'And this is your full, professional opinion, Dr Crane?'

The man in the witness box was silent a moment as his eyes scanned the courtroom, settling on the defendant. Her eyes were turned imploringly upwards to him, barely containing tears. They shared a gaze for just a second, the witness' hands clasped in his lap, his palms sweaty.

'It is.' He replied quietly, turning back to the DA, expression empty.

Jonathan Crane stood on the platform that lurched out over the asylum basement, watching his red-clad drones as they assembled the laboratory. A heavy hand clapped his back in goodbye, its owners voice echoing in the dark long after he had left.

'You've made the right choice, Dr Crane.'

He wondered if he had. At first, each new shipment of blue flowers weighed down on him, crippling him with doubt. Now he barely felt anything in regard to the deal he had struck; the construction of the secret lab was just another part of the working day.

The asylum had changed a lot in the year since Harleen's sentencing. Staff that Crane trusted to do the right thing had been sent on their way, replaced with those who kept their heads down and asked no questions. Inmates became less psychotic and more calculating – more of Falcone's men filtered in through the twisted iron gates and more of the helpless were sent on their way to Blackgate. The very last drops of colour had been drained from the Arkham family legacy.

'You should get a plant or something,' the new voice in the blackness suggested, 'brighten the place up.'

A smirk tugged at the corner of Crane's mouth. How little she had changed after everything. He turned to face Harley Quinn, just visible in the dim light. She still wore the asylum scrubs though he hardly knew why – she had been granted free reign as soon as the deal with the League had been agreed and yet she still insisted on dressing like his prisoners. Her hair was in the pigtails he found ridiculously childish but she had at least consented not to return to the stark white greasepaint. She had not uttered the Joker's name in a year. Not while awake, at least.

'What would you suggest?' Crane asked, humouring her as she leaned over the railing to examine the progress in closer detail.

She paused, the silence singing of all the blood red roses she had been gifted by the Joker after each beating. Then, like a small flame in the night, older memories filled the air. The memory of the Joker melted away until all she knew was her old reflection – an ambitious intern trying the brighten the dark around her.

'Sunflowers,' she breathed. 'Sunflowers are beautiful.'

Crane held out his hand and she came to him, not obediently, but willingly. Each day was a little victory. He was edging towards total power and Harleen was moving in time with him. One day, Gotham would be theirs.

From his pocket, Crane pulled a blue flower, still a healthy bloom despite its long journey. He tucked it into her pigtail, brushing his thumb against her cheek as he looked down at her. Her eyes were alert and bright, her mind the same. This time there was nothing to cloud her judgment.

'Merry Christmas, Dr Crane,' she whispered.

The smile pulled again on Crane's face as she lifted herself up onto her toes.

'Merry Christmas, Harley,' he breathed against her lips.

The universe began again.