A/N: A big thank you to all my reviewers. This time out, I will not be sending PMs replies to those who review. I don't want to clog anyone's inbox. But please know that I greatly appreciate the support you've given me. It inspires me to write on days when I feel like slacking off. If you have a private question or something you'd like to discuss, feel free to send me a note. I'm more than happy to talk about this story with any of you. And now on to Chapter 2.
Chapter Two: Two Docs
Mr. J was facing the opposite direction when the shot penetrated the night. It took approximately half a second to turn, another half a second to draw his own weapon. One more second to locate the target and half a second to aim. Two and half seconds all together. Enough time for the assassin to start running. Tracking the shadowy figure, he fired off two rounds. First one, miss. Second one, hit. Only a clip, though. Upper left tricep, before the gunman was safe behind the cover of a building.
The distance was great enough that following would be pointless and Mr. J didn't believe in pointless endeavors. The gunman would be hunted down in the future. Instead, he turned his attentions to his moaning companion, her body gracefully splayed out face first on the sidewalk, a puddle of blood increasing beneath her. Still alive and conscious. Only a moment of hesitation, decision, before he crouched down, turning her over. Too much investment to let her die now. A small amount of blood gathered on her forehead. Head wound from the fall. Bullet inside her gut, twisting into her intestines.
"Nothing but trouble," he said to her, unbuckling her belt, and unzipping her pants. Gently, he peeled the material away from the damaged area, his body sheltering her bare skin from the falling snow. Blood gushed out from the tiny hole. Too deep for his skills.
Her lips were turned up in a smile. Enjoying the sensations that wracked her body, no doubt. "Sorry, Mr. J." Her voice was weak as her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. A quick slap to her face stopped her from losing consciousness. "Again," she murmured, always wanting more pain from his hand. It almost made him smile.
A tug at his tie, slipping it from around his neck. He pressed the fabric against the wound, harshly, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her. Wouldn't stop but would slow down the bleeding. Too much blood for a normal entry wound with no exit. Time was of the essence. His other hand reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Pushing one button, he put it to his ear.
"What?" A surly male voice answered.
"Bring the car around," Mr. J said and put the phone back into his pocket.
Waiting for the car, he looked down at his lover, the bliss on her face clear. She was right. The assassin was a crap shot. Or it was an intentional miss. The trajectory of the bullet was too low. Thinking back. He heard the crunch of her boots shift right before the shot. Harley had moved to block him from the gunman. No time for the gunman to adjust. Which meant the bullet was meant for him. Based on the height difference between Harley and himself, and the angle, the bullet was intended to hit Mr. J in the femoral artery. Or again, a crap shot. Either way, an insult.
Another thought clicked. "You took a bullet for me, Harley."
"Worth it," she whispered, shaking, as he pushed down against her wound again.
Pride swelled within him at his success. The disappointment from her loss of control faded within him. Harley's sense of self-preservation was skewed when it came to receiving pain, a problem when she was truly injured by his hand. Times when he went too far and she couldn't, wouldn't stop him. Nights when she couldn't move, yet begged for more. This was different, though. She moved in front of him out of instinct. Not because she knew she would receive pain, but because she wanted to prevent him harm. He couldn't have been more pleased with her progress.
An inconspicuous silver Ford Taurus pulled up, a tinted window lowering. Mr. J looked up. "Help me get her in the car."
The driver's side door open and a man stepped out. Larger framed, but not fat. The body of a football player and a constant smirk on the face, of confidence and self-loathing. Brown hair, wide cheeks, he looked smarmy, oily, as if lies were his trade. Went by the name of Doc. Not a medical doctor, even though he loved to play with scalpels and needles. Doc rounded the front of the vehicle, a sneer forming as he looked down at Harley.
"Barbie fucked up the job?" Doc asked, grabbing her upper body. "What a surprise."
