Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Many thanks to all those who have reviewed, favorited or added this story to your alerts. Also, thank you to those who are reading but haven't reviewed.

Also, yes the last chapter was a bit of a tease. But i think i make up for that here. Cheers!

Moments passed before Harley stood up and made her way to the bedroom. The television in the background seemed to be on a mental mute as she opened her closet and searched for the dress. Buried in a box of past memorabilia she recovered the old costume. The dress she slipped on fell to her knees and sparkled in all-over black sequins. She readjusted the bateau neckline so it sat properly before searching the box again for her shoes, which she tugged on quickly. She'd never been a fan of flats in combat situations. They sat precariously on her tiny feet in the best of situations and she'd never felt comfortable jogging in them, let alone taunting Batman. The ankle length boots suited her lifestyle much better.

The elevator in the building seemed to take forever tonight so Harley quickly abandoned that thought and hurtled herself down the stairwell. If Mr. J was dying on some warehouse floor, she could at least have the courtesy to take the stairs.

Street level gave her no indication of the news. She supposed that upon hearing of his death, the general population would come out and cheer in droves. Probably break out the champagne, she thought bitterly. She was able to hail a taxi who would drive her at least close to her destination. The cab driver looked at her far too often during the ride and Harley vaguely wondered if she'd have to kill him before the night was done. If he was going to ask her who she was, and point out her resemblance to the girl on the billboard Harley thought she may just snap completely. There wasn't time for this.

She got out of the cab at Duncan street and began to job to her destination. It wasn't that far to the warehouses and as she got closer and closer she noticed more and more of the police force. Ducking expertly in alleyways she mentally reminded herself of the twists and turns that would take her there. She wasn't counting on jumping from rooftops tonight; it had been too long since she'd been on a balance beam to expect a positive result. Screw muscle memory.

One last mad dash around a corner and she finally reached the district. Yes, the warehouses were burning. Harley let out a desperate keening noise and made her way towards the collection of buildings. The air was thick, even from as far away as she was and she surmised with some despair that if he was in there, she couldn't make it in and he couldn't make it out.

Running her hands through her hair she finally noticed the building to her left. It wasn't burning, but she wasn't sure if he possessed it. She jogged over to it and hurtled herself inside. It was dark until she found the switch for the embankment of lights. There was no one here, no sign of life or that he'd been here.

As Harley approached the doorway to the office she noticed a black bag near the doorway. It was a small, black duffle and looked like it was carrying something heavy. She knelt beside it, and began to unzip it. It revealed black masks, matchers, lighters and a few guns. Then men at the bar! She thought with terror. Sucking in her breath, Harley very quietly re-zipped the bag and carefully began to stand. She thought now that she was so close to the office, she could hear shuffling coming from it and could see movement from behind the frosted glass. Taking a quiet and quick step backwards she began to turn when something violently made contact with the back of her skull.

Blackness.

He'd never been a huge fan of swimming. It wasn't something that he was really required to do on an everyday basis and although he could perform a passible stroke he preferred to be on dry land.

Today he wasn't given much of an option.

The attackers had surprised him in the very least. Leaving one of the offices, he'd been shot on the warehouse floor, his boys nowhere in sight. The bullet had caught him in the shoulder and he'd been forced to his knees by the impact. It was a heavy caliber.

The second blow came to the back of the head with the butt of the attacker's gun. It came over and over again until his vision swam and he remained still on the floor. He wasn't sure, but there may have been chuckling. Whether it was coming from them or him he didn't know. He could remember the smell of smoke and the heat coming from somewhere. When all he could hear was the crackling of flames he attempted to drag himself from the building. He was the sort of man that kept highly flammable and highly explosive things and wasn't the sort to hang around toys that were about to blow up in his own face.

Also, dying like this just seemed pathetic.

Making it outside hadn't been much of an issue once he'd gotten himself to a standing position. His legs wobbled considerably, but he made use of the occasional box and hauled himself outside and into breathable air. Sucking in delicious oxygen, he vaguely noticed that the buildings around him were burning too. They must have been setting fire to everything whilst beating the putz out of him.

Bastards.

Staggering around a corner he was quickly winded by an explosion to his left. His ears rung loudly and he blinked several times before he could passably see. The building roared beside him and a secondary explosion knocked him down again, just after he'd pulled himself up.

"Fuck." He spat and dragged himself away from the buildings and towards the water. His shoulder still burned and when he hit the water it made him swear in pain, water filling his mouth and momentarily choking him. Bursting to the surface, he began to swim parallel to the docks. Anything that he could get a hold of and drag himself out of the water would do. Just as long as he was as far away from the blasts as possible.

His limbs and lungs ached as he pulled himself forward in the water, spying a ladder in the water ahead. It led upwards an onto one of the docks and he floundered a little bit when he reached up to pull himself up with it. There was a phone booth in the distance.

"Oswald," he coughed. "I'm calling in a favor." And told the man where he was, what was going on. He hung up the phone and with a groan, slumped down beside the phone booth. He rested his head against the back of the phone booth. His head was beginning to ache phenomenally and his vision began to blur. He growled in the back of his throat and just as he was feeling nauseous, he thought he saw a woman ahead. Blonde little thing, in a shiny black dress just like his Harley used to wear.

