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They weren't expecting him at all. Not many would consider Arkham asylum one of the finer attractions outside of Gotham, and even less would consider it a place where Bruce Wayne would frequent nearly twice a week. Paparazzi had a way of sniffing out every little detail in Bruce's life no matter how well he kept himself out of the public eye; ever since the public fiasco he'd endured with Waller, Cobblepot.
These visits, they made him feel sane. Bruce thought it was funny somehow, that he'd be parking his cherry-red coupe at Arkam's gates, a stark contrast against the hallowness of it's faded masonry. Feeling sane, at an insane asylum. Bruce had to smile, he couldn't contain it, thinking of the absurdity of his life and where his comforts lie.
He knew exactly where his friend stayed, the sound of his footsteps greeted with the dull roar of groaning, screaming. The Male ward was particularly active today it sounds, he hoped John wasn't too annoyed by it. Bruce fiddled with the gift he'd brought in his breast pocket, tucked away safely along with a small packet of Skittles. Anything he could do to make his friend's day he'd do, Bruce thought.
“Mr. Wayne!OH, I, huh, uh-” Hall C6's orderly looked shocked to see the billionaire's intimidating form standing in the doorway- “Visiting hours are cut short today, unfortunately. There's been an incident we have half of our staff cleaning up.” He looked nervous, moreso than a standard Arkham orderly should look.
“Incident? I'd ask, but considering your confidentiality, but-” Bruce peeked over the man's shoulders and spied upon John's door, locked tight. “I'm sure you can find the time and place for me? If only just for a few minutes.” Bruce's winning smile somehow couldn't get through to him, and apparently neither did his cash once the first attempt had gone under.
“I'm sorry Mr. Wayne, I'm under strict orders from Doctor Erickson, I can't let you in.”
“Well you could at least tell me if John Doe's okay?” Bruce felt annoyed, something very easy for him to feel these days. Pressure was building up between his temples and not getting his way was something rare.
“You said it yourself, confidentiality.” The orderly began the process of slowly closing the door on Bruce, a massive hand reaching out and holding it open. Bruce could hear a particularly intense, one-sided argument coming from a patient's room nearby, a garbled wail punctuating the air.
“You're avoiding the question. What's your name? Can I get a name?” Mr. Wayne's voice dropped-
“Larry. Why?”
“Can I speak to Dr. Erickson, Larry? How much is it going to cost for just a chat?”
“...” Larry looked at Bruce thumbing through his wallet, his mind harkening to the recent tax hike he'd endured this week. “I'll bring her right over, if you just give me a moment.” Larry took the 3 fresh hundreds and pocketed them, his lumbering self disappearing down the hall. When Larry returned, the familiar face of Dr. Erickson put Bruce in an immediate sense of dread.
“I just want to talk to John. Please.” Bruce implored. When he got a no, that's when he'd had enough of the standoff- “You do understand the more you turn me away and avoid my questions, the more suspicious I'm becoming. If this visit is going to be a problem, I can always take a visit to Mayor Dunham and see about lightening my monthly donations.”
“Mr. Wayne, you do understand this is highly illegal, what you're asking. Mr. Doe can't take visitors right n-”
“And why not?”
“He's asleep.”
“Let me through.” Bruce demanded, something wasn't right- The workers had made no attempt to physically restrain Wayne as he strode past them, something of an exasperated sigh coming from the Doctor.
“John!” Bruce stood at his door, the little paper notetag with his name on it affixed into his eyes. “John, it's me, Bruce.”
No answer. Bruce rapped his bare knuckles on the slot of the door and Dr. Erickson began to sweat.
“You see, he's asleep. Why don't you just come back tomorrow?”
“Open the door.”
You just couldn't say no to a man like Bruce. Erickson was past the point of calling security, he only gave the solemn nod to the orderly to unlock the bolt of John's door. Bruce's steady heartbeat almost fell out of rhythm when the room inside was still lit, the walls barren and bleak.
“John.” Bruce inched his way inside, untrusting of his friend's state. John, while normally bouncing off the walls in excitement to see his best friend, was as far from himself Bruce had ever seen. On the bed he lay sprawled, his cheap blanket barely covering a leg. Fuck, he looked dead until Bruce saw the uneven rise and fall of his chest.
“Hey, John!” Bruce fell to his knee beside the bed, reaching out and placing a warm hand on his forearm. He was clammy, but only a moment went by before John's eyes fluttered open, gazing wearily at Bruce's chest before laying half-lidded.
“What's wrong with him?” Wayne's anger spiked, peeking back in alarm at the doctor, who held fast to his stethoscope around his neck. Bruce knelt by John's bed and shook his shoulder, and what came out of his mouth shattered something inside Bruce- A hauntingly low moan, ending in a gargle. His eyes failed to focus on Bruce's face even though John knew his best buddy was there.
