To kill on winter's eve

I have never considered myself to be an average human being, ever since I was little I knew my superior intellect set me apart from the people around me. When a superior mind stands taller than the surrounding individuals it quickly realizes that the general patterns in which these creatures behave are consistent and predictable. Therefore a human society looked from afar is not different or more important than, by example, a colony of ants or a bee hive.

The predictable pattern in which a population moves can usually be quite boring, a brain like mine can easily solve the riddle of human behavior and just as easily find it dull and meaningless.

So what does a genius like me do when the riddle of the supposedly human mind is not only solved but found insignificant? Well the best course of action in that case is to rattle the hive.

The easiest way to achieve that is to kill someone, contrary to what people think the deep intense reaction human individuals have over death is not really about feelings or empathy. It is about fear, and deep below that fear is the primal and most intimate survival instinct.

What humans care so much of death is not the emotional loss of that said individual but the mere inner knowledge that if that individual died it is possible they might die as well. So whenever I send an assassin to kill a seemingly random target the little ants get rattled and insecure, the pattern changes and suddenly it's not so boring anymore.

I don't find the idea of killing another human being particularly interesting, the death of a member of one of the most prolific species in the world is at the very best mundane. That is why I bleed them out like pigs or cattle, a glory less crime for a glory less creature. But the way society reacts at the fact that there is a serial killer on the loose with no predictable course of action fills it with insecurity and fear. See is not death what I enjoy; it's the way the society reacts to it. The evident uselessness of the police, the so called experts spitting out the most stupid guesses, the media fueling the paranoia to the point of exasperation, it is the only amusement a privileged mind like mine can afford to have.

But one day Sherlock Holmes stepped into the picture, and the game begun. Unlike the wankers from Scotland Yard this detective had an uncommon intelligence and a decent knowledge of the human behavior. Imagine my joy when I thought I had found another member of the human race that could stand on my level; the loneliness I never noticed had haunted me was beginning to shatter. I begun to get obsessed about him, I stalked him on several occasions and got so intent on recollecting information about him I am sure that at this point I know more about the man than he knows himself.

I am forced to admit he was, in one point of investigation, close to figuring out my plan. I was therefore forced to take action… on one Miss Adler.

My favorite hound dog was incarcerated because he lost his temper over a bloody football match, so I was forced to hire a lesser trained (also less expensive) assassin. My plan was in fact to separate Holmes from the only human being that tied him up to the tiny world of society, I had hoped that once his grieving subsided he might in fact find me and I could use my undeniable logic to turn him in my pupil, the heir of my vast fortune and my successor. After all he was the only other man I thought might me smart enough to understand the importance of my actions and follow my reasoning.

The plan backfired, Holmes was so caught up in grief and rage that in his haste he ignored clues that on any different situation would have undoubtly solved the mystery. He fell into an addiction, victim of useless emotions and his own weakness. Needless to say I lost all my interest in him to the point that my disappointment almost turns into hurt, he was no more evolved than a chimpanzee, enslaved by his primal responses and need to mate.

A year went by in boredom, without someone like Holmes challenging me even murder became meaningless.

One day Moran begun to question me, the text communication got complicated and I knew he was trying to find out who I was, perhaps in the hope of blackmail, perhaps so he could rat me out in case he got caught. In spite of my disappointment with Holmes I always kept track on him and I heard he not only went to rehab but he was in fact solving crimes again in New York.

The plan was simple, I would send Moran to rattle the big apple so to speak, catching the detective's attention and leaving a message in his home. Once he caught wind of it he would figure out Moran's identity, but not before Moran found Holmes and killed him. Relieving me of two enemies at once, Moran would be imprisoned and Holmes dead.

Again things did not happen as I planned; I underestimated Holmes' strength and character. A grave mistake from my part to believe he was weak. He subdued Moran, a well trained in combat fellow twice his size and to make things worse instead of being angry at Holmes he defended him in court and begun to give all the information he had of me to the Interpol, how lucky it was for me that he didn't have much of it.

The definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expect different results, twice I tried to outwit and predict Holmes and both times I went wrong. I NEVER DO WRONG!

Now the law is inching closer and the key to find me is in his grasp, I assume he hadn't had the stomach to deeply analyze his girlfriend's murder, if he does he will find me. I am superior enough to be humble and admit that if I don't stop him soon… he might beat me.

So now I am forced to do something I do not want, I need to kill Sherlock Holmes. Of course I cannot afford to send an assassin to do the job for it might end up like Moran; no I need to do this for myself. Funny how things work out, I sent orders to kill more people than I dare to recall but I have never murdered someone with my own hands, how meaningful that my first victim is someone as magnificent as Holmes.

…

I fly to New York in a private plane under a false name and rent a rather humble apartment near his, the best asset for a perfect crime is filth (that's why I dumped the bodies on urban polluted rivers) for it taints the evidence and makes it unusable in court. Another asset is mediocrity for a distinct rare element is easy to track down while with a common one it is impossible to do so.

But Holmes' death will not be dirty and mediocre; a man like him deserves a proper way to die. So in spite of taking a greater risk I will kill him in an honorable way. After all, with him out of the way nobody will be able to stop me

Years ago I bought a small medieval backsword on the black market, allegedly used to kill a templar. I intend to stab him with it in his own home. Might seem impractical but with precise planning it can be quite easy.

Winter is a wonderful time to kill, a ski mask might cover your face but sets everyone on alert yet nobody looks twice at a man with face an nose covered by a scarf and eyes hidden by a hat. A black coat, so fashionable in New York will hide any blood stains. The lovely Miss Watson goes for her predictable jogging exercise even in the harsh cold, out of the corner of my eye I see her run away from the soon to be a crime scene, she will be out for at least thirty minutes.

The rare dagger hidden in my bag is the most convenient way to enter my victim's house; I pose as an innocent antiquary asking for his advice in the evaluation of the item.

-"It was bought in an auction last month but the buyer, my client, wants confirmation on its authenticity"- I say showing complete calm even when my heart jumps in and out of my chest. For a man like Holmes who reads body language like an open book it is impossible to lie, but it is possible to divert the truth. He notices mi nervousness so I mumble

-"I have heard incredible things about you, it is very exciting to meet you at last"- What I say it's true and he sees it.

-"Yes I have published several articles on collector's magazines, it is about time someone recognized my work"- He says arrogant

Knowing Holmes' passionate interest for weapons I'm not surprised when he lets me in without suspicion, ironic that he can be so paranoid about many aspects yet the real danger sneaks right below him without any alert.

I remove the sword from my bag and show it to him, that way I can get the weapon so near to him without raising any alarm I could stab him long before he has time to react. But before I make my move I need him to close the door, so there are no witnesses.

These seconds are crucial, he is fast and agile if he notices even a glimpse of my intentions I might be the one with a sharp instrument stabbed in my midsection. The adrenaline pumps into my veins as the door begins to close, suddenly he sees it, he notices the hidden aggressiveness in my stance and begins to move in a defensive action.

It is too late though, I'm too close and the door shuts behind him.

His fate is sealed.