*I watched Guy Ritchie's 'Sherlock Holmes' and Tim Burton's 'Sleepy Hollow', and I just thought of something- even though Ichabod Crane (played by Johnny Depp) and Sherlock Holmes (played by Robert Downey, Jr.) are at least half a century apart, they're both eccentric geniuses pent on solving unsolvable cases. Why the Hell not, eh?*

"This is utterly ridiculous- !" New York City Constable, Ichabod Crane, spoke up in his own weak defense, holding up his chain-cuffed hands with the smallest sign of a scowl on his shallow, pale features.

"Maybe," the Inspector, his name Lestrade, from what Ichabod had heard, said in a ruthless manner. It sent him back a bit; what had he done that had upset the marshals so? And where were they taking him? All he really knew was that he'd come to England for some research on something he'd read in a letter of someone anonymous, about a murder- multiple ones, actually. They'd written that they'd read in the papers about his endeavors in Sleepy Hollow- oh, the thought alone nearly sent a chill up his spine.

However, a mystery was a mystery, and he promised himself he would solve this one at all costs, as he had with the Headless Horseman. So, he'd said his short farewell to Katrina and Young Masbath and set off. Of course, he hadn't expected at least ten Scotland Yard officials to come bursting into the apartment he'd been staying in for the past two days, not say why, handcuff him, and shove him into a carriage that traveled off to some unknown area, most likely the station or worse.

But for the life of him, he couldn't think of WHY. All he'd been doing was testing the result of dipping white hot coal into a ice cold basin of cyanide. It faintly bubbled and sizzled, and when he stuck a quill feather-side-up inside it'd charred and dissolved into ash. He had been perfecting the heat intensity for the last twenty-four hours he'd spent there, and obviously someone had targeted him and ratted to the police what they believed he'd been practicing. Ichabod hadn't gotten very far in his explanation that night before they'd taken him into custody.

A moment's pause, Ichabod blankly staring out the window to his right, hands resting in lap, back slightly hunched. His dark locks were more askew than its usual ruffles, face a dead white as his deep, nearly jet chocolate brown eyes carelessly trailed over the street they were currently attending. His eyes followed a sign, then continued examining the cobblestone pavement, brick buildings and oblivious pedestrians; BAKER STREET, it had read it large, bold lettering. Not that it mattered much either way.

Ichabod parted his lips, eyes never leaving his subconscious gaze, almost comatose. "You are not taking me to the station, Inspector Lestrade." He'd said the last part quietly, to himself.

"No," Lestrade agreed as the carriage lurched to a halt in front of a home. Ichabod looked up through the window, paying not the slightest inch of attention to the other, even as he opened the door and let himself out. 221b. 221b Baker Street. He had and inkling he'd never forget that address again.

"C'mon, boy-o," Lestrade said, catching Ichabod's icy glance as Clarke took firm hold on his shoulders, steering him out the cab and onto the damp sidewalk in front of the home. Ichabod returned his gaze to the building, taking in what he hadn't seen from the interior of the cab. On the second story, the curtains, blood red velvet, he noticed, were tightly drawn, preventing the little light from the clouded sky pouring over the streets in intervals of sixteen seconds to enter.

"You DO know I can walk?" Ichabod's question was more of a statement as Lestrade led the two up the concrete porch stairs, Clarke pushing him forward after him but not roughly. The New Yorker was glaring coldly at the back of Lestrade's hatted head.

The Inspector knocked multiple times on the wood, throwing his head over his shoulder merely to recoil the slightest at the chilling glare Ichabod was sending him. "You are a threat to London and possibly all of England as of this moment and two days therein," Lestrade told him flatly, so bland that the other believed he'd rehearsed that line before saying it to his face.

The Constable's brow rose in confusion. "Why?"

"That is classified information, sir," Clarke answered, Lestrade turning back as the door opened, revealing a scruffy man with unkempt dark brunette hair sticking out every which way, eyebrows knitted in annoyance upon the intrusion and a clay pipe clamped between his lips. His clothing, a smudged and chemical-blotched white button-up shirt haphazardly tucked inside his dusty black trousers, differed greatly from Ichabod's own of a pristine white undershirt, pitch black trench coat buttoned once at the chest, black dress pants and high boots.

And to Ichabod, he looked oddly familiar.

The New Yorker mimicked his features of irritation, curious as his eyes thoroughly scrutinized his face. "Why have you disturbed my thoughts, Inspector?" The man's voice was hissed due to anger, but the slightest bit curious, an intense tone of voice with hidden authority.

Clarke pushed Ichabod closer, Lestrade taking hold of his coat's sleeve and shoving him to his side. The man's eyes flickered distantly to him, returning his light glare to Lestrade. "He was caught dealing in the arts of witchcraft-"

"Witchcraft!" Ichabod shrieked, eyeing the man with obvious shock that was soon to wear out. "You accuse me of witchcraft!" He grinned in spite of himself, laughing shakily as his eyes darted this way and that, looking for the shadows- HIS shadows.

"We have witness," Lestrade stated, rather bluntly, never once removing his gaze from the man before them. "A young lady said he'd been conducting irregular experimentations about the room he'd been staying in for the past two days, saying he'd been-"

"Mixing potions," the man finished. His tone was sour. "And he was speaking to himself, suggesting-" He'd put emphasis on the word. "-he'd been pronouncing spells, curses and the like."

His bright chestnut eyes rested on Ichabod, who's breathing was quick, almost hyperventilative , eyebrows so high they were nearly lost in his bangs. The man took notice of his bent posture, trembling facade and worried eyes. He also realized how his nervousness was not due to how he might be discovered- or already had been- considering the conviction of black magic placed over his head. It was something else, something that terrified him to the very core, but he just couldn't place his finger on it.

A pause. "Am I correct, Inspector?"

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade grumbled, half shamefully, half exasperatedly.

Ichabod shifted his head sharply to give the Inspector an inquisitive look. Holmes? Why had that sounded so familiar? The man, Holmes, apparently, turned his own attention back to Lestrade. "Was the lady you spoke of wearing a ruby dress?" His voice was faint.

Lestrade nodded. "Had she black hair?" He nodded once more. "A gold chain 'round her neck?" Another nod. Holmes let an amused smile cross his lips.

Lestrade's features turned baffled as Holmes moved aside, taking his pipe out of his mouth and motioning for them to enter. "Prisoner only, Inspector," he instructed. Lestrade pushed Ichabod inside, the New Yorker stumbling slightly on the short step and Holmes catching him.

Ichabod nodded gratefully, eyes flickering to his face and then around the hall in fear as though it was on fire. "Thank you."

Holmes shot Lestrade a quick glare, having it dissolve on the spot as to not have him get suspicious as he smiled curtly. "That will be all, I presume. Good-bye."

Lestrade let out an aggravated sigh as Holmes carted Ichabod further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The Inspector removed his derby, massaging his temples.

The stress was really starting to get to him.

*First chapter. Tell me what'cha think. I promise they'll realize who the other is in the next. Pinky promise, yup yup yup! I'm just happy I was able to use such vivid vocabulary. Ichabod and Holmes'll be most likely OOC (Out Of Character) next one. Ah well. Review and tell me what'cha think, I could really use it. Damn writer's block!*