Death was waiting, he was always waiting. In his pocket jangled two hourglasses. On one was engraved the name Jim Moriarty, on the other William Holmes. He had the vague impression that something important was happening, well of course every death was important to sentimental sentient anthropomorphic personifications like him, but this one would be different.
William Holmes. He'd been the boy's constant companion since childhood. His hourglass was more twisted and turned than even Rincewind's or Vimes's, and that was saying something.
Their first encounter had been when Sherlock fell out of a tree and should have broken his neck, age five. Should have. The sand ran out in his hourglass. And then it started flowing backwards. There had been the stabbing age fourteen. The overdose aged seventeen. The other overdose age twenty. The poison age twenty one. The cliff age twenty four.
But Fate had been on his side, always had a soft spot for potentially handsome young men. Death watched Sherlock's career unfold. He felt quite attached to him actually, maybe some sort of fondness. As if William (he'd been William when they'd first met, Sherlock came later), was his own flesh and blood (in a metaphorical sense of course). If he hadn't found Mort then William would have been quite a nice candidate for Ysabell.
When the great game developed Death had known the Gods were playing silly buggers. But what worried him was Moriarty. He held the poor man's hourglass to the light. It was as twisted and black as Sherlock's, but it was rusted and corroded to. As if all that was dark and dreadful had poured into it. It had his name on it, and
It sent a shiver through his bones, it made him very angry. Something had meddled, and things weren't supposed to meddle. They'd already started to meddle with William. He wasn't meant to be in the tree age five, but something had caused him to be there, something wicked. And then someone else had undone it. The drugs...sold to him by a strange floating man with no face, or even physical body William could remember.
Supernatural entities were meddling again, and breaking down barriers between worlds. Ruining lives. He'd gone searching through his library, searching for a Jim Moriarty. The book was empty. It was wrong. It was very wrong.
He searched his vast mind, which was everywhere and everything, for an answer. Then it took him.
It is challenging, being an anthropomorphic personification's child, they tend to learn quickly what it is that Dad (or Mum) does. The last time he'd seen Terror he'd manifested as a cheerful, polite, fourth form student who'd been taught to be polite to his elders, considerate to old people and kind to animals and a psychopathic maniac on the battle field.
That was when he thought it might be a good idea to have a look for John Watson's book, and it was no surprise when he couldn't find it. He'd scribbled a note to Albert in an unreadable scrawl that looked as if a disorientated spider drunken spider had fallen into a vat of ink and danced across the page. GONE TO FIND WAR. WILL BE BACK FOR TEA. SUSAN COMING AT FIVE. MAKE CRUMBLE. THANK YOU.
He'd found his fellow horseman sitting at a bar, drinking as if attempting to fill a bottomless abyss. Death ordered himself a shandy.
SHSHSH
"Am I going to die?" Sherlock asked quietly, cradling the tea in his bony fingers.
Death nodded, mimicking Sherlock's hand movements and cradling his tea in his finger bones. A kitten lay on his lap. EVENTUALLY.
Sherlock nodded. "From your viewpoint everyone is dying, everyone is going to die."
CORRECT.
Sherlock had nodded. "But it's going to be soon isn't it? Is it wrong that I'm afraid?"
YOU WERE NOT AFRAID WHEN WE FIRST MET, YOU WERE JUST A SMALL HUMAN.
Sherlock chuckled sadly, for a moment Death saw a flicker of an old man. "Why should I have been? You don't exist to children, besides, you didn't even make woo woo noises."
YOU REFUSED TO RETURN TO YOUR MATERNAL RELATION UNTIL I GAVE YOU A RIDE ON BINKY. IT MUST HAVE BEEN DISCONCERTING AND UPSETTING FOR HER.
Sherlock grinned. "I remember stalling for time to explore the new world I'd discovered, by explaining that Mummy wasn't a relation to me, that I was as good as an orphan."
YES. WE DISCUSSED THAT THOROUGHLY DIDN'T WE? THAT A PARENT NEEDN'T BE RELATED TO QUALIFY AS A PARENT. I TOLD YOU OF MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY DAUGHTER.
"Poor Mummy," reminisced Sherlock, "I went home and then I kidnapped a cat to try and find you. The next time you pushed me on the swing that overlooks infinity, said it reminded you of the Quirmian term, deja vu, of pushing Ysabell."
THE ORIGINALITY OF YOUR METHODS WERE COMMENDABLE. MOST HUMANS USED CANDLES AND RITUALS AND THOSE STRANGE BOARDS. YOU TOOK A CAT TO A HOSPITAL AND WAITED.
