Sorry for the long delay. Thank you CyanideDreams610, TheWorld'sSmallestMonkey, LaraLuvKakashi (some guards on the night shift to answer you question), Chi Briar (I'll try to remedy that :) ), DarkAngelKisses (there are others out there) and Amy Conner for the reviews.

Batman lifted Jackson. He was too close to unconsciousness to struggle. Jon made a sound of objection. "What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice shaking only slightly.

"Taking him to my car," was the brusk reply. "I'll be back for you. Don't try anything."

A few moments later when Batman returned, he had not moved far from his spot on the floor. Bruce pulled him to his feet and half carried him to the Batmobile. Sitting beside his brother, cuffs tight around his wrists, he could feel the weight in his pocket of a flick knife, taken from one of the unconscious would-be executioners. He smiled.

It had been a week. Jonathan sat quietly, staring at the door of his cell. He hadn't been allowed contact with his brother. They'd kept Jack in the infirmary. He'd be out by now though and in a cell of his own. Leaving patients in the medical area was considered an escape risk by the management. A badly broken ankle, three fractured ribs and dozens of more minor injuries had kept Jon there for barely an hour. There had been no check-up. Still, no one had beaten him yet, that was a positive. Also he was feeling rather lucid. Shapes moved in the corners of his vision but they could be ignored. It was night. Now would be a good time.

Pushing himself up from the rickety cot that served as a bed Jon stood, wobbling on his splinted leg. He took a few steps then sat down awkwardly by a rusted drain in the floor. Slowly, he began to work free one of the screws holding it down. Eventually it loosened and he pulled it out. He grinned, the expression made lopsided by the bruises on his face. Prize in hand, he moved to the door and began to pick the lock.

It took quite a few hours but that was ok, it was still night. There were fewer guards at night. He pushed the door open just a crack and peeked out onto the corridor. It was empty.

He walked as quickly as he could, reading the patient's name on each cell door - finally finding Jack's. Looking through the little observation window in the door he saw his brother was asleep. He did not try to enter the cell but continued on down the corridor.

Entering the silent infirmary, he moved to the bed he had occupied several days earlier. Slipping a hand under the matrass he found – still where he had hidden it – the flick knife.

As quickly as he was able he returned to his cell, pulling the door shut behind him. He starred at the silvery blade, glinting in the darkness.

Early the next morning, when a guard came with breakfast, Jonathan was ready. Slipping the knife from inside his sleeve, he held it to the unsuspecting man's throat. Though he lacked physical strength the former psychiatrist made up for that in intellect; the blade was positioned so that any attempt at struggle would sever the carotid artery.

"Today," he calmly informed the guard, "either my brother and I are leaving this place or you are dying in it."