatient, half about to vomit.

He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "You've read about the Joker before?"

"Pretty much everything that isn't classified." The stories hadn't lived up to the real deal, that was for sure.

"So you're familiar with his brand of humour."

"I like to think so." I'd heard the same jokes on repeat a few dozen times in my dreams. Felt the bruises, too.

Doctor Crane and he shared a look, Doctor Crane raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure, Jerry?"

He tapped his chin, deciding. "One more night won't make a difference."

Doctor Crane nodded his agreement.

Apprehension nestled itself into my stomach lining like a tiny sliver of glass.

"Now, Doctor Quinzel." Doctor A turned back to me. He looked how I felt. That mixture of nausea and adrenaline you get at the top of a rollercoaster, right before the drop. "We do this now."

Hey! Sorry to switch out an entire Chapter on you guys, but the other version wasn't meshing right with the story, or Harleen's character. Bits and pieces may return, but for now, this version takes the story where it needs to go. Sorry to anyone who preferred the old version. I hope you guys like this version, too! For those interested, Sonequa Martin is who I'm picturing as Joan (in case y'all want to share my visuals). Melanie Martinez - Carousel is the title track.

Your reviews mean the absolute world to me, guys. Thanks for taking the time, srsly 3