Vimes opened his eyes to find the world full of shadows and smoke. "Sybil?" he said hesitantly, sitting upright.

"GUESS AGAIN," said a voice close at hand. It was a voice that seemed to bypass the ears and speak straight to the brain, and even worse it sounded vaguely familiar.

He looked around him. Sitting on the sketchy outline of a chair was a seven foot skeleton, its eyes glowing blue in the dark world Vimes was currently inhabiting. It grinned at him and slow realisation dawned.

"Oh," he said, and then after a bit more thought, "Bugger!"

"I'M SORRY?" said Death.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" said Vimes, feeling it was just as well to be sure.

There was a pause. If it was possible for a skull to look anything other than mildly amused Vimes would have said Death looked slightly uncomfortable. "NOT EXACTLY," he said.

"Not exactly!" shouted Vimes, reaching out and shaking the skeleton, "How can you be not exactly dead?! You either aren't or you are! There's no not exactly!"

Death was impressed. Despite anger requiring glands that Vimes no longer possessed in his spectral form the Commander had gone from consciousness to violence in less than thirty seconds. He was obviously in the presence of a master. It was as if Vimes's very soul burned with a fierce rage.

Vimes, having realised shaking Death was not perhaps the most life enhancing move he would ever make, let go of the skeleton. Then he realised that as he was probably dead anyway and redoubled his grip. "I'm not in the mood to be messed about!"he said, "What the hell is going on?"

"ER," said Death, "ARE YOU AWARE OF THE POWER OF BELIEF?"

"What?" said Vimes.

"ARE YOU AWARE OF THE POWER OF BELIEF?" repeated Death.

Vimes thought about it. He thought he remembered hearing some wizards talking about it once at some reception somewhere, something about the Hogfather.... "I'm not sure," he said.

Death sighed, "DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT TO EXIST THERE MUST BE BELIEF? FOR THE GODS TO BE HERE NOW THERE MUST BE ENOUGH BELIEF ON THE DISC TO SUSTAIN THEM. IF THERE IS ENOUGH BELIEF THAN ANYTHING CAN CAN COME INTO BEING."

"Yes, I've heard that said," answered Vimes.

Death reached inside his robes and pulled out a lifetimer. It was slightly larger than most, but roughly cut, all sharp edges and raw surfaces. There was a name carved into the wood at the bottom in angular letters, almost runes, and Vimes saw it was his own. He glared at it and Death flicked the top bulb, which was empty of sand. It was filled with a flickering blue light. He stared harder and saw there was a single grain of sand in mid-fall from top to bottom, frozen in time.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"IT MEANS THAT YOU ARE NOT EXACTLY DEAD," said Death frankly and added hurriedly as Vimes growled, "THIS MAY TAKE SOME EXPLAINING." He clicked his fingers and the charcoal sketch of the bedroom disappeared. They were hovering above the city and Vimes tried to swallow down his nausea.

"That's Ankh-Morpork," said Vimes.

"YES," said Death. Vimes repressed the comment, 'I can see my house from here!' as Death continued. "IT IS A FOCUS POINT FOR BELIEF ON THE DISC."

"So I would imagine," muttered Vimes.

"SO, YOU UNDERSTAND THAT IF ENOUGH PEOPLE BELIEVE THAN ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE?" checked Death.

"Yes," replied Vimes.

"YOU ARE WELL KNOWN IN ANKH-MORPORK," said Death, "WELL RESPECTED."

Vimes snorted, "I wouldn't say that!"

"PERHAPS NOT BY THE UPPER CLASSES, YOUR GRACE, BUT THE LOWER CLASSES APPRECIATE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE FOR THE CITY POLICE SERVICE. IN SOME HOUSES IN MORPORK AND THE SHADES YOUR NAME IS SPOKEN WITH GREAT RESPECT."

"Really?" said Vimes, disbelieving. But then, the people he normally met were generally those not particularly happy about meeting a member of the Watch. Vimes spent a lot of his time arresting criminals, he left a lot of the public relations stuff to Carrot. Gratitude was not something he encountered a lot of from day to day.

"IN FACT SOME WOULD SAY YOUR NAME HAD BECOME SYNONYMOUS WITH THE IDEALS OF TRUTH AND JUSTICE."

Well, that was true enough. Sammies was the nickname for the new-style police officers the city turned out at a regular basis, those that didn't take bribes, those with more than the usual amount of intelligence, street knowledge and initiative.

"Really?" he said again.