"It wasn't logical, but of course your fondness for cats was obvious and the fact that they can see you when others can't always was clear from the start," Sherlock sighed in recollection. "I didn't understand that you were anthropomorphic then of course, that you existed everywhere at the same time and didn't personally attend to every death. I had to wait five days outside the place, the cat got angry."
YES IT DID. ALBERT DEALT WITH THE SCRATCHES BEFORE RETURNING YOU HOME.
"Do you remember when I was angry with you? I blamed you for taking my real parents, I called you a murderer."
OF COURSE I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER EVERYTHING. I CAUSED MOST OF IT. YOU HURT MY FEELINGS.
"Albert yelled at me that time," Sherlock noted. "I asked how a anthropomorphic personification could even have feelings, called me a little sod who should stop throwing myself into your path, and that you were a better man than most men. I never understood why he was like me, why he chose to be there with you, the final enemy. You were my first friend."
If Death could blush he would have. He looked a little flustered. I AM FLATTERED. YOU WERE A STRANGE CHILD, THE HEADOLOGIST'S MUST HAVE BEEN GRATEFUL.
"Psychologists," Sherlock corrected. "Yes I saw many when I told dear Mummy I'd been playing with Death. They expected that from a child like me, Mycroft was older when they adopted him, he saw a good few. I was the problem child. Oh, you made a joke."
In the rain, on a street corner, screaming for Mycroft to unhand him. That he wasn't even his real brother. Pulling away and running through alleyways, dodging and darting, bumping into a man running in the other direction, a tall orange haired man wearing a leather chest plate, yelling "STOP in the name of the Watch!"- he knew his faithful companion would be nearby, he was connecting the multiverse as he always did. One of the constants.
He almost walked into a knife for the second time that night. But a bony hand seemed to stop him, Sherlock felt the air grow cold, Death was talking again, he pulled himself from his dream.
A HUMOROUS NOTATION ON THE MATTER OF HEADOLOGISTS BEING GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR PROVIDING A NEED FOR THEIR SERVICES.
"I'm afraid, next time I see you-"
Death paused. He took in the shaking hands, the dilated pupils, the slight bead of sweat on the forehead. DO NOT FEAR ME WILLIAM. YOU MUST NEVER FEAR ME.
"Why can't I go with you now? Why can't it happen now?"
A cold winter morning. He'd decided to pop by for a visit. He'd found a body in a bathtub, slit wrists. He'd snapped his fingers, drawn the hourglass. Empty. But still flowing. Impossible. Death finds silence easy, it's much harder when you're trying to attract attention. He managed it. He'd seen impossible before, Clara Oswin Oswald had completely destroyed his filing system.
Part of him wanted to say because he didn't want William to die. Because he had grown quite fond of him over the years. And even if he did offer him a place in his world, which he would gladly, he knew that William would grow bored. Nothing in Death's world is real, just copies of real things.
Because like you said fifteen years ago, Death can not feel or act or life, only imitate that. Death is no Life for the likes of William Sherlock Scott Holmes.
"I don't want to die," he whispered to himself. "I don't...oh God," he held a hand to his mouth. "Will it hurt?"
NOTHING IS CERTAIN, DESTINY CAN BE REWRITTEN.
Sherlock tugged his sleeves down and set his cup on the table. "You will be there won't you? No important meetings or anything? I-I don't want to die alone."
Death picked up Sherlock's empty cup with his own and took them to the sink, rinsing both. I AM ALWAYS WITH YOU WILLIAM, he said from the kitchen.
Sherlock turned to face the window. "N-no, I mean as a friend, "
Death smiled, which is quite hard when you bare all your teeth at once having no skin to cover them. But it's the thought that counts, and a small sad smile came into existence. I PROMISE.
Then he checked his pocket watch and realised he was meant to be somewhere else at that precise moment, called Binky and rode through the wall and out to reap. When John got home he demanded to know why there were hoof prints in the carpet. Sherlock feigned innocence. He doubted John would believe him anyway.
SHSHSH
WHAT IS YOUR SON DOING? Death had demanded.
War ordered himself another drink. "He's not my son any more. He's hiding from me. He's lost his mind."
Death took a sip of shandy, it was quite strong. HE CAN NOT HIDE FROM ME. NO ONE HIDES FROM THE REAPER MAN.
War raised an eyebrow and slammed his now empty tankard down. "Peverell did!"
