"I'm sorry," he gasped through sobs, "I'm sorry…" "Sshh shhh, darling it's alright, hush, shhh…"

But it wasn't alright. Not really. When compulsive murder is your addiction, you simply can't afford to relapse. The stakes would be far too high. As such, there was now one less psych practitioner in the world, and Jonathan Crane was covered in blood.

It was the housecalls that got to him. Some mal-educated hack traipsing into their apartment—his space—to check for slip-ups and detail all the ways he and Jervis had been failing. Over and over again.

It oughtn't have been a crime that the back of this "doctor's" skull should make friends with a rabbit shaped paperweight.

The emotional release that Jonathan felt after killing the poor bastard had been immense. Finally, it was like wrapping his hands around a precious object he'd long since been denied, but the euphoria died along with his victim soon enough.

Due to a pantheon of special medications, the both of them—but especially Jervis— had been suffering from adverse side-effects. It was almost cute, Tetch seemed so much more bothered by his new bouts of fatigue than he did about the chronic panic attacks or fluctuating weight. Bothersome, though inescapable, no amount of complaining could eradicate the problem. As such, he took a lot of naps, the latest of which had been interrupted by the familiar sound of screams.

Had the situation been different, the ex-Hatter might have thought it funny; it took him much too long in his semi-conscious state to remember that he was supposed to care about civilian lives, to remember that he in fact, was a civilian now as well. Until he remembered that, the distant, gurgling cries for help only stood as a nuisance. Even so, when he hopped up to address the disturbance and struck upon their living room spattered with gore, the first thing he found himself commenting on was the mess, sounding weary as you like, and oh no, Jonathan, darling, not on the nice upholstery. It was around that point that the professor had recognized his mistake.

There was no getting around this one. Surely, they were both adept at hiding bodies, but never before had they felt the need to disguise a murder. They always took credit for their work in the past, but even if that were not the case, it was still moot. People would be looking for this newly-brained psychologist, and it wouldn't take a Riddler or a Bat to guess what had happened to him. It didn't even merit discussion, they both knew Jonathan was fucked.

Although he'd felt ridiculously small for the entire span of his putrid little life, Crane never let on to anyone else. Those who had manage to catch glimpses of his horrible underlying impotency were not offered this opportunity, and generally they were later killed on principle, or at least threatened, but now he was much too exhausted to care. He didn't remember doing it at the time, but the murderer had dropped to his knees at some point during the encounter and proceeded to cry powerlessly into his hands, glasses askew over his jagged fingers. When Tetch, who was oddly calm for such a histrionic man, offered his shoulder, his partner took advantage of it, spilling tears and apologies as if it might make a lick difference.