Waking You Up

Wake You UP I

They tell him to wait, but he doesn't listen. They're too slow, and the thief leaves his flat – which Sherlock did not enter, so he listened partially, at least, though mostly that was because John'd insisted on just standing vigil outside ("For once, Sherlock, let the police be the ones to break into the criminal's flat"). The thief – Alan Henrickson, he'd been clever, but not clever enough – is obviously not planning on returning, and Lestrade and the others are much too far away, so Sherlock follows him. And of course, John follows Sherlock. The thief seems to have been expecting someone, though, because he notices them quickly, and the chase is on. 

It ends in an alleyway, a dead end, with no sign of Henrickson and yet nowhere else he could have gone. 

"Are you sure he came down this way?" John asks.

"Of course I'm sure," Sherlock snaps. "He must be hiding somewhere." 

John looks down the alley with a frown. "I called Lestrade and updated him. Don't suppose you'll wait until they get here?"

Ah, so that was what had slowed him down slightly a few moments ago. Sherlock gives John a look that expresses exactly what he thinks of that suggestion.

"Didn't think so. Shall we, then?" John asks. 

They step into the alleyway, searching cautiously. Sherlock scans everything, every possible hiding spot, for signs of occupancy. 

"Look, mate, you might as well come out," John says. "You've got nowhere to go, and it'll make things easier for everyone." 

"Easier for you, you mean," Henrickson says from behind Sherlock.

Sherlock whirls around to find the thief, less than half a metre away from him. Far too close for comfort. 

"Prison isn't exactly the easier path for me, is it?" the thief asks, something gleaming in his right hand.

Sherlock's eyes are drawn to it, a large, wickedly curved knife. "John," he says. 

"I see it," John replies. 

The thief takes a step towards Sherlock, and Sherlock instinctively takes a few back, until he's almost up against the skip he'd been looking at. 

"You don't want to do this, Henrickson," John says in his understanding, sympathetic doctor voice.

It's not all faked, Sherlock knows. John had been sympathetic towards the thief. Dying of an illness caused by poor working conditions, unable to pay for expensive, experimental treatment because the company that should have been held responsible wasn't. Henrickson was the only one who'd gotten so sick; it was determined to be outside sources. 

"You're right, I don't," the thief says. "You could just let me go. No one got hurt that didn't deserve it."

"The people you stole from were victims just as you were," John says softly. "I understand the need for revenge, but why go after your colleagues?" 

"None of them got sick like this," Henrickson says bitterly. "They still have their jobs, don't they? They were supposed to be my friends, but they turned against me. When I needed them most."

"They were scared," John says. "But some of them are willing to testify, now, you could-"

"It's too late," the thief interrupts. "They had their chance. Now this is all I've got left."

"You're not a killer," John tells him. "You didn't even want to be a thief." 

Henrickson hesitates, though his grip on the knife stays solid. 

"That necklace you took from Bill Stevenson? It was his favourite aunt's. It's all he had left of her. Andy Picken, you called him your best friend? Turns out that money was for his niece. He's paying her school fees, how's she supposed to have a future now?" John asks.

The thief sags a bit. "I didn't want to hurt anyone. I just want to live." Then he straightens. "No. They earned this. And you won't let it go." 

"Think this through," Sherlock says. "Right now, it's just stealing. If you give it back, some of them won't press charges. If you do this, it's murder." 

There's another hesitation, this one longer. "My sister's waiting for me. We're going out of the country, where I can get treatment. If I kill you, there won't be any charges at all."