Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Terry Pratchett's Discworld creations or Arthur Conan Doyle's creation (and neither does BBC1 but who's to say?) Apologies to Arnold Bocklin admirers.

The wind flew through his coat tails, each flap flap like a flag in surrender.

Jim's mocking retreat sounded unnecessarily loud in his ears as the world below came into focus. Like a stage, he thought distractedly gazing at the rectangular square in the pavement. Every theatre actor knew their positions on stage, drawn by chalk lines and marked by tape during rehearsals. Even when you were so good that you didn't need to see the markings, your feet carrying you to the exact millimetre of your position while your body and memory took over. There was no room in his head for snipers and codes. A few random heads crisscrossed in this maelstrom dance hurrying to their destinations, like stagehands before the curtains rises. Sherlock Holmes: his final curtain call. The Danse Macabre. He hasn't played that in awhile. He probably won't for a long time.

GOOD AFTERNOON

The world slowed. The colours bleached into grey and purple tones around the edges. Sherlock gazed into the face of an old friend.

"Oh its you."

Death's feet clicked softly as he stepped out of thin air and onto the ledge. He shifted his scythe to the other hand as he rummaged for something in his robes.

I BROUGHT YOU A PRESENT

Sherlock sighed. "Obvious. I can see the bow sticking out from under your cloak – Stradivarius? neck's too long…no! not a Bloody Stupid Johnson!"

Death sighed.

OBSERVANT AS ALWAYS SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Death drew out the instrument and handed it over. It was extremely beautiful. It was also extremely black. Everything was in shades of black from the scroll down to the chin rest with each individual string lying taut across the bridge like licorice. Hmm, ages since he had licorice strings. Why did he stop? Oh yes, the distressing smell from experiment 478…

Death coughed politely.

"Cough drop?" he asked sourly.

I PREFER TO GET ON WITH THE BUSINESS END OF THIS MEETING. THIS IS YOUR FINAL CURTAIN CALL.

"Please don't. The imagery is too Bocklin; dullness disguised as sentiment."

Sherlock gingerly took the violin and balanced it on his chin.

"You want me to ask you if I'm going to die."

YES

"But from your viewpoint, everyone is dying and everyone dies."

YOU MIGHT VERY WELL THINK THAT I'D ALREADY THOUGHT OF THAT, BUT I COULDN'T POSSIBLY COMMENT.

Silence fell as Sherlock twiddled with the peg box. He hesitated before settling the bow on string. "Bloody Stu - Johnson experimented with weaponry during his life."

YES

"Right then." he said handing the violin back reluctantly.

If he was capable of such a feat, Death would have raised an eyebrow.

YOU STILL THINK YOU CAN WIN?

The wind flew through his coat tail, each flap flap like a flag in surrender. The world above and below came into focus. There was room in his head for snipers and codes.

Sherlock laughed.

Death seated himself carefully on the ledge as the scene played out on the hospital terrace. He whistled a few bars as his fingers drummed a beat on his knee. He rarely came in person to collect souls in the roundworld if he could help it. The minds here tended to go a bit funny whenever he turned up. Sometimes the minds wouldn't forget.

The blade of the scythe shot out at the same time as the gun.