Chapter Six: Dangerous Waters
Part Two: Or they can be Deep
Holly had taken the key wearily, unlocking the cuffs and setting them down on the coffee table. In the next moment, she bolted off the couch and from the room. Through the kitchen archway to the backdoor leading out into the garden, her hands pushed on the lever handle only to find it locked and that was her chance wasted.
The good doctor did not even require to be swift. He'd taken his time getting out of the chair to follow behind her, knowing he'd locked all her doors to the outside already. She felt his hand gather a fistful of fabric from her shirt collar and pull back, choking her. She had to step away from the back door to stop the rugburn of fabric – her shirt was not going to rip that easily – against her neck. He did not have to tug her away more than a couple of feet before letting go.
"You're predictable Holly," He sounded bored, "It's a shame as I was hoping to hear some insight into your behaviors before moving on." His gaze was upon her kitchen island.
Holly had failed to notice until now it was holding a vast array of medical and chemistry equipment she could not identify to save her life. Neat and organized, and most of it waiting to be set up. It was a small clear vial his fingertips rested on as if it were a delicate object he cared for.
She could have gone for a knife, the bat she kept in the closet just down the hall, the stun gun in her office, or the spare pistol upstairs. There were many things Holly could have gone to fetch to defend herself with yet, she did not. Instead, she looked down like a beaten dog, "I… I'm sorry." He'd thought ahead to lock her back door – he'd likely been searching through her house already too.
"There's no need to be sorry. I am just disappointed in being right for a change." His hands were ghosting along the equipment, picking out next a syringe to use.
"Hey, Jonathan," Holly looked up at him, "You're not the first person to kidnap me this year," she gestured to her ribs, "in my own home no less." Her pupils were dilating – she was truthfully scared of him.
He waited for her to get to her point.
Though the woman said nothing more, her hand went to one of the non-glass cylindrical pieces of equipment at her end of the island counter and she threw it at him. He thought she would have run after throwing it. To gain distance. He was prepared to give chase again as he smacked the aluminum canister out of the way. Jonathan was not ready to have her suddenly attack him. Using the equipment as a cloak to the dagger her balled fist struck past his face catching the edge of his glasses and knocking them to the floor. If he had leaned out of the path of the object she might have hit him square between the eyes or broken his nose.
He was unsure who reacted, him or Scarecrow, but Jonathan no longer felt like he was in the driver's seat of his own body. He grabbed her wrist before she pulled it back. Clamping his fingers deep into her flesh. He was prepared for her to struggle away but he was losing his footing as she pushed closer.
Stumbling backwards his free hand grabbed the syringe he'd been getting ready to fill. Knocking the vial and a few other inconsequential pieces of equipment to the floor in the process. She pressed a hand to his shoulder using the following momentum of the failed punch to push him down with her knees to his chest. She'd come crashing down with him but used his body to break her fall. Scarecrow exhaled before he hit the floor, it still hurt, even so the wind did not get violently knocked from him. His head thudded against her wooden floor only pissing him off. That dark voice just bloomed in his skull, no more nice doctor.
Everything from her throwing that canister till this point happened in less than a few fleeting milliseconds.
She scrambled to stand, trying to wrench her arm away from his grasp. His nails were digging into her flesh drawing blood. Like a predator that had caught prey and locked its hold, he was not letting go. He dropped the syringe temporarily grabbing onto her ankle and giving it a rough tug. Holly nearly kicked him in the face as she fell. It had been a very long time since he had to deal with a fighter rather than those that just fled – should have kept those cuffs on her. His image of her being this servile frightened doe of a woman from their youth shattered, she had become troublesome.
As she landed on her hip and free arm taking much of the impact, she cried from the pain vibrating up into her ribs. Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. He tugged again and she slid onto her back. Fueled by the pained cries a devilish idea in his mind became a swift reality as he avoided a more purposeful kick from her. His knee slammed into her injury. Her scream was lovely, even if it was just a cry of physical anguish. A wide grin overcame his features and it was at this point he felt off – his mask. He wasn't wearing it. It only made him pause for less than a few seconds. Crane snatched up the syringe patting a hand around for the vial as he pressed his knee adding weight to make her stop moving.
Holly did become unmoving. The pain was too much, her cheeks and nose had turned red as she started to cry feeling like her ribs were going to snap inward. She could not form sentences, it was just gasped strangled noises that came from her.
Every time she moved an inch, even if it was to breathe better he would ease the pressure from his knee then sadistically return it with force. She barely noticed that he had let go of her arm. Blood trickled lightly from a couple of the places he had dug his nails into. His finger marks were already turning into dark bruises. Her head was spinning from the pain in her ribs alone so the jab of a needle into her arm was just something piled on that hardly registered.