“Mr. Wayne-”
“John! Shit, get up! What happened to him?!” Bruce called out, two fingers placed beneath his jawline and felt his pulse, slow but steady. He tried to pull John up to sit but the man fell limp, Bruce seeing the pinpoints of his pupils inside his listless eyes. He knew right away what had happened- He placed John back down onto his bed and about-faced, rage in his eyes-
“Have you been overdosing him on sedatives?!” Bruce yelled “How many drugs do you have in him right now?! And you just leave him locked in his room unattended?!”
“Mr. Wayne! John had a violent outburst earlier today, we had no choice but to tranquilize him.”
“No shit he had a violent outburst! He's a sick man, what gives you the right to put him into a coma? What drugs do you have him on?! Let me see the charts.”
“Bruce,”
“If I don't get those reports, I'm filing a lawsuit that you cannot possibly win. What's it going to be? Your job, or his chart?”
“..I'll fetch them.” Erickson shuffled out, looking grim. Bruce practically dove to John's bedside and placed a hand under his head, trying in vain to lift it and inspect his face. His mouth hung open and saliva seeped freely across his cheek and into Bruce's hand.
“Ah, John.” Bruce groaned “I can't believe this shit.”
“Bbrruh..” John tried to speak, Bruce hushing him and flashing him a very fake smile.
“You're going to be alright. You can hear me, right?”
John gave no response. Bruce climbed into the bed and sat, cradling John's head in the crook of his elbow, turning his head as not to choke on his saliva. Bruce glared daggers at the orderly-
“You do realize you could have killed him.”
“He attacked three patients, we only followed protocol.”
“Yeah, protocol, and what is that? Pump them full of drugs and hope they don't wake up? That sounds like an easy way to get rid of a problem.”
“Mr. Wayne.” Erickson returned and felt his heart drop at the sight of John laying prone across the billionaire's lap. He handed the report over on shaking hands, knowing his career was on the line-
“Give me that.” Bruce's eyes scanned the first page of many beneath it. “Already I'm seeing malpractice. What's this, you haven't been taking his vitals in between his doses. Midazolam IM induction, Diazepam IM, Clozapine, Pentobarbitol?! And you just gave this to him all at the same time?!”
No response. Bruce looked down at John and saw that he was trying to open his eyes- he wasn't dying, but Bruce wasn't going to accept anything like this. The bat inside him wanted to beat everyone who did this to a bloody pulp, this was a fate worse than death for his best friend. His heart broke all the while he grew more frightening, placing John back on the bed while he waved the chart in the doctor's face.
“Is this how you handle your patients here?! Another milliliter and my friend could have been dead in his cell for hours and you wouldn't have even known!” Bruce's cheeks where red in fury, he shoved the doctor and the orderly out of the room, standing in the doorway as a barrier between them and John.
“I'm going to go over every page of these records, and I'm going to unleash hell on this hospital in ways you can't even imagine.” Bruce, taking control, slammed the door to the cell and approached John's bed, his throat tightening at the pitiful sight.
“Here I am, buddy. I'm not going anywhere.”
“Mhh.” John tried to squeak out, his eyes heavily glazed in his attempt to look up at Bruce. The larger man couldn't contain himself, he had everything inside him needing to climb into that bed beside him and embrace his friend.
“I've got you, John.” Bruce tries to comfort him, picking up the lanky man and nestling himself right at his side, letting John's pale arm lay across his chest. Jesus, he was cold as ice. Bruce placed his friend's head against his chest, an arm around his shoulder holding him steady as he shared his warmth.
“Is that alright? You comfortable?” What the hell was he supposed to say? Bruce was overwhelmed, hugging his friend tight to his side as he placed the clipboard on his stomach, thumbing back the page to yesterday's report.
The amount of drugs they'd put him on was insane. Bruce wasn't a medical doctor but he knew most of these drugs, powerful antipsychotics and anticonvulsants. The amount of benzos they pumped him full of the past few days was legitimately cruel, it could have taken a horse down. Bruce felt a warm wetness on his chest, John's eyes where open but he was drooling freely onto his shirt, something Bruce entirely ignored.
He saw something there, 2 days ago and recorded at 12:15pm, John had apparently received a dose of flumazenil in an apparent “emergency” noted in the chart. So it was true, they had been overdosing John.... Bruce's heart ached. He cradled John a little closer and felt the noise in his chest better than he heard it. Wayne's memory flashed back to the crazy times they had, how Bruce had used him despite his sincere desire to save him. He really does like John, he is a good friend, no matter how sick he is.
“I'm going to get you out of here. I promise, John.” Bruce tells his buddy, patting his shoulder. John's hand grasped at his collared shirt in response and all Wayne wanted to do was mourn. It wasn't truly his fault John is back in Arkham, but thinking of his father and what he'd done to these desperate souls, he knew he could change things.
John had to get out of here, every tortured individual in here deserves better, no matter how dangerous they are. Bruce's heart was filled with a sensation of justice, but it wasn't Batman's work...it was his own. The camera affixed on him be damned, Bruce leaned in and kissed the top of John's head in a vain attempt at something, whatever it took to get to fix this.