Harley, he chucked to himself, probably didn't even own anything vaguely shiny these days. Perhaps he'd fix that later.

Jonathon Crane was a psychiatrist, not a surgeon, so when Cobbelpot called him and requested he be one, he made sure to let the gentleman know that fact. But Oswald was calling in a favor and during times like these he'd figured he'd best hold up his end of bargains. Harleen was better at it than he was so why wasn't Oswald calling her?

"Because my dear boy, we can't find her. You'll have to do."

With the help of Pamela; who had replied that she was a biologist, not a surgeon, he managed to pull, the bullet out of the Joker's shoulder and bandage some of the burns he acquired. The concussion he'd gotten kept him mildly sedated and about as pliable as a rag doll. For that, Jonathon and Pamela were grateful. He kept bringing up Harley and asking where she was. For a while, Pamela had humored him and told him that she was on her way. But he slowly became more insistant and eventually, Pamela admitted they couldn't find her.

"Where's Harley?" He asked again.

Pam's brow furrowed and she replied softly that she didn't know. They'd tried the apartment and her cell phone but had come to no understanding of where she was. The Joker frowned and sluggishly asked when they'd last seen her.

"This morning. She was just getting ready for a jog when I woke up, and I ended up leaving before she got back," Said Pam resignedly. Her faced twisted into a grimace and left the room to go scour her purse. Pulling out her cell phone she quickly checked messages. Nothing. Swearing to herself she dialed Harley's number again.

Nothing.

She left another message, this time laced with both care and anger before aggressively closing the cell phone.

Where was she?

Harley awoke to the sounds of men congratulating themselves.

She was still on the floor, in what she assumed was a sticky mess of her own blood. It wasn't as if it had pooled around her, but it was there and it told her that her head injury would need some looking at after this. She waited, listening to the men around her proclaiming that they'd taken care of both clowns at once.

He was dead. And they, these men, had killed him.

Harley felt something twist inside her and snap.

A hand gripped her and flipped her on her front. There was no use pretending that she was unconscious anymore. The men looked average, and although she didn't recognize most of them, the one she did recognize told her everything she needed to know. He was Italian, and one of the Maroni thugs. The boys whistled at her and suggested they show her a good time before doing her in.

Harley laughed at them. Cackles reverberating throughout the warehouse space. One thug moved to pick her up off the floor, gripped the thick straps of her dress and hauling her to her feet. She threw her head back and laughed again before reaching into his coat and pulling out the gun he kept holstered. Thugs were constant. They kept the same gun, in the same places all the time. There wasn't any creativity in them.

She quickly shot the first one up through the underside of his chin and maneuver him so he could be a meat shield to hide behind. The second and third one barely knew what was happening when she took them out, both taking bullets in the chest. The gun was empty and she quickly tossed it aside and forced the dead man she was holding onto the remaining thug. The Italian.

He stumbled, catching the falling dead man while Harley wrench the gun out of his hand, pistol whipping him before he hit the ground. The man cried out and Harley tossed the gun away when she noticed a pipe covered in blood a few feet away. Picking it up, she hurried back over and smashed it down on the Italian's leg.

"Do you want to know why, exactly, I was the Jokers girlfriend? Hm?" Harley said evenly. The man shook his head in pain and she brought the pipe down once again on his foot.

"It was because I could keep up. It was also because I wasn't afraid to get my hand dirty." She brought the pipe down again on his knee after kicking the dead man off of him.

"Now, since you're the only one left and I'm the pretty girl holding the pipe. You're going to tell me everything." Harley said coldly.

Harley dragged herself back into the apartment and collapsed on the floor beside the kitchen table. The thug had spilled everything to her and once she was satisfied, she'd beaten his brain in with the pipe. She was sore, tired and the evening sawed through her reserve.

The weeping started not long after that and continued for what felt like a long time. Once she was finished she wiped her tears with her hands and dragged her way over to the side table, where swiping a tissue from the box caused her to jog the answering machine. The loud beep filled the room while Harley tried to wipe away the tears and blood. The first few messages were of Pamela, asking Harley where she was. Harley mentally cursed herself for worrying Pam, but made no move to pick up the phone.

The next message was more urgent, asking her why he cell phone wasn't turned on at a time like this.

The message after that told Harley that she was needed down at the Iceburg. The Joker was hurt, and asking for her. Harley choked on her sob and quickly replayed the message. She hauled herself up and out the door again, running.

When Harley made it to the Penguin's hideout, she was greeted with shock and silence. She supposed she looked like quite the spectacle, covered in dirt, blood and viscera. Her hair was bloddied and matted where the first fellow clocked her with that pipe and she was sure she had both a black eye and a split lip. However, none of this mattered. Pam rushed over, begging Harley to tell her if she was ok. Harley gave a slight nod and asked where the Joker was. Pamela gestured towards the backroom.

The swinging open of the door roused him and when Harley stepped in and a slight smile twitched onto his face.

"Sweetheart.. .you alright?" He asked sluggishly, gesturing for her to come closer. Harley approached the bed, pulled up a chair and sat down in it. Harley leaned over in the chair and pressed her cheek to his chest. She closed her eyes and listened to the labored breathing and felt one of his hand snake into her hair.

"Yes, Puddin'."