Mr. J ignored the comment, lifting her legs, careful not to let the tie fall to the ground. Together, they easily maneuvered her body into the backseat of the Taurus. Not the first time, not the last. So many bodies. Mr. J slid in under her legs to keep pressure on the wound. "Gotham Memorial," he instructed as Doc slid back into the driver's seat.
The car lurched forward. Doc fumbled with a pack of cigarettes, completely unconcerned with the unplowed surfaces the car was gliding across. "You know, Gotham General would have been closer if someone hadn't blown it up," Doc commented, snidely.
"Just shut up and drive."
Doc was another reward from Arkham. In the rare times that Mr. J was allowed to roam freely amongst the inmates, he found himself drawn to the paranoid covert schizoid that watched everyone carefully. Doc had been a patient in Arkham for years, convinced that Dr. Joan Leland was in love with him, seeing signs where there were none. His actual doctor had been Jonathan Crane, a pairing that had some unfortunate side effects on his mental state. His paranoia had only been a minor side effect of his official diagnosed disease of Schizoid Personality Disorder. And then the experiments with Crane made him experience his worst fears over and over, eventually devolving him into a state of constant concern that aliens were coming to abduct him.
Directing the paranoia and fantasies of vengeance towards his own goals, Mr. J found an ally in Doc, a creative force that when pushed could design extremely original and horrific games for the citizens of Gotham to play. Patience was required, though, as Doc was bitterly sarcastic and drank far too much. But it was worth the intense devotion that Doc showed towards the work. He understood, even if it was for the wrong reasons. It put Doc on the very short list of people that Mr. J would only kill if absolutely necessary.
Pulling out his cell phone again, trying not to move Harley too much, Mr. J did a quick web search to locate a phone number and dialed it."GCN," a woman answered.
All calls were recorded for the station. A useful tool. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. Enough to get the panic going. "I've given Gotham more than enough time to ask the right questions. To demand the truth. Have my previous messages not made it clear enough? You can't believe the lies of your leaders anymore."
The woman on the other end yelped in surprise, recognizing the voice instantly, as anyone from the city would. He smiled, looking down at Harley, knowing she would be loving this if she were more aware. "Perhaps it's time for a larger demonstration. The innocent people of Gotham are back in the game. If Police Commissioner Gordon doesn't expose his hypocrisy in the next hour, then the bomb I've placed in a patient at Gotham Memorial will explode. Tick tock." Mr. J hung up without another word, then called another number immediately.
Without waiting for a response when the line picked up, he simply said, "Slaughterhouse, ten." And he hung up again, putting the phone back in his pocket.
As Doc drove past the Emergency entrance, Mr. J observed the chaos from his tinted window. Cop cars everywhere, citizens lined up behind makeshift police barriers. A perfect recipe for bedlam and panic. Enough to slip in unnoticed. The Taurus came to a halt in an alley, near the door of an employee entrance that was rarely used and little known, even by the staff. A minute of waiting before another car pulled up next to theirs and Doc lowered his window to accept a package from the contact, handing it back to Mr. J. Ten minutes on the dot as ordered. The other car disappeared as quickly as it arrived.
Exiting the vehicle, sliding Harley's body out, Doc wrapped his arm around her to keep her upright as Mr. J opened the package, unfurling the doctor's coat, security badge, surgical mask and cap. Blending in was an art. Too many were baffled by Mr. J's ability to always be one step ahead, always be where he wanted to be, with escape plans and grenades. All in the details. Countless hours of studying the city, habits, faults, flaws, floor plans of major buildings. It took ten thousand hours to become an expert in something and Mr. J had a lot of spare time.
"Stay here and keep pressure on the wound," he instructed Doc, before sliding the security badge over the reader. The door clicked open and he strode through the hospital as if he owned it. Right now, he did. No one gave the white coat another glance, not seeing the white makeup or black eyes that hid behind the mask. No questions. People in a panic only saw what they expected, and panic was in an abundance tonight.
