Do you remember the scene in S2EP3 when the sniper smiles up to Mrs. Hudson as she takes his mug? I think he smiled quite warmly and got this idea that he had warmed to her – which certainly would pose a problem to a serial killer…

Oh, and if you happen to know his name and nationality, please drop me a line, since I probably got that wrong.

Killer with a Problem

Jurij Andrejewitch Korashenko has a problem. He is assigned to a mission, and for the first time in his career as a professional killer he doesn´t like this mission a bit.

He has moved into Baker Street 223, as requested by his employer. The flat, though small, is not nearly as draughty as the one he lived at in Paris or as overheated as the one in Istanbul was. It is only slightly musty, which does not surprise him at all, considering the weather conditions in England. He is not too much annoyed at his disguise, for while he is posing as a plumber he does not have to wear one of his scratchy, impossible wigs, and he does not need to hide his tattoos.

It is not the long wait for the crucial moment, either. He had to stay patient in anticipation of the final signal for three months now which usually should be upsetting him much more. He rather likes to be swift and fast, and stalking a target for so long is rather unsettling. But he finds the surroundings to his liking. He is in the very heart of the city, a park he can use for his morning exercise nearby. And the meals at Speedy´s are rather tasty, if only slightly expensive.

No, he is not at all put off by circumstances – he has made the unpardonable mistake to warm to his target. This is surely the biggest mistake a professional killer can make, and Jurij certainly is a professional. He is a crack shot with the pistol, even though he prefers to accomplish his ambushes from a short distance. He likes the look of surprise on his target´s faces when they realise that they are going to die, he rejoices in the knowledge that he is the last human being they see in their last moments.

So far, he has kept to monitoring his target, as he prefers to call his victims. The stifling colours of the target´s wardrobe are certainly catching attention, as is its red hair. Its limp indicates a bad hip and it has a very predictable daily routine. Jurij knows the target´s way to the grocers, to its neighbours and to the hairdresser (where it goes much more frequently than Jurij, being bald, is able to comprehend). Within a radius of five kilometers Jurij has focused on the frail woman from all possible angles, calculating the impact and effect of his ammunition.

Then, one day, he meets said target at the doorstep to 221, just when the woman involuntarily drops a bag of groceries, eggs, flour and milk spurting onto the pavement.

"Oh dear," she exclaims, spotting him. "Young man, could you be so kind and help me pick this up, please? See, I´ve got a hip." And Jurij, eager to get a closer look, does as she pleads.

"Oh, this is lovely," she beams and shoves him up the stairs to her flat. In the kitchen, she sets down the remaining content of her bag, chattering away happily.

"I´m so glad you came along. I wouldn´t have been able to pick up all these bits myself. Wouldn´t it have been such a shame to keep everything lying in the dirt, rotting away?" And then, with a regretful note: "The boys won´t have their cake now, though."

She then sets up water for tea, begging Jurij to stay and have a look at one of the light bulbs in the hall, offering him some of her home-baked cookies. It must have happened then: As Jurij sits in her cosy kitchen, detached from the bustling streets, listening to trivia and her praise of her tenants, the detective and the doctor, he feels suddenly strangely detached of the outside world. Visions of his Russian childhood come floating back to him, the small house with its untidy but beautiful garden appearing before his inner eye. He vividly remembers his grandmother standing at the stove, the samovar ready, talking softly to him. He only manages to leave an hour later and even then the women is openly devastated that he would not stay and try some more of her baking.

On leaving, Jurijs routine sets in again and he notices that it is seventeen steps up to the detective´s flat, up a very narrow corridor, which would leave an assassin with no real chance for a flight, should he chose to attack from the front door. But his job is not to kill the detective or the doctor, his target is their landlady. Who has just managed to get him to talk about his childhood days and his family back in Russia. Whose kindness and cheerfulness reminds him strongly and painfully of his grandmother.

After this incident he feels being watched. Every so often he meets his target in the street, and she always greets him with the warmest smile, asking questions on how he is doing, if he thinks the cold of Russia is worse than the English drizzle, if he gets fit from his daily jogging round and what the tattoos on his arms signify. He answers politely, keeps telling himself that all this is for preparation, that he is just collecting as much data on her as possible.

The most data he gets, though, is trivia about the detective and his doctor friend. Jurij grinds his teeth every time he ponders the fact that he knows nearly everything about the two men – that the detective sleeps very unregularly (hence the lit window at three in the night), that he plays the violin (hence the screeching noises which threaten Jurijs afternoon nap every second day), that he has an addictive personality (actually he wears a drug addict´s complexion). That his friend is a former army doctor (which could pose a serious threat to Jurij´s mission), a good cook and has a psychosomatic tremor in his left hand that mysteriously disappears whenever he senses danger.

But Jurij knows not very much more about Martha Hudson than a fortnight before he was guest in her kitchen, only that she is a very sweet person who cares for her "boys" deeply and loves to have a chat now and then – which, in fact, is all the time. And that she reminds him ever so closely of his grandmother. He has to face it, he Jurij the Gunner, who has killed 54 people, is homesick and Martha Hudson his only cure.

Then, one day, the message arrives that the game has started. He has already offered Mrs. Hudson his help with a congested pipe in the hall and she has accepted gleefully.

"You know, the boys are not in. Haven´t been for several days, to be honest," she tells him. "I really can do with some help, what with Sherlock being arrested and getting away with Dr. Watson as hostage and the two of them hiding somewhere in a pitch black cellar without anything to eat, or probably being abducted by this Moriarty guy – dear, dear," she exclaims. The little lady seems truly distressed, her usually impeccably kempt hair ruffled, lines in her face indicating a lack of sleep, complexion pale.

Jurij can´t help to feel deep regret for her being his victim. And he feels insanely jealous of the detective and the doctor. Why is life so unfair as to provide them with a landlady who is kindness herself and who cares so much? Why did he have to leave the idyllic spot he used to live with his grandmother, only to roam the whole world shooting bullets in other people´s heads, not to mention the effort to be precise and untraceable? Why – and this question bothers him most – hasn´t he been ordered to kill this nuisance of a detective and his ever so loyal friend? He really would enjoy this so much more than killing Mrs. Hudson.

While he waits for the signal, his gun hardly disguised in his tool box, he sips the tea she has just made for him – "Russian tea, especially for you, got it from Fortnum & Mason, cost a fortune – but you´re welcome." And for the first time in his professional career he feels disgust, he feels he can´t possibly go through with this.

The relief he feels when the alarm goes off in his pocket which tells him the detective jumped to his death is nearly overwhelming.