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Henry Carter was a man of intelligence, resources and with a great many talents. He was handsome, charming, the perfect example of a ladies man, and one of the most heartless men in London. He’d killed 19 women, most of them strangled, all of them under 20. And he did so not for love, revenge or some darker desire.
“I did it,” he said, voice dripping with unbridled pleasure, “Because I was bored, Mr. Holmes.”
The flash of rage on Holmes’ expression was enough to make Watson’s eyebrows shoot up.
“You see Mr. Holmes, when one has everything, you want for nothing, and when you want for nothing, you want what you can’t have.”
He jabbed his walking stick into Holmes’ breast, forcing him a step back and closer to the edge of the cliff. Behind them the waves roared and rushed against the rocks below, the broken bones of a ship wedged into the rocks and sails whipping up and about in the strong winds.
“Why those women?” Watson asked, unable to stop himself. He counted at least five men behind Carter, the eerie glow from the torches and lamps rendering the mad-man’s features almost devilish in nature.
Carter shrugged, “They were disposable. Whores and the poor, nothing of value.” he flashed a sharp little smile, “Unlike you Mr. Holmes. You’re a unique specimen, something special, something which only comes along once a lifetime.”
Holmes smiled back, “As are you, for which we are all grateful.”
He chuckled, “Why I thank you. The dull, the ordinary, they bore me so painfully I find it almost impossible not to react when I am met with it.” his gaze sharpened in the firelight, and he turned the point of his walking stick to Watson.
His smile spread over his lips, cracking open to reveal teeth like the incisors of wolf. “You are expendable.”
Watson didn’t flinch, the waves crashed below. He met that burning gaze head on, the man was a monster, but Watson had looked into their eyes more than he’d care to mention. The stick was smacked away by Holmes, who stepped protectively in front of Watson.
Carter let loose a harsh barking laugh, “A common doctor, a few years in the war, with a small ability for writing stories. Average height, average strength, average smarts.” the man stepped closer, standing right in front of Holmes, “He is the definition of ordinary, of dull...” cold eyes flicked up to Watson, “Expendable.”
Holmes moved closer, “Then I see no reason you should focus your attention on something so trivial.” his voice was bored, uninterested, but Watson could hear the twinge of worry laced beneath.
For a moment the eyes turned curious, a flash of uncertainty within the swirling insanity, “What worth does he offer you, what could he possibly give you beyond simple companionship?”
The wind suddenly picked up, ripping their coats up and about. Watson grabbed his hat, listening intently to the howl, for a moment shutting his eyes. Holmes didn’t answer. Offering no defence against the attack. Somewhere distantly Watson felt he should be rather offended.
Another cold chuckle popped up over the wind. Watson cracked his eyes open just as the stick snapped up to slam him in the chest. Unprepared and unbalanced, he stumbled back, slipped over the edge and fell with a startled cry.
“Watson!” he heard above the roar, above the wind even as he plunged down, down, down the light fading, swallowed by the darkness -
He hit the sales, and crashed through the rotten planks straight into the freezing water. For a moment all was silent and cold. Then a searing hot pain shot through his side, sobering him immediately. With stiff arms he breached the surface, gasping and shuddering as a wave rushed over him. He quickly paddled his way over to a protruding rock, the moss making his hands slip over the sharp shells.
Another stab of pain shot down his side, and he looked down.A small wedge of wood protruded from his side. Suddenly dizzy he nearly slipped down into the water again. He was in the broken belly of the ship, pieces of wood and planks drifted by, he could make out another hole to the west of his position, and some rocks leading away. His side throbbed and he pressed his face into the rock catching his breath. The chances that he was going to die here was good. The sea was rough, the waves unforgiving. If not crushed by the rocks, then surely hypothermia?
“What worth does he offer you, what could he possibly give you beyond simple companionship?”
It came unbidden, like a sudden sickness, and it made him just as nauseous. But he managed a short chuckle. He would not die here. Not yet.
The water slammed - he let got, pushing through the cold, through the current, ignoring the pain pulsing through him – and it rushed back, just as she stumbled through the opening.
Of course I am expendable. I never fooled myself into thinking otherwise.
Watson pulled off his coat and jacket, both too soggy and heavy to be of any aid in the treacherous waters, and started forwards on shaking legs. He kept a firm grip on the mossy surface of the cliff.
My worth is almost non-existent to a man like Holmes. I am, and have conceded to being, less intelligent than him, and I struggle to understand the bare basics of his methods.
Another wave crashed over him, and he held on tight, holding his breath for a moment before the water pulled back, ripping his feet out from under him. He cried out in pain and struggled up to a new platform. His movements laboured by the stiffness in his side.
I have hindered investigations, and have even disappointed him on occasion. And I am certain if we had never shared lodgings he would never have seen me as friendship material.