Moving swiftly past the hordes of people, their mewling terror like a symphony, Mr. J located an empty gurney and wheeled it back to the employee entrance. Once Harley was secure, and Doc was given his new instructions, he pushed the gurney towards the surgical department. Most of the offices were vacated, either from fear or to assist in the futile search for the bomb. Passing the empty rooms, Mr. J began to formulate a plan to locate a competent surgeon amongst the chaos. Then he saw the silhouette shadowed against the windows of one office, pacing. A glance at the name on the door. The coincidence would have made Mr. J laugh, if it wasn't so vital to stay incognito. Dr. Thomas Elliot. Harley's old chum from med school.
He pushed open the office door, startling the young surgeon. Before Thomas could speak, Mr. J pulled out a gun, pointing it at his chest. "So this is how this is going to go. My girl outside has a bullet in her, and you're going to remove it. Any attempts, any signals for help and you'll have a matching bullet inside you. Clear?"
Dr. Elliot nodded his understanding, his posture indicating that he knew exactly who stood in front of him. Mr. J smiled behind his mask. "Good. Now lead the way." He waved the gun towards the open door.
Studying him, Mr. J wondered why Harleen Quinzel had befriended him during her time in medical school. Natural red hair, blue eyes, handsome. Inherited wealth, dead parents. Didn't wear his wealth on him, though. Common scrubs, no jewelry or watches. Office didn't show signs of favoritism for another of Gotham's elite. Same size as the rest. No photos of the dead relatives on the desk, no love lost for the deceased. Interesting, considering the family name and success. Medical books lined the shelves and several works by Aristotle. A philosopher at heart. Or pretentious.
Calm, collected, though. Dr. Elliot was not in a panic despite his situation. Almost comfortable with the gun pointed at him. An unusual reaction. Nerves of steel or a regular occurrence. Thomas favored his right leg as he walked to the gurney. Knee injury, healing. Lending credence to the regular occurrence theory. The surgeon leaned over Harley, pulling the tie off the wound to view it. Clinical, even though he must have recognized his old friend laying there. Detached. Able to push away emotional responses, a rare ability for most. Elliot's disconnection had roots from his past. The appeal became clear. The ever so controlled Harleen Quinzel would have sought a bond with someone similar to herself. No concern for an emotional association with him. Safe.
Mr. J slid the gun into the white pocket of his coat, continuing to aim it through the material. "Diagnosis, Tommy-boy?"
Thomas scrutinized the wound, speaking as if he was alone with a recorder. "Bullet has pierced the patient's intestines on the left side. Depth unknown. May have penetrated further to an ovary. Exploratory surgery will be needed to verify damage post initial removal. Blood loss indicates the bullet has nicked the iliac artery but not fully broken through." Without another word, he began to push the gurney down the brightly lit halls, following the signs that directed them towards Operating Rooms 5-10.
"These rooms are only used for scheduled surgeries," Thomas said as he pushed the gurney into O.R. 9. "Utilized mostly during the daytime. We shouldn't be disturbed. I need your assistance to get her on the table."
Cooperation was inevitable. The surgeon would aid the girl, the old friend. The threat was clear, the gun no longer needed to maintain control. The sheets under Harley allowed for effortless transport to the operating table. Her face grew paler with each passing second, passing in and out of consciousness. Knowing time was more important than insurance liability, Dr. Elliot skipped many steps in usual procedure, only putting on the face mask and disinfecting his hands before slipping on gloves.
Gathering equipment together. "You'll need to act as nurse," he said to Mr. J, remaining cool and collected. "Think you can handle that?"
"I've done it before," Mr. J responded, amusement in his voice.
A needle in hand, Thomas leaned down, pulling up the sleeve of Harley's left arm. He said nothing as he saw the long scar that ran the length of her wrist but the tension that tightened his muscles made his surprise evident to Mr. J. The old scar. Her old life. Not a tale she would have ever told Thomas. A breaking of skin as the needle slid in. "Harleen, I need you to count down from ten," he said.
