Penultimate chapter :) And I am SO SORRY for not updating sooner, I'm hoping now the holidays have started properly I'll have more time to write. I'm going to write another chapter as requested, and I will include your request in it, AutumnRoseSummerLily :)

Hope you like this one, I promise to update quicker next time, but it will be extra quick if you all review :)

Love Flossie xxx

Sheila goes out with her mate Stella,

Gets poured all over her fella,

Because she says that he ain't no better,

Than the next man kicking up fuss,

Drunk, she stumbles down by a river,

Screams calling 'London',

But none of us heard her coming,

Guess the carpet weren't rolled out.

Harry was wrong, you decide a while later, shivering as you walk slowly through the darkness. He'd told you on the phone to walk around, to try and find your way back to the town centre, that the movement would warm you up a little. Except it isn't working, not the slightest bit. It's mostly due to the rain beginning to pour even harder, hail stones hitting you from all directions. God, Harry had better hurry up, or you'll have frozen to death by the time he gets here.

Sighing to yourself, you try to rub some heat back into your arms as you continue down the path, doing your best to block out the discomfort. You can see lights ahead of you now, a glimmer of hope at the end of a long, dark tunnel, and your heart floods with relief. You could be mistaken, but you think you can see the city lights now, you think you're almost back to the town centre. That's good, you tell yourself, because that means it'll be much, much easier for Harry to find you, when at last he gets here. He shouldn't be long now; it's been almost an hour since your phone call, after all. Harry's mother lives in Hampshire, not exactly the closest place to Central London by day, but surely the roads will be clearer at this time of night? You hope so. You hate feeling so dependent on someone else, so clingy, so helpless, but the embarrassment of needing Harry's help has paled in comparison to your need to warm up, to get home and sleep and forget the events of tonight. You don't care how much Harry teases you, either about the date with Andrew going so badly wrong or about him having to come to your rescue in the early hours of the morning. You just want to go home.

In the darkness, you can now just about make out the alleyway leading back towards the bright lights of the city centre, and you let out a soft sigh of relief, finally able to relax. You're nearly safe. Just a little bit further, and you'll be back on the map, out of danger. Just a bit further.

You can't quite see where you're putting your feet anymore, but that's OK; you know there's not far to go before they'll be street lights everywhere, and you'll know exactly where you are. Then Harry will arrive, take you home, and you've just got to struggle through tomorrow at work and then it's the weekend; you can sleep in, recover, forget. Everything's going to be fine, you tell yourself.

You're only a few metres away from the alleyway when it happens. Your feet are beginning to ache, and you twist your left ankle slightly to the side as your foot protests against being forced to walk in muddy high heels, stumbling sideways. Cursing, you fight to regain your balance, holding out your arms like a gymnast on a balance beam, but it's no good. In that split second before you fall, you realize that knowing your luck, you're going to end up face down in the mud, and be the subject of Harry's jokes for the next month.

But you don't fall into the mud. Instead of hitting something soft almost immediately, you keep falling for a little longer, before hearing a loud splash. And suddenly you're soaking wet, even more so than you were before, and growing colder by the second. Now that really is just your luck: you've fallen in. You've gone and fallen in the bloody river.

You're pulled under the water unexpectedly, your lungs beginning to fill with icy cold water as you splutter for breath instinctively, forgetting in your panic that there's no chance in hell of catching your breath below the surface of the water. After a few moments you manage to force your way up to the surface, gulping down air in between coughing up the river water, while trying to keep yourself from slipping back down below. But you're cold, so cold, and all your energy has been drained from you. You're fighting to keep your head above the water now, scanning your surroundings frantically in the dark, trying to work out where the bank of the river is. You can't really tell, but you can vaguely make out a dark shape in front of you, one which you're assuming is the muddy turf at the edge. Shaking from the cold, you begin to swim towards it, desperate. You've never been much of a swimmer anyway, and now your limbs are becoming heavy, threatening to pull you under the water once more. But you can't stop; you've got to keep going, you've got to get out of the water now, before you get too cold and lose all your energy and willpower. As a pathologist, you know only too well what tends to happen to drunks who fall into rivers in the early hours of the morning on a freezing cold night.

You manage to reach the bank and throw your handbag up over the side, thankful that you at least haven't lost your house keys. Now for the task of trying to get yourself out: something which proves to be ten times harder than pulling yourself over the side of a swimming pool. Each time you think you're almost there, almost out of the cold pit of despair, you slide back down the bank and land in the river with a splash. Panicked, you let out a sharp, high pitched scream, escaping your lips before you've even registered it. You're growing more and more exhausted by the minute; you know you need to get out, now. But you can't. You can't. And so you just keep on screaming, not caring if you end up attracting the wrong sort of attention anymore. At least if someone does decide to grab you, you'll be out of the water, you'll be warm. But there's no one here, you realize with a sickening feeling. No one's coming to rescue you.

And then suddenly you feel someone grasp hold of your arms, squeezing your shoulders, and involuntarily you begin to scream louder, wriggling frantically, trying desperately to escape. You had been telling yourself just moments before that you didn't care if someone tried to grab you, but now it's actually happening, fear is taking over. You didn't mean it; you didn't really want this to happen. But then, you don't want to stay in the river either. You just want to go home, that's all you want. You just want to go home.

"Get away from me!" you scream, trying to fight him off while treading water at the same time, something which seems to be near impossible. "Leave me alone, please!" But the effort of trying to fight has drained you of all your energy, and now you're sinking again, losing your battle to remain above the water.

"Nikki!"

Someone is calling your name, a voice you recognise, yet in your exhausted state can't quite place. They're pulling you back above the surface, leaning over the edge of the bank to wrap their arms around your waist, sliding you out of the river and up the bank, before pulling you onto their lap and squeezing you into a tight hug, wrapping something thick and warm around your shoulders. You turn your head to face them, your brain finally kicking in as he begins to rub some heat back into your arms. Harry. It's Harry. He's come to your rescue, once again.