Anderson shoved open the door to 221B without knocking, trying in vain to get the element of surprise. He knew it wouldn't work, of course it wouldn't, the Freak probably already knew it was him from the way his shoes scuffed on the door step as he stepped in.
The landlady was out, he had seen her outside of the local Tesco not twenty minutes ago on his way over. Convenient, he would be able to have his little talk with the Freak unobserved. John Watson, he knew, was at his latest girlfriend's house after yet another row with Sherlock, he had been complaining to Lestrade that morning.
Whether it was just a strange coincidence, or the stars aligning, or some vengeful deity that the Freak had gotten on the wrong side of, Anderson would never know. Nobody would. They would mostly write it off as extraordinarily bad luck on the Freak's part, or extraordinarily good luck on his killer's. Either that, they would say, or the entire thing was preemptive.
Which it wasn't. Of course not. Anderson had never intended things to get so horribly out of hand, and later he would blame anything and everything but himself. When he looked down at the blood on his hands and the red ribbon of it that encircled his victim's neck, he would not be able to believe that he had done this terrible, sickening thing.
Murder. The very thing he fought against, and he had unknowingly set off to commit it, a rash act in a haze of anger that would bring his whole world crashing down. He strode up the stairs, shaking in rage. His wife had left him last night, and he was entirely one-hundred-percent sure it was the Freak's fault. He had been the first one to discover his affair with Sally, had he not? Anderson knew that the Freak would have told his wife, out of sheer spite.
He flung open the door to the Freak's living room, only to see him casually lounging in his armchair, plucking away at his violin. He looked up, with that infuriating smug look on his face. Anderson's hands curled into fists, and he stalked closer to the Freak, unconsciously mirroring a lion closing in on an unsuspecting piece of prey.
The Freak stood, setting down his beloved instrument (which received way more care than any human ever would from him) and put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown, eyes boring into Anderson, analyzing him, judging him.
"The wife find out then?" he mocked. "Pity. It never could have lasted Anderson. Surely even your tiny little brain could figure that out." Anderson stepped even closer, the furious shaking settling down as an icy calm overtook him. "And now you're blaming me for it."
"Brilliant deduction," Anderson spat. "Really clever of you, Freak."
"What do you want, Anderson? For me to tell you I'm sorry?"
"You told her!" snarled Anderson. "You only exist to ruin my life!"
"Why would I concern myself with your love life, Anderson? I have better things to do than to mess with a person who's only purpose in life is to lower the IQ of everyone within a ten-mile radius."
That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Anderson snarled and lunged for the Freak, swinging a punch and catching him across the face. He blinked, startled for a moment, before assuming a defensive position, raising his hands to block incoming blows.
"You've really crossed the line this time, you know that?" he growled, staring at the Freak through a red haze. Part of his mind was screaming at him (this isn't you, you're better than this!) but he ignored it, shoving it aside and dashing forward again, shoving the Freak backwards into the kitchen.
The Freak fought back, kicking Anderson in the chest, his eyes darting around the room trying to find something to use to his advantage. He spotted something (his skull? A set-aside experiment? Anderson would never know) and lunged for it. It was at that moment that Anderson decided to strike.
He took advantage of the Freak's momentary change of momentum to lunge at him, sending him face-first into a counter. He cracked his head and fell to the tile floor, desperately windmilling his arms in an attempt to keep him upright. He tried to get back up but slumped to the floor, the knock to the head sending him into a dizzy spiral.
Anderson stood, watching as the Freak pathetically tried to brace himself against the counter, still thinking that somehow, in some ridiculous way, he would be able to win. He grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a butcher's knife left lying on the table, probably used in one of the Freak's weird tests, and held it up, examining it.
He looked down at the Freak, smiling as hints of fear began to flicker across his eyes. Despite his head wound, he was fully aware of his vulnerable state, and what Anderson was capable of doing to him. Anderson knelt down next to him and pressed the tip of the knife against his throat.
"Not so high-and-mighty now, are you?" he said softly.
"You're not thinking straight...Anderson, this isn't who you are!"
"Shut up!" he snarled, grabbing the Freak's head and slamming it against the ground. "I could draw this out as long as I like Freak, I could do whatever I wanted to you! Don't. Mess. With. Me."
The Freak looked at him frantically, searching him for any hint of mercy. Finding none, he tried again to surge up, stopped by Anderson pressing the knife into his throat again, harder this time, a thin line of red appearing against his porcelain skin.
"Any last words?" asked Anderson spitefully.
The Freak swallowed, and closed his eyes. He knew, thought Anderson spitefully, knew that there was no point in fighting, in pleading, in screaming for help. Knew that Anderson could and would make good on his threat to draw his death out in the most painful way possible.
"See you in hell," Anderson said. Then he drew the knife across the Freak's throat.
It was the blood and the pained, guttural moan that he let out that finally cleared the red mist from Anderson's vision.
"My god..." he whispered in shock, letting the knife fall from his grasp. "Holmes...Holmes..." he reached forward and shook the man, getting absolutely nothing save a flicker of the eyelids. "Sherlock!" he gasped frantically, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Come on, don't die, don't die..."
A final, labored gasp, then nothing.
No. No. God no.
He had done this, thought Anderson numbly, searching for a pulse on his victim's wrist. He had killed a man out of anger and spite.
He had murdered Sherlock Holmes.