Her fingernails dug themselves deep into the upturned soil, trying to find something, anything, to grab onto. Her body was slipping.

Everything below her torso had been pulled over the edge. The waterfall sent mist flying in every direction; making it hard to see. From here, it was at least a 300 foot drop, and she had no intention of giving into her screaming muscles. "Sherlock!" she yelled.

She knew it was almost impossible for anyone to hear her when she was this close to the waterfall, but she had to try. Her cry echoed back to her, but she still received no response. Her hands had found a tree root, which she clinged to for dear life.

At this point, everything below her chest was hanging off the side of the cliff. She guessed that the cinderblock tied to her ankle didn't help much either. She didn't move. Her breaths were shallow; she was careful not to make any sudden movement as the fear of falling plagued her.

Sherlock had warned her that his cases got quite dangerous at times. And right now she wished she had listened. Her mind wandered back to three days ago, when Sherlock and Molly had been asked to the crime scene.

"Why are you calling us in for this again?" Sherlock basically whined. "You'll see. Just keep walking." Lestrade reassured.

The Detective Inspector pointed towards the section of the stream that had been turned a watered down blood red color. "See for yourself."

There was something strangely rewarding about solving a case with Sherlock Holmes. It gave the Pathologist a sense of accomplishment, and, at times, some new perspective, while Sherlock often declared them "easy" or "not worth his time".

This case, however, had Sherlock completely intrigued. 7 bodies all strapped to dead weight with their hands and feet bound, and thrown into the water. Sherlock picked up very scant evidence from the decaying bodies. He explained that the serial killer was very clean with his killing method, and that throwing the bodies in the water left an even smaller amount of evidence behind.

After both Sherlock and Molly worked the case for 3 days straight, Sherlock finally understood what he was missing.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "What is it?" Molly asked.

"I need to go to the scene of the crime right this minute. I'll explain later!" he exclaimed, grabbing his mobile phone and heading for the door.

Molly stepped out the front door, "Let me come with you!"

"Stay here. You'll be safer." Sherlock insisted.

She had found her way back to the sofa of 221B and lay silently; staring at the wall. The last thing she remembered before waking up with a cinderblock threating to pull her to her death was a painful blow to her head.

Now it was clear to her why Sherlock ran out of the flat. He knew that the killer was going to strike again, despite all of the police officers after him.

Even now that she understood, it didn't make a difference. She couldn't hold herself up any longer. Her hands were slipping from around the root at this point, and breathing was near to impossible with her chest being forced against the Cliffside. She let out one more cry for help. "Sherlock, please! Sherlock!" she called.

"Molly!?"

Molly's head turned immediately in the direction the voice came from. She knew what she had heard, but she couldn't see more than 10 feet in front of her face without the mist blocking her vision.

Still, she heard him. He was coming for her.

Her grip on the single tree root strengthened. Her hands were most likely a bloody mess, but she didn't care. She had to hang on.

"I'm here, Sherlock! I'm here!" she screamed.

Then she saw him. A figure stumbling through the thick cloud of mist; coming towards her. She smiled and opened her mouth to speak when she heard the firing of a gun; and she watched as the figure fell to the ground with a grunt.

Her heart shattered at the sound. "No!" she screamed.

Tears spilled over her cheeks, and with the last bit of strength she had, she yanked herself from the Cliffside. First she pulled her torso over the edge, and then she pulled her legs up, only stopping to work the rope from her ankle. She stared at the man lying on the ground. Her eyes were fixed on the figure crumpled before her; he was not breathing.

"Oh my god." She breathed.

She fell to the ground with sobs already threatening to completely take over, and right now, she was going to let them.

It was only when she heard his voice that she went completely silent. "Sherlock?" she called.

The figure on the ground was still unmoving, but she knew that what she heard was not just her mind playing tricks on her. Then it came again; his voice.

"I should have been able to save her!" She heard.

Her heart skipped and she looked closer at the figure that was lying on the ground. He was not Sherlock, however the similarities were almost terrifying. Molly rose to her feet once more with her heart pounding away in her chest.

"Sherlock, you did everything you could. You couldn't have known that this was going to happen!" Another voice said. Was it John?

Right now, she was too focused on finding them to even care. Did he think that she had fallen? She followed the voices through the mist until she saw the silhouette of the Consulting Detective.

"She's dead because of me, John. I dragged her on this case even though I knew it would be dangerous. Molly is dead because of me!"

"Calm down. She wouldn't have wanted you to be like this." John said

"He's right you know." Molly said, barely containing her excitement.

The two men immediately turned their head to the Pathologist, basically limping towards them. A wide grin was spread across her face, despite the tears left over from crying. Sherlock walked towards her slowly at first, but picked up speed after a moment of hesitation. When they finally reached one another, Sherlock immediately wrapped his arms around her. She let out a cry of relief, and only pulled away to look up at Sherlock.

"I thought you got shot." She cried. "I thought you fell 300 feet." He smiled.

"How did you know I was here?" Molly asked finally.

"John was attacked by your kidnapper when he was walking up the steps to the flat. He called me immediately. That's who he shot." Sherlock explained.

"One more thing, Sherlock." She began, "Next time, don't leave me to fend for myself against a serial killer who throws his victims from 300 foot drops." She joked.

Sherlock laughed. "You have my word."

John had caught up with the pair, but they were locked in each other's embrace, as if they would just slip away if they let go.