"Ten," she whispered. "Nine." And she was out fully.
The doctor gave no care for her modesty, pulling her shirt up to her bra line, yanking her pants further down, away from the wound. Again he paused, seeing the bruises, the old scars across her midriff, the recent cuts. His anger flowed through the room. Yet he said nothing to Mr. J, focusing on the task at hand. A swift swab across the affected area to clean. Harley was ready for surgery.
"Scalpel," Thomas held his hand out.
The doctor worked quickly, with precision, only speaking when requesting something of his makeshift nurse. His eye never wavered off the goal, his hand steady, his breaths even. He lived this life, the exploration of the internal body. Knew every system, every organ as if raised with them. Mr. J observed his motions with sick fascination. The doctor who could perform miracles, saving the upper mobility of the commissioner's wife. She would never walk again but the intention was full body paralysis. Maybe he should have let Harley take the shot. Off by one vertebrae.
The clink of the bullet into the metal pan. A .38. Mr. J had figured based on the lack of an exit wound and the size of the entry. Not used often when going for a killing blow. So the assassin wasn't really an assassin. There was purpose, intention, behind the shooting. If the bullet had hit Mr. J instead, the bleeding would have been severe, enough to die, but slowly. Harley's medical knowledge would have slowed it down further to gain repair. And her mind would turn to the one man she knew to assist. Dr. Thomas Elliot. It all led back to him.
This bothered Mr. J and the connections began to form in his mind.
His cell rang. Answering. "What's the word, Doc?"
Thomas looked up. Mr. J waved his hand dismissively. "Not you, doc. My Doc."
Doc's voice sounded confused. "What, boss?"
"Never you mind. Where are we?"
"No press conference. No announcement. It's been one hour precisely," Doc said.
Mr. J smiled, removing the mask from his face. "Good. Bring the car back around." Hanging up the phone, he glanced over to Dr. Elliot. "Time's up."
"I'm not finished," Thomas answered.
"Then we'll have to take this surgery to go." Mr J fiddled with the number pad on his phone. "Grab what you need to finish."
"Why?"
Mr. J pressed one final button and hit send. Two seconds later, the room shook, a loud boom heard through the door. "That's why." He pointed his gun at Dr. Elliot. "Now, get a move on."
"What the hell did you just do?" Thomas demanded, placing padding on Harley's wound so she could be transported.
"Exactly what I said I'd do. I don't lie when I make threats. All of Gotham should know that by now."
"So you created a panic to get yourself in here undetected and then blew up a patient as a smoke screen for your escape?" Thomas moved around the room, placing various medical equipment inside a bag. "'No great genius has ever existed without some touch of madness.'" A mutter but in the silence of the room, the words were clear.
"Indeed," Mr. J said. "Aristotle was right about so many things. Such as the secret to humor being surprise."
"There's nothing funny about what you just did."
"It's hilarious. I'm sure the people on the third floor would agree if they were alive."
"You're-" Thomas began.
"Tsk tsk Tommy-boy," Mr. J waved the gun at him. "You don't want to say anything you'd regret right now. I don't want to find a new doctor but I will if you make me."
Dr. Elliot wisely kept his mouth shut. A few minutes later, they were pushing Harley back out the employee entrance to the waiting Taurus. The hospital, which had been panicked when he first arrived, had turned into a madhouse of screaming, crying people. Music to Mr. J's ears. The damage was extensive, stretching down to the first floor, and likely up to the fifth. But despite the carnage, he felt some disappointment. No sign of the Bat.
Climbing into the backseat next to Harley, propping her legs over his again, Mr. J instructed Doc to drive. Thomas was attempting to stay calm, the bag of supplies clutched tightly in his lap. A look back to his captor. "Where are we going?"
Mysteries to be solved. Connections to be made. So many details. Only one place would yield answers. "You know what they say. There's no place like home." Mr. J's malicious smile turned to the hostage. "I hope you keep your fridge stocked."