Unlike the breathed-in toxin, there was nothing until her heart pumped a couple of beats. A few seconds that felt like forever. Then her world drained away. As if the color had been swallowed up. The roar of white noise assaulted her ears in haphazard waves. And Jonathan… Holly dared to look up through her teary vision. He had a full rack of black antlers, those blue hues replaced by the milky white of the long dead, his skin was starting to peel away like curling tree bark along his sharp features revealing an empty darkness.
The way she clung to him felt awkward, he had grown accustomed to women sobbing while in the face of fear, even so, it felt a bit different. As though she were tenderly trying to hold him in place rather than gripping him out of fright. Her hand was trembling as she clung to his sleeve, "I'm sorry," her voice was tiny and meek and, in a way, more feminine than he'd ever heard from her. He had just removed the syringe from her arm and moved to get off her right before she grabbed onto him. Crane had not stood let alone had the time to retrieve his mask from the kitchen island before she fell to the toxin. Or perhaps she had not just yet, still apologizing hoping to seek safety in his – nonexistent – better nature.
"What are you seeing?" He felt caught between watching her succumb and grabbing that burlap. The urge to watch was currently greater, he'd remember to grab the mask first next time. He did not want to miss her breaking down, suffering for the affront against him just now.
Her vocabulary had not gained any spectacular improvement, "I'm… please. I'm so sorry." She was beyond shying away from him with retreating body language and in duality she still held onto him. He could have easily plucked her fingers off himself.
Was it a parental figure? Someone who often yelled would conceivably explain her dislike of loud noises, but perhaps it went further. She was abused at some point to act like this, that much was obvious. Fears of one's violent caregivers were not uncommon – something he was acutely familiar with. Then where did the black antlers of an elk come into play? Surely, she was not raised by forest creatures. The lingering thoughts of Scarecrow and how he came to fear it as a youth were being brought up. He pushed them aside, pushed Scarecrow aside.
"Kingsley," he tried to prompt her again before she passed out as every other time before, her breathing was getting faster and shallower. She was in obvious great pain trying to breathe, "tell me." She had a two-for-two pattern of suffocating herself from his gas concentration. He had hoped a liquid version that interacted by overstimulating the adrenal glands and in many subjects producing a similar result rather than directly through the lungs would be different. It seemed it was not entirely the compound's delivery system causing her to do this.
"Please," Her hand gripped a bit harder on the fabric of his sleeve, "please stop. Stop this." Was she still coherent or living the nightmare? Her eyes were wide and pupils expanded enough to make the color of her iris look steel rather than blue. Wait, why was she tugging him to get closer? He was starting to feel uncomfortable. She was holding him more like a saddened lover than a frightened human being as her other hand came to clasp onto his other sleeve. He wanted to shake her off yet remained still as he heard her voice again, "I said I'm sorry…" Her whimpering cut off and she squeezed her eyes shut nearly yelling, "I love you." Her grip tightened on his sleeves into fistfuls, a trembling light tug turned into a shaking vice.
She had to be hallucinating. A strange way to plea to a fear; most people screamed for it to 'go away' or 'get off,' even 'kill me' was more common, putting distance rather than trying to pull it closer and profess love. Perhaps she believed it would leave or stop if she'd said those three words. A shame he could not just inject her again and get a better result. His results were already going to be askew; he'd have to check how much toxin he'd given her in the struggle. It was not like he nor Scarecrow checked. Since she was not foaming at the mouth he surmised it was less than the whole vial.
Jonathan moved his arms attempting to remove her hands. She continued muttering out pleas but nothing of great use to him, "Holly…" He was resisting the growing urge to push her away violently or press his knee to her ribs again, "that's enough now." Holly flinched at his fingers as they touched her and she clung tighter to his arms. He felt his willpower slipping. Every second longer this went on he was feeling more uncomfortable, retreating into his head and what was replacing his conscious thoughts were Scarecrow's. The tempting little desires to give her another liquid injection just to watch her fall in on herself, to bully her state of mind down until he had her fear in the palm of his hand. To torment her until she broke. To listen to her scream until her throat was bloody. To see if she'd actually foam at the mouth…
Crane snatched up her wrists tearing them from him, she only looked up at him again and her breathing labored then it stopped. Her hyperventilation turned into asphyxiation. And maybe that was for the best.
He allowed her to crumble on the floor as she lost enough oxygen to continue consciousness. Standing and stalking away to get a hold of himself. He never enjoyed female patients – then maybe he should just get rid of her. You just want to play good doctor, cure them all, save them all. Fear means respect. Gotham should be suffering for what they did, brought to their knees drowning in their worst fears, screaming out prayers to the master – the god of fear, Scarecrow! That not-so-little dark voice taunted him, "Shut up." He mumbled lowly leaving the room.
