Disclaimer.
I do not own Sleepy Hollow. The characters and movie plot of Tim Burton's 1999 motion picture Sleepy Hollow is the property of their respective owners. I acknowledge that they do not belong to me. This is a Sleepy Hollow fiction, introducing the character of Inspector Frederick Abberline from the movie, From Hell.
WARNING: I will give you a fair warning. This fiction contains male on male rape and male pregnancy. If you are offended by it then read no furthur and leave now, because I don't want your flames and ash words in my review box. Flamers, I repeat, turn away now.


I rate this mature for strong language, sexual scenes and a scene of rape.


Collaberation with EmiStaw13y



'Would you like for me to come with you, sir?'

'Oh no, no. I'll be fine alone.'

The young boy sitting on the edge of the bed watched his guardian pull on his long coat, pushing his arms through and straightening it out. 'But you accompanied me to the doctor that time I burned with fever?'

'That is different, Young Masbeth.' Ichabod replied, being as delicate as he possible could. He turned his back to the boy as he looked himself in the mirror. 'You are a child, and as an adult I am responsible for you.'

'What about miss Katrina? Is she going with you?'

The constable stopped dead, his reflectiong freezing along with him. There was a brief moment of silence. 'No, she isn't.'

Young Masbeth fiddled with his cuffs as he looked at the back facing him. 'Why?'

How Ichabod wished the boy would just leave it, but Masbeth being an eager and curious, sometimes too curious, young man had its disadvantages. He searched for ways to skirt around his answer, accidentally bluring out the first thing that came to his mind. 'B-Because I've not told her I am going .. '

'What? But .. should she not know, sir .. ?'

'Masbeth, please!' Ichabod's voice struck a firm and somewhat riled tone as he sharply turned, a stirring reaction he had never had to use with Young Masbeth and the boy fell silent at once, surprised. Just looking at the child Ichabod could see he was mere inches away from frightening him, so he stopped before saying another word. Taking a deep breath and letting his voice come out low, calmer. 'I don't want to worry her.'

Masbeth nodded frantically before Ichabod had even finished, 'Alright, .. sir.'

Then as the boy shifted from the bed and made a quickish shuffle from the room, Ichabod felt himself holding guilt in his hands. Not just for snapping at Masbeth but because perhaps the boy had a point. Perhaps Ichabod should tell Katrina he was visiting the doctor, it wasn't like she didn't want him to. Oh but that interval inbetween, how she would fret. But then they were only the underlying grounds. Katrina couldn't know because for certain she would insist on going with him, and Ichabod already had his chaperon. His kind company.

There was a gentle rocking back and forth, side to side as the thin wheels drew over the cobblestones. The clipping and clopping of horse shoes trotting against the ground as the carriage made its descent down the boulevard was barely heard from the inner. The two men sitting closely beside each other and in silence. The constable looked with a dull face at the floor, whilst the Inspector glanced out of the window at the passing streets and buildings.

'So, what d'ye reckon the doctor will say?' Abberline asked, deciding to break the quiet. He turned away from the window, looking at Ichabod. Who was leaning back now, hovering his hand over his mouth as he tried to make his yawn as inconspicuous as he could.

When he finished, he lowered his hand and answered. 'I think he is going to tell me I have some horrid disease and that I am days from death's door.'

The Inspector gave him a nudge with the corner of his elbow, frowning. 'Will y'stop it? Yer just gettin' checked over, y'aint about t'die anytime soon.'

'I feel differently.' Ichabod grumbled, not meaning for the Inspector to hear. But he did, thinking he would frown and just shake his head and sigh. But Abberline decided not to, winding his arm around the man's shoulders and pulling him in the rest on him.

'Yer fine, Crane .. the doctor, well 'e will probably say its' somethi- .. Oi? Stop yawnin' while I'm talkin' to you ay? Am I borin' you or some'fin?'

'I'm sorry.' Ichabod said drowsily, his head happily settled against Abberline's shoulder. 'I am, .. I am just so tired.'

'And y'r sweatin' again, all over me arm.' The Inspector grumbled, but he did nothing to remove him. His hand securely fastened around Ichabod's shoulders and letting him lie. The silence fell over them again as the Inspector disappeared into his own head, thinking deeply. His words were not concrete certain, no matter how confident he had appeared in Ichabod's eyes. Just what would this erudite doctor tell wheyfaced Ichabod? Abberline had been watching him so closely the last few days, noting down every imperfection. The nausea, the sweating and the constant fatigue. Perhaps he was sick with some devestating illness, but God how Abberline prayed against it. He savoured this time, alone in the carriage with his dearest. The side of his face tilted against the top of Ichabod's head, resting against babysoft black toussles. And how delicate his breathing was. Slow too.

'Crane?' He quietly muttered. No reply. The Inspector frowned a little, shifting his shoulder away slightly and noticing Ichabod's head droop as he did. It seemed like dear constable had drifted into sleep against him as he had been thinking inside himself. Abberline looked down at him, not knowing whether to smile at him or worry himself silly.