THERE ARE ALWAYS EXCEPTIONS. TERROR WILL SURVIVE, BUT THAT DOES NOT EXEMPT HIM FROM DEATH. I WILL HAVE TO CONSULT OUR...SUPERIORS.
War buried his head in his hands, a sob muffled in his throat. "I'm sorry. But after the Mrs. died, it devastated Clancy, Terror and Panic. She wasn't my little girl anymore, got involved with all sorts- moved out, thought she was happily settled down with some Clara. Then Panic followed, he hated me, absolutely hated me, blamed me I think, blamed me for all the suffering caused in my name. Became a bloody army doctor."
I MET HIM ONCE, YOU HAVE ONE CHILD OF WHOM YOU SHOULD BE PROUD. HE IS AS BRAVE A MAN IN THIS WORLD AS HE WAS IN THE DISCWORLD. HE LOOKED ME IN THE EYE AND SAID 'OH GODS OH GODS OH GODS PLEASE LET ME LIVE'.
War nodded. "Terror, he-"
HE BECAME JAMES MORIARTY AND FOLLOWED HIS SIBLINGS INTO THAT WORLD. FAMINE'S SON PLAYS SOME STRANGE GAME OF HUNGER NOW DOESN'T HE, IN PANEM? I DIGRESS. YOU DRINK YOURSELF INTO STUPOUR, WHILE YOUR SON WREAKS HAVOC?
"Help me, please. I don't know what to do."
I WILL BRING YOUR SON HOME.
SHSHSH
"I will play you for his life!"
Death turned to see a rather stern looking mousy haired pathologist glaring up at him. She had her arms folded across her chest and her chin lifted in a forced indignant confidence.
"My name is Molly Hooper, I am a witch and I can see you so don't pretend to be someone else I know it's you, I am not delusional. I will play you for Sherlock Holmes's life."
RARELY DOES ANYONE WIN A GAME OF CARDS WITH DEATH, said Death.
"Granny did," said Molly boldly, far bolder than she felt. "And if not...I can offer my own sand for his- don't you dare deny it everyone who's anyone know's it's what you did that one time-"
THERE ARE ALWAYS EXCEPTIONS, Death said (he would have growled it but it's hard with no tongue).
"Please," witches didn't beg, but Molly did a lot of things that witches weren't meant to do (like fall in love with Sherlock Holmes). "Please-"
GOOD DAY MISS. HOOPER.
He was gone before she'd blinked. She sighed to herself and stomped back into her morgue, where she could be certain he wasn't.
SHSHSH
Jim Moriarty shot himself on the roof. The scythe swung like an axe through the air, Terror died and Terror survived.
Sherlock stepped onto the ledge, Death would have swallowed if he could have.
Then he realised, that the universe likes patterns.
"Thank you," Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. He hit dial, not taking his eyes of Panic in the street below. "Thank you for coming yourself."
The phone dropped. The hourglass felt as if it burned Death's hands. He gripped it tight in his fist, an anger boiling within him. Ysobel was dead. His son was going to soon follow, the universe always liked patterns. If Terror was going to have a stand off, it would have to be with a child of Death. And it wasn't Ysobel, or even Susan.
We established that parents needn't be related.
"Goodbye John," he dropped the phone. Sherlock didn't turn. "Goodbye old friend."
He fell.
Death was everywhere, in the air, on the ground, on the pavement. In his world the body slowed, he prepared to swing the scythe. He couldn't do it. He almost felt guilt, he'd allowed Ysabell to depart the mortal realm. But it wasn't William's time.
Death shouldn't have done it. He knew he shouldn't have. The pain would have been intolerable. Broken bones. Mortals had such vulnerable little bodies.
Sherlock stood beside his body, watching as Death stood over it. Death nodded his head towards Barts, and gestured that he follow.
SHSHSH
Death didn't frequent morgues, most of the time people didn't die in them, and they were already dead before getting there. In fact he found them rather unsettling.
Molly Hooper was in tears. Death watched as she wiped blood Sherlock's face.
"I shouldn't be here, Gods why did you do it you idiot? Autopsies are going to be performed and examinations and all they'll find out is you threw yourself off a bloody roof," she sighed.
Death nodded to Sherlock.
WE WILL NOT SEE EACH OTHER FOR SOME TIME I BELIEVE.
Molly jumped and span.
"Why?" mouthed Sherlock.
Death shook the hourglass and turned it over. The broken corpse on the table inhaled a shuddering and harrowing breath.
Molly's eyes widened.
THERE ARE ALWAYS EXCEPTIONS.