With a final cry he heaved himself up and over the lip of the boulder - his side pulsing in agony, hands shaking from pain. The surface was flat, the water struggling to reach him, and he took a moment to catch his breath and wait for the pain to subside. The temptation to simply remain here was overwhelming, but the soldier in him wouldn't allow it. He came to a staggering stand, his side shooting fierce pulses of pain through his body, and then his heart stuttered. There, a small path leading up the side of the cliff. He stood stunned for a good moment, disbelieving his good luck. Beneath him there were many, sharp, angled things like teeth waiting to swallow him whole. He’d have to jump when the waves rush over, and pray he was strong enough to swim against the tide. He closed his eyes, he’ll have to be. Holmes needed him.
A quick hand wiped his face, uncertainty fitting perfectly in the poor self-esteem shape in his soul.
My worth teeters between simple friendship and lackey.
Bowing his head, he tried to bring his trembling limbs under control.
Holmes has often enough abused my emotions, my kindness and generosity for me to realise that despite our camaraderie, he sees me more as a means to an end rather than anything integral to his life.
He jumped.
By sheer luck he hit the water at the precise opening he’d been aiming for, quickly he scrambled for the surface, already feeling the hands of the tide tugging him into the sea. His shoulder burned hot, pain shooting down to his hip and back up to his side. Exhaustion and pain hung heavy on his limbs, burning through his muscles and into his lungs. The water mounted up, yanking him into a wave and with some effort Watson dove beneath it - vision blurred and stinging from see water - feeling the tide rip him forward and careen him to the rocks. By some miracle he had enough sense to grab a hold of the slippery surface as the water receded.
But by God, I am proud that I have managed to be a friend to a man who has isolated himself from the world!
Tired and limp he splashed his way to the small pathway. On his hands and knees he crawled up the steps, and after another few steps he collapsed, the water (thankfully) unable to reach him.
He'd barely taken three breaths when he started awake. Holmes, he had to help Holmes.
And sometimes I am of use.
With every ounce of will power he possessed, Watson dragged his way up the path, it weaved left and right, and with each step he felt certain he would collapse again. He shivered from the cold, his limbs weak and stiff, his lungs were burning, his hands stung from scrapes and cuts, his head beat with his heart and his side was on fire, along with his hip and shoulder.
God how was he still standing?
He stumbled and weaved, but somehow remained upright.
"You are expendable."
Watson chuckled again and shook his head.
It doesn't matter, my loyalty and devotion to my friend will not and can not falter.
After another turn he could finally see the lip. He let out a shuddering and sigh and moved a little faster.
I often humour myself into thinking I understand him better than most. Sometimes I even feel justified in the conviction, especially when Holmes opens up on more personal matters. But the most I can ever offer is friendship.
As he pushed through some bushes the wedge caught a branch and he let loose a loud scream. His legs gave way and he hit the ground knees first, shooting a painful jolt down to his hip. Taking a steadying breath he pressed on, taking care to move the bushes as he pushed through. Finally he was on the open green, he took another two steps before finally collapsing. He gasped and shook for a few moments, then turned his attention to the wedge in his side. After some examination he concluded it hadn’t hit anything important, and removing it would be painful, but not impossible. He gripped the largest part at the back, grit his teeth -
But I know even that is tenuous, as Holmes can send me away and I would have nothing to bargain with.
- closed his eyes and pulled.
A second scream tore loose, clapping over the fields and above the roar of the wind. Watson pressed his face into the grass, holding back stinging tears and another agonizing wail. Slowly the pain subsided. Each heart beat lulling the pulse into a soft dull throb. He dared a glance, there was some blood flowing, hot and silky, not nearly as much as he’d thought. Pressing a hand to the wound he stood and stumbled over the clearing, blindly hoping to find a path.
It was then he recognised a small holding just at the other end of the field. Yes, he knew where he was, and in turn he knew where Holmes possibly was! Turning a little he started in a westward direction. He had no idea what he would do once he got there, but he would think of something.
And whether Holmes needed him or not, he would still be there.
Perhaps I am not worth much to someone like Sherlock Holmes - I honestly don't believe anyone is really. But somehow I've managed to secure a place by his side, and for as long as my friend allows it, I will cherish it.
At the very least he wasn't a nuisance. And if Holmes should tell him one day he didn't need him any more, then he would simply accept it and leave. No matter how much it might hurt. Because despite Carter's insanity, he was right;
Watson was expendable. But not entirely useless.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been stumbling over the green fields, when he heard voices on the wind. Agitated, angry, annoyed. With some effort he lifted his head to look at his surroundings. He was close to a road. Down below he could see a wagon with men around it in a small pool of light, for a moment his heart stuttered, Holmes.
Turning he carefully stumbled his way down, making sure to keep them from seeing him in the backdrop of the moonlight.