"YES," replied Death, wondering if Vimes was going to get the hint.

"Wow!" he said, and Death sighed.

"THEY BELIEVE IN YOU ALMOST LIKE THEY BELIEVE IN THEIR GODS. YOU DISPENSE JUSTICE, YOU ARE A CHAMPION OF THE LOWER CLASSES, YOU GIVE THEM BACK A LITTLE TRUST IN THE AUTHORITIES THAT PRESIDE OVER THEM."

Vimes couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that. After a few moments he managed: "Is that why I'm not exactly dead?"

"YES," said Death, "THEIR BELIEF IS SUSTAINING YOU WHILE IGOR TRIES TO SAVE YOUR LIFE."

"Is it going to work?" Vimes ventured.

"I CANNOT SAY," said Death.

"Oh." A pause. "What do I do now?"

"I DON'T KNOW. I HAVE NEVER ENCOUNTERED THIS SITUATION BEFORE."

"What will happen if Igor does save my life? Will the sand flow backwards?"

"I DOUBT IT," said Death. He pulled out the lifetimer and gave it a little shake. Nothing moved. The light flickered suddenly and sand started to flow again from the top of the glass. Vimes squinted to see how much sand had appeared in the top bulb. It looked quite a sizeable amount... but Death had tucked it away. The world started to spin sickly and Vimes felt as if he was falling backwards.

"Er, goodbye," said Vimes as his vision began to fade.

"BE SEEING YOU," said Death.

"Er. When?" said Vimes but Death and the rooftops of Ankh-Morpork had disappeared.

Vimes opened his eyes and to his relief the room was as he remembered it, sunlight streaming in through the window. He took a deep breath and blinked in surprise. He had been so used to breathing in short, shallow gasps for so long that to take a deep breath, to suck air into his lungs was a wondrous experience. It felt as if he had never breathed before and he took in a few more lungfuls. His chest ached down the middle with a dull fire and his ribs protested, but he carried on breathing in the same satisfied manner. "Sybil?" he said, struggling to sit up.

"She's outside thur," said Igor (1), "Taking Sam for a walk. I'll send someone to tell her you're awake. How do you feel?"

"Wonderful," said Vimes with true feeling, "Am I cured?"

"I would say tho, thur. There was thome problems in the surgery, but you pulled through. Lady Thybil thaid you would, she said you wouldn't thtop fighting."

Vimes grinned. It was good to be alive.

It was a month later and Vimes saluted Vetinari carefully, feeling the gaze of the Patrician taking in his unnatural skinniness and still oddly pale complexion. "At ease, Commander," Vetinari said at last, suspicion still lingering in his eyes. But whatever Vetinari might think Vimes knew he was cured, he hadn't needed the final meeting with Igor last week to tell him that. He hadn't felt this good in /years/.

"Captain Carrot has done a fine job in maintaining the standards of the Watch laid down by yourself."

"I'm glad, sir," replied Vimes.

"Good," said the Patrician. He picked some keys up off his desk and handed them back over to Vimes cautiously. "The keys to the armoury."

"Thank you sir," said Vimes.

"I believe that the reports from the last two months are on your desk, Commander. I shan't keep you and prevent you from looking through them. My regards to your family."

"Thank you sir," said Vimes again with a bit of a grimace. Two months! He would be amazed if the old desk was still standing under the weight of all that paper.

He hurried out of the Palace and down towards the Yard the world feeling reassuringly right through the soles of his boots, the air smelling as pungent as always as he sucked it in through his nose. Only one thing would make it all perfect... Vimes thrust his hands into his pockets. Neither cigars nor alcohol were an option. He would simply have to find something else. That was it.

Vimes didn't spend much of his first day back in the office, but then no one had expected him to. He visited all of the Watch Houses, consorted with his sergeants and Captain Carrot about what he had missed and then headed home as the sky began to edge pink and gold, humming a jaunty little tune under his breath. He opened his front door to find the hall full of scurrying Watchmen, carrying armfuls of paper. Sybil appeared from a doorway, looking a little disgruntled, not at all like her normal self.

"What going on, Samuel Vimes?" she demanded, in her very distinct tone of voice.

"Er... good question." Vimes grabbed a young Watchman by the shoulder. "Um. Constable Yves, isn't it?"

"Yessir!" The constable stared at him with an attitude of ferocious obedience and slight glazed terror.

"What are you lot doing?"

"Bringing the reports you wanted sir, from your desk."

