Disclaimer: All the characters used in this fic belong to DC Comics and are based on the characters in The Dark Knight. I own nothing but the plot.

Chapter 12: Fallen

A/N: Twisting things up.

Song: Elect The Dead by Serj Tankian

Her head was spinning uncontrollably, not knowing which way was up, which way was down. Drowning in the enveloping darkness that kept her tightly bound as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Hundreds of voices, some she recognized, and others she didn't, echoed through her head. All of them inaudible, drowned out by the others. But there was one that she could identify through the commotion of words. It was barely above that of a whisper and, for all she knew, it could have been a dream. The voice that struck terror into the very core of Gotham was like a beacon of light through the nightmarish shadows that embraced her.

Harley awoke with a start, and found herself wrapped in a blanket on the leather couch. She tore the blanket from her body, vaulted from the couch and began to search every inch of the room for Jack, with no success. Once again, she was alone, finding solace only in the memory of weeks past.

When would she see him again, if ever?

The mere thought of living her life in wonder, haunted her. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't... would it? Not after everything she'd been through with him. She reminded herself that he was the Joker, and that he had a blatant disregard for the welfare of others. He was an insensitive bastard, to put it simply. But, she didn't fit into the categories of "victims" or "cronies."

Or did she?

But she couldn't shake the memory that made her feel as if her life had come to a screeching halt.

The night after the abduction of Alfred Pennyworth, Harley had overheard a couple thugs in a bar talking about a death that had occurred in the area. She shrugged it off, finishing her scotch in silence before wandering out onto Gotham's dark streets. She took a shortcut down an alley on her way back to the apartment building, and found a bloodied switchblade wedged into the brick wall.

Pulling the blade from the wall, she immediately recognized it as the Joker's. The usually silver blade was coated in blood that couldn't have been more than a few hours old. She picked up the pace, almost at a run, but slipped and fell on wet ground. Staring at the ground on which she had fallen, she recognized a bat symbol drawn in blood. Under normal circumstances, she would have suspected that Jack had left the mark, but she hadn't seen him in at least a day. She turned on her heel and ran back to the apartment, not even bothering to clean the ichor from her clothing.

She raced into the building, and found one of the goons, Derek was his name, if she remembered correctly, waiting for her. She questioned him about the knife she had found, but he just shook his head in silence. At that moment, she felt as though her entire world was careening off a cliff. It couldn't have been his blood, she told herself. Just because she had found his knife there didn't mean anything. Then she remembered the thugs in the bar that had been talking about a death in the area. Harley felt her legs buckle, and she collapsed to the floor in a fit of tears.

Derek's silence, and the arm he wrapped around her was confirmation enough.

Jack was gone.

After mulling the events over in her head over the past few weeks, Harley had finally reached a conclusion: Jack had been murdered. As violent and cruel as he was, Harley knew him better than anyone else did. He had told her things that nobody else knew. Things about himself.

He had been murdered by Gambol's thugs or the Batman. Though it was true that Gambol's thugs would have jumped like wild dogs at the opportunity to kill the Joker, Gotham's Dark Knight might have lost his sanity and killed the Joker to avenge Rachel Dawes and Harvey Dent. Harley was leaning towards the latter.

If the Batman, Bruce Wayne, was the one responsible for killing Jack, and she had no doubt that he was, then he would be seeing Rachel and Harvey very soon.

In Hell.

The night she had found the knife, had been the night that her heart had fallen from the height of her newfound happiness; sending her spirits into depression.

If this was how things were meant to be, then Gotham and the Batman would die at her own hand.

Short, but simple and to the point.