“... we have to find him!” he heard one yell. The voice was familiar.
He shook his head, had they lost Holmes? Had he escaped?
“There’s nothing here sir,” a man gestured in the dark, “We’ve been up and down the road for half an hour now, and he’s just no here -”
“Dammit!” he watched as the man threw his hat on the ground. And instant recognition dawned, “Holmes told me to meet him here, if this is another one of his -”
“Lestrade!” Watson yelled, rising and stumbling down towards him. The detective spun, surprise and suspicion on his face. “I can show you where he is!”
For a moment he still looked uncertain, then “Doctor?”
“There’s a cottage not far from here, it looks abandoned, but they’ve settled in the cellar!” he finally stumbled into the pool of light, and instantly Lestrades expression paled. Strong hands grabbed him, but Watson shook them off. “We have to help Holmes.”
The man spluttered, “You’re in no condition to go anywhere!”
“I am coming Lestrade, or I am going alone.” Watson did not know what he looked like, that his head and shirt was thick with blood, that his clothes were soaked and torn, and heavy bruises were forming all over his face, he didn’t know that his expression had turned absolutely murderous. All he knew was Lestrade stepped back, nodded and helped him into the wagon. The ride was painful, but much better than stumbling over the fields. He called directions to the driver, and very soon told them to stop.
He made to get out, but Lestrade placed a hand on his shoulder. Watson was about to shove him off, but the detective’s expression halted him.
“Please doctor.” he said, “I will get him safely out of there, but you will do us no good in this condition.” he squeezed and Watson felt his legs almost give way. Lestrade let go, “Wait here.”
The fight left him, and he nodded, easing back down in his seat. With quick commands Scotland Yard made their way to the broken down cottage, and Watson eased out of the wagon. At the very least he could be ready should anything go awry. Keeping a safe distance he crept up the slope and watched from the darkness as the men surrounded the house. Even in his agonized state Watson had to admit, they were quite efficient.
They disappeared into the dilapidated house, and Watson eased even closer. He’d just reached the small broken stone fence when Lestrades demanding voice cut through. Moments later three shots clapped in the darkness and Watson stumbled closer, leaning heavily against the wall, hand in a tight fist.
Holmes, he needed to see if Holmes was alright...
The door opened, and a constable stepped out followed by Carter, followed by Lestrade and followed by Holmes...
Relief, instant, pure, gratifying relief washed over him, and Watson damned near collapsed there and then. Holmes looked fine, a little pale, perhaps a little tired, but he was fine. Watson desperately wanted to go over and speak with him.
“19 murders,” said Lestrade, “You’ll hang for this Carter.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” Carter smiled, “20, my good inspector. I admit my last kill wasn’t exactly interesting, not note worthy exactly, but he does up the tally to an even round number. He was at least good for someth-”
The fist cracked across Carter's jaw. Watson watched in blooming surprise as Carter stumbled two steps before crashing to the floor. Holmes stepped closer, raising his leg as if to stamp him into dust, but Lestrade and another constable held him back.
“Mr. Holmes!” he yelled, “What in the world-”
“More than you will ever know.” his voice was low, cold, dark, it made Watson break out in sweat. “Worth more than you will ever know.”
Carter spat out a glob of blood and sneered, teeth stained red, “Really? You're broken up about an average-everything man? With a perfectly sub-par intelligence-”
“Brave, honourable, kind and loyal!” he said, and for a moment Watson did not recognise the voice, so harsh and bitter it was, “His worth lay in that you blackguard. By being the most honest man you would ever meet. In being the soul of kindness and compassion without even trying.”
Carter sneered up at him, but Holmes continued, his voice only turning colder and harsher.
“But his greatest worth lay in his ability to bring out your brightness, to make everything clear, to help make connections and thoughts burst in your mind like firecrackers, because if a man like him believed in you...then there was nothing you couldn't do.” he let loose a bitter chuckle, “His good opinion was all I ever needed. Was what I craved.”
The silence was thick, even the wind suddenly still.
“You would never have understood, would never have been worthy of him.” He said, and then added softly, “I wasn’t.”
Then Holmes turned away to the mouth of the broken home, his eyes burning holes in the ground, hands tight, shoulder stiff. And Watson reached out to stop him. His hand brushing his shoulder, Holmes recoiled, eyes snapping up to his face with such anger it made Watson step back.
But clear grey eyes burned suddenly violent, angry, happy, elated, confused, embarrassed, every emotion he claimed he never had, bubbled and boiled up to the surface. And Watson smiled, hoping somehow it would ease his friend’s suffering.
Holmes touched his shoulder, eyes finding a hellish calm in the storm, then the hand tightened, and he gently turned Watson to the wagon. Watson let him, no words would come, but honestly he was quite alright with that. Holmes was alright, he was alright, and he was right by his friends side, where Holmes wanted him.