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Obsession is a funny thing, really. It's dangerous, unpredictable, insatiable. Just look where it got me. It drew me in, and I stepped too close to the fire. DEAD! I'm /dead/. And yet, here I am. Talking. Somebody must love me.
My obsession with Sherlock Holmes began in my childhood. I was 13, and he was 8. Such a cutie. We never met, of course, but /oh/, did I admire him. Nobody else understood him; nobody else /could/ understand me. I felt we had a special something. Of course, at that time, he wasn't even aware of my existence. So I gave him a little puzzle. He /loved/ puzzles back then... still do, I suppose. At any rate, I gave him a puzzle. I murdered Carl Powers to watch him dance. My music, his steps. At least, until the meddlesome police stepped in.
You see, I'd always planned on introducing myself to him through that murder. My first one. In a way, I suppose I did...
But that scene at the pool. I /knew/, then, that he was a worthy opponent. I had chosen well. I also knew he needed to die. It was just how it had to be. People die. I'd already planned his death. Of course I had. It /is/ what I do best, after all. His end needed to be long. Drawn out. Painful. I /yearned/ to watch him BURN! Watch his face as his life came crumbling down around him. Such a shame he dragged me down into the flames with him. Not that I mind. Death isn't all /that/ bad.
I guess I'm just trying to say... don't develop obsessions, kids. Once you have one, you'll get more - it's like an /addiction/. After all, all roads lead to death.