A/N: This is definitely the most plot-driven and ambitious fic I've ever written so all feedback is definitely welcome. Some situations and dialogue will definitely look familiar. Hope you enjoy!

Lieutenant Abigail Mills rubbed her tired eyes, absently smoothing down the loose stray hairs of her bun only for them to spring up again. She grimaced on finding dregs left over from the cup of coffee she'd poured half-hour ago, when Captain Irving strode into the bullpen. "Mills." He jerked his head, indicating she should follow him.

Anticipation rose; some lead must have just come in. Irving locked the door to his office and sat on the desk instead of behind it. She steeled herself; this definitely wasn't a normal briefing.

He handed her a file and watched silently as she perused it. She glanced up, confused, "I don't understand, Captain. I've seen this already."

"Not everything. Skip to the end."

The file was not for the squeamish. As many times as she'd seen the bodies and decapitated heads frozen in expressions of horror, it would never compare to the agony of getting the call that confirmed Corbin had been killed on a routine patrol. Eight months and four murders of the serial killer the press had dubbed the Headless Horseman was wearing on everybody's nerves. The killings were apparently random, with no specific timeframe between them. At the scene of every murder there was a calling card – a picture of a headless horseman.

Corbin's was the third.

She could never just bypass the grim details, convinced that looking over the material would lead to some new clue. As usual when she got to his pictures, she angled her gaze somewhere just above the body where the head wasn't visible. She refused to have that image of him as her last, and made it a point to place his photograph on her desk, on her nightstand, heck even as her cellphone wallpaper. She owed him so much more, but that would have to do until she caught his killer.

Quickly scanning the last few pages, she realised something was off. This person was very much in possession of his head...and alive? "He claims to have information on the Horseman. The Feds only just managed to share this with us." Captain Irving was known for his trademark no-nonsense manner, but even he couldn't help but roll his eyes when it came to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Because of the national attention given to a serial killer on the loose, the FBI had swept into Sleepy Hollow riding hard on law enforcement. They shared whatever they felt local police needed to know, which wasn't much. Abbie couldn't help shake her head at the irony. Her FBI dream was literally at the door, but the price she'd paid to be exposed to it was too high. Corbin damn well deserved better, and she was going to bring his killer to justice, she didn't care how many FBI agents got in the way.

"So if this guy has all the answers, what do the Feds want with us?"

"Because they can't get him to talk," Irving couldn't help the grim smirk. "And they want the best profiler this side of Westchester to work her magic."

Corbin had loved to talk up her skills with his FBI buddies. For a moment, the pride and wistfulness flared bright and undeniable, but she smothered them. This wasn't the time to be thinking of impressing as a candidate for Quantico. Really there was only one thing she could do in this situation. "Where is he?"

Five minutes later she was being escorted to the station's holding cells. Apparently the Feds had already considered her permission as a given and had transported their "prisoner" there. She mentally reviewed the scant details of his file: Ichabod Crane, 33, born in Bedfordshire, England. Briefly married to Katrina (née van Tassel) before her death by car accident in 2012. No children. He ran an international business providing undisclosed consultancy services. Under house arrest for unspecified charges. The bare-boned data suggested something more was going on behind the scenes with this guy. She opened the door and went inside, knowing the gaggle of FBI agents were on hand in the outer room to capture significant details.

As she approached the table, she couldn't help thinking the photo didn't do him enough justice. It properly captured the regal and aristocratic profile, yes, but not the sexiness. Not sexy, she thought, striking.

"And which interrogator are you?"

"Mr. Crane, I'm Lieutenant Abigail Mills off the Westchester County Police Department." His eyebrows rose at that. "I'm here to interview you about information you have relating to this case."

He assessed her in silence for a few moments; she kept her gaze neutral and trained on him, slowing her breathing to remain calm.

"At least they sent someone more pleasing to look at this time." Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. As if that bullshit flattery would work on her. Make-up free, tired and tense after another long day researching this case, she knew she wasn't winning any beauty prizes soon.

"Be that as it may, Mr. Crane, let's see how we can help each other. You want to get your freedom back; we want information on this case. Everybody wins if you play nice." She spread her hands indicating the ball was in his court.

"I want 'out' of this house arrest, Lieutenant, but not until my conditions are met." Okay, she was familiar with this – negotiation time. A little something for something. The trick was to appear interested but not too eager for whatever it was. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "Are you familiar with 'Purgatory', Ms. Mills?"

"I'm a lapsed Catholic and not too caught up on poetry, Mr. Crane."

He ignored her facetious comment. "You may have heard of the owner, a man by the name of Moloch."

At that her eyes widened involuntarily and her fatigue disappeared. A year ago, Moloch – a nickname or code name, they'd never been able to tell – had created a club called Purgatory. Word on the street was that it was a place to receive purification of all sins. Problem was purity was achieved through party favours of the not-so legal kind: hardcore drugs like PCP and Ecstasy. When she'd heard that, she couldn't help the wave of shame remembering some of her old habits during her fucked up years (misspent youth, was Corbin's more diplomatic handle). The other troubling factor was that they could never find its location. Besides the rumours, the first real tip-off police had was from the public who called concerned when their loved ones returned home strung out, unable to remember where they had been, and requiring emergency trips to the hospital. The one person who had managed to speak before succumbing to a coma left a vague word: "Moloch." There had been no deaths so far, thank God, but there had been a lot of uneasiness within the department at being steps behind this Moloch.

She made sure he could hear the slight scorn in her voice. "So what, you and Moloch are best buddies now?"

He leaned in, sharp profile and tightened lips indicating he was a little annoyed. Good. It would keep him talking a bit more. Maybe he would slip and reveal something...

"He's holding my wife captive."

...important. Wait, what?

"Or rather, her ashes, in an urn." He was trying to be controlled, but Abbie could see the tense jaw and ice-chipped, blue eyes. This man was more than annoyed; he was burning with rage.

She blinked at that, processing the news. "Why would a man running a drug ring want your wife's ashes, Mr. Crane?"

"That is irrelevant. This 'Headless Horseman' is in Moloch's service. You want to capture him and I must rescue my wife's remains. I know when the next Purgatory party will be held, Ms. Mills. Perhaps now you can see how we can help each other."

She nodded slowly, regarding him carefully. There were a lot of missing pieces that didn't add up, though. "What does the FBI have on you?" He parried those eyebrows at her again, and she sensed he was acknowledging she was right, they did have something holding over him. He didn't answer, but then again he didn't have to.

"So say I believe you. How do you suggest we get into Purgatory?" At that he smiled, a grim, predatory thing that should look out of place on him, but sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

"It's simple, Ms. Mills. You and I must find the key."