Jester sat in a large bay window that was inside the safe house J had arranged for him. He understands that his brother was thinking about his safety. First and foremost. But Jester felt banished from the kingdom or something. He had thought that he would be running things in J's absence. But he wasn't running anything. He wasn't doing anything. He wasn't going anywhere. He was finding that the days just seemed drag by, and seemed so much longer. He wasn't used to living like this, not in any life.
The will that had always driven him was feeling as though he was of some use. That he was somehow being helpful. But he just didn't feel as though he had been helpful, not for quite some time. Not since he killed that Arkham guard. Killing that man had saved Ace's life, possibly his and J's as well. And even though he knew it was wrong to kill, he still got that rush, the same one he got from being a doctor. That Messiah complex that came with playing God and saving lives.
At the root of it all, it was actually about control. Controlling who lives and who doesn't. And in that sense, Jester realized that he was exactly like the Joker. The Joker also controlled who lived and who died. Or, more specifically, he controlled who he killed and didn't kill. Regardless, it was a will that drove J, and without it, he would be lost. Lost is exactly how Jester felt. It was something that he had to fix, and fast, because he could feel his mental health declining because of it.
Jester looks up from his thoughts as he hears Ace coming into the house. Ace removes his coat and sweeps the snowflakes from his hair.
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"Afternoon sir," he curtly nods to Jester, "I stopped by the penthouse and got the mail. You got something from Chicago," Ace says and crosses over to where Jester sat. He handed him a bubble wrap envelope.
Jester takes it and looks at the address. "It's from my old office," he says and opens up the envelope.
He pulls out about six pages that were stapled together. At the top of the front page it said: Belle Reve Federal Criminal Facility. He then reads what appears to be a short letter from the chief Surgeon of the prison. It stated that the attached pages were the patient file of inmate Harleen Quinzel. They were sent so that Dr. Smith could add them to his own file on her, since he had been her primary OBGyn. It was just a doctor to doctor courtesy.
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