"I only said to Carrot I wanted the absolutely essential ones. Ye gods, there's piles of the stuff!"

"Yessir!" agreed Yves. Vimes waved a hand to signal he could carry on and he visibly sagged with relief before scuttling away.

"Sorry Sybil," said Vimes, quailing slightly under his wife's ferocious glare, "I'll get it sorted... excuse me."

It was some time later when Sybil left her study and the dragon records to finally come to bed. Sam had kindly offered to put their son to bed, which she suspected was his way of apologising for the disruption of their house. She padded upstairs and pushed open the door to their bedroom. Sam was sitting up in bed, reading a report. She smiled, despite herself. It was good to see him looking so well.

"That's a big scar, you know," she said.

Vimes glanced down at his bare chest. "Mmm," he murmured, "One to add to the collection. Igor's stitching is good though. I'm sure it'll fade."

"Me too," agreed Sybil touching the still slightly raw edges with her fingers. "You could start exhibiting these, you've got such a collection."

Vimes chuckled, and put the report to one side. "Did you have a good day dear?"

"Fine thank you, until a load of Watchmen took over three of my living rooms and filled them with paper."

"Er... sorry," said Vimes.

"No need to ask how your day was," Sybil said with a smile.

"No. It was good. Except for..." he trailed off.

"What?" asked Sybil, staring suddenly right into his eyes. Vimes shifted uncomfortably under the piercing gaze.

"Nothing really. I just... even after everything... I nearly bought a packet of cigars. I can't help it! I have to have something to help with... with everything. I need a..a..." Vimes couldn't think of the right word.

"A vice?" said Sybil and his brow knitted in thought.

"I think that's probably about right."

"Something to help you take your mind of things, help you relax?" she tried. He nodded, looking so miserable she felt moved to touch his cheek quickly and make him gloomily mirror her smile. "You managed to stay off the alcohol," she said, "I don't think you'll have any trouble with the cigars." She shifted slightly closer and the bed springs clinked. "I'm sure we'll find something to help you keep your mind of all the police work."

Vimes looked into her smiling eyes and felt the grin tug at the corners of his own mouth. "Me too," he said, putting his hand to her face and leaning in to kiss her. The bed springs decided to make their presence known again, and after that there was almost silence for a while, except for the soft hissing noise the candle made as Vimes reached out with his free hand and pinched the wick to extinguish the flame, and the springs complaining periodically.

There was suddenly a ferocious knocking on the door. "Oh no," sighed Vimes, "Not /now/, of all times."

Sybil sighed too, nose to nose with him. The knocking came again, louder and more frenzied. "Commander Vimes!" someone shouted, "You've got to come quick! It's murder, sir!"

"I'm /not/ here," he hissed to Sybil and she laughed.

"You might as well answer it otherwise they'll only wake Sam." On cue the wails started from the direction of the nursery.

"Oh alright," said Vimes, "But we /are/ going to continue this later."

"I'll hold you to that," Sybil warned.

"I hope so," said Vimes, by now almost having reached the door.

Lady Sybil was laughing again. "Um... Sam?" she said as he turned the handle.

"Ah," said Vimes and hastily pulled on his dressing gown, tying it roughly around his middle as he took the stairs two at a time.

Constable Ping was on the doorstep. "There's a big riot... Dolly Sisters... not sure what's going on, but Sergeant Angua though you ought to be told." Ping took in Vimes's dressing gown and added, "Sorry sir, I didn't know you were asleep."

"I wasn't," said Vimes which was true enough although he wasn't going to discuss details with the young man on his doorstep. "Right. Wait here while I grab my uniform." He ran back upstairs. Sybil re-entered, carrying Sam as he was buckling on his breastplate.

"Are you going to be long?"

"No," said Vimes, "That's a promise." He kissed both of them hurriedly and then ran back down the stairs, grabbing his coat from its hook as he stepped out into the night. He felt a slight twinge of guilt as he ran down the darkening streets, but he'd promised now, and for once it was one he was going to be able to keep. He was going to make sure of that.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hehehehe. I couldn't resist a bit of Sam/Sybil at the end, hope it was tasteful enough for you all. See, you all knew he wasn't going to die really, didn't you?? Let's hope Mr. Pratchett himself has something similar in mind to me about Vimes's chest pain... I think I might pop my clogs myself if he dies!!! Thanks for all the reviews by the way folks - Lunar.

1. Igor suffered from what was classed by his Uberwaldian peers as a speech impediment, quite often he managed to say the letter s without lisping.