The Londonder's lamenting eyes fell half-closed, returning his head to rest back into the feathery warmth of Ichabod's hair. Listening to his gentle, humming breathing. His hand was creeping up along the absent constable's arm before he even knew it, stroking with a fine touch the side of Ichabod's face with the front of his fingers. This was solitude, peace. Inside the little carriage, just them two. The Inspector decided not to wake Ichabod, letting him get some rest. By the look of him he looked like he needed it too. He remembered meeting up with Ichabod earlier that day, how drained he had looked. His already-pale face a more sickly shade and his eyes ringed and bloodshot. Almost slovenly, but Abberline knew he was on his last legs. Jaded. Did he ever recall worrying so much for Victoria?

Oh God Victoria.

His eyeslids heavily sank, face twisting somber as he thought of her. Beautiful, fair Victoria. The forces, principles of power that determined her outcome were cruel when they took her, and their barely-new son, but Abberline had to admit to himself that his sweet wife was beginning to fade to black in his mind as the days, weeks, years stretched past him. There was a time when he never stopped. Couldn't stop. He would ever see her, in the smoke of his opium-induced stupors. Clutching a blanketed bundle against her and reaching out to him. His hand would stretch out, reaching for her, and when their fingers were a hair's width away from touching .. he would wake. The guilt as he knew she was so much less important now, his heart was no longer hers. The Inspector's love had slowly began to die with her, but there were always going to be regrets. What if she had survived the childbirth? Would he have still have fallen for Ichabod? Even more pressing, would he even have met Ichabod? Yes. Oh yes. There was always going to be an Ichabod Crane for him. But then .. what if Abberline's ill-omened child were alive today? What if ... what if ..

The coach suddenly stopped with a jolt. The Inspector's eyes jerking open as his hand around Ichabod's shoulders clutched tighter on reaction, startled. The daylight seeping into the coach window stung the Inspector's eyes, making him squint. Yet when his eyes narrowed, a tear rolled down his cheek. He felt it, leaving a warm track and was surprised. How powerful more painful memories can be. As he felt the constable stir against him, he flicked it away with a swipe of his fingers as quick he could. Not wanting Ichabod to see him shed.

'Mmmhmm .. mm?' Ichabod mumbled non-words, lifting himself off Abberline slowly and rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair hanging in his face. 'What? .. Where are we?'

Abberline lifted his arm away from him, letting him rise and managing a dull grin. 'I fink we've arrived at the doctor's.'

Ichabod looked surprised by this, but quickly accepted it and breathed shakily inward, ridden with nerves. He shifted along, pushing the door ajar and about to lift himself out but he stopped and looked over his shoulder, noticing the Inspector was making no effort to exit to carriage. 'Abberline? Are you not coming?'

He shook his head, 'No, too risky innit? Me takin' you into the doct'r an' all. I'll wait for y' here.'

The disheartenment on Ichabod's face was obvious, no matter how well he thought he was hiding it - but he bravely nodded, turning away but got no furthur than an inch before Abberline leaned toward him, turning his head and chancing a quick, consoling kiss. Ichabod accepted, grateful for that quick moment of comfort. He sat patiently until the Inspector broke away.

'You'll be fine.' He said, masking a confidence. 'Jus' fine.'

The office of the general practitioneer's quarters were just as un-nerving as Ichabod thought they would be. Fidgeting in the over-cushioned seat and waiting. He remembered walking in, emerging into the room where the patients were to remain stationary until they would be seen. His eyes had blinked bewildered by the amount of people sitting inactive, all seeming a more dire then him. One man was cradling an arm bent at an un-natural angle and a woman had desperately been trying to soothe her screaming child, who was white with some disease and in obvious pain. He had swallowed, suspecting quite well Abberline would be waiting in the carriage a while, that is until a matron had flitted over to him and asking his name, paper and ink-wettened feather in hand. It seemed almost right away that the constable had priority, the woman springing to life when he revealed he worked under municiple law. Ichabod had been sent in to see the doctor right away, and although it seemed convienient it had been difficult not to look at the sick and injured as he passed them and not feel a pinch of guilt. Perhaps he really was fussing over nothing.

'Constable Crane?'

Ichabod's sunken head lifted, the once-empty chair perched behind a desk infront of him now occupied. He wondered how long he had been there. 'Yes.'

The man was an elder, rounded fellow. Sitting back in his chair and stroking at his greying beard. 'Good morning, and how are things over at New York's authority?'

'Trying to keep me in their pockets, as the norm.'

The doctor uttered a hearty chuckle, 'Power and supremacy being of the essense, am I right?'

There was a lame, dull smile on Ichabod's face for the doctor's sake, politely following the homour. 'Precisely, Doctor .. ?'

'Doctor Rolfe, constable.' The doctor was gracious thus far. Full figure filling the red seat and his hands clasped together over the desk. 'What is it I might do for you?'

Ichabod cleared his throat with a low-throated cough before answering, 'That is the problem, doctor. I don't know what is wrong with me.'

'Do you feel ill, or something to that calibre?'

'Constantly.' The question was answered without hesitation.

Rolfe had indeed noticed the young constable's sickly appearance, but decided not to act on it yet. 'And have you any symtoms, constable?'

'Yes, yes I .. I have quite a few.' He said, trying to hold his voice together as he thought through the last few weeks in his head. 'It started with .. sweating, yes - constant sweating. Even in this brisk weather. From there it progressed into fatigue, and vomiting .. '

Rolfe interrupted him, 'How long have you been suffering these symtoms?'

'Oh, uhm .. ' The constable thought deeply for a moment. 'Roughly about three weeks, I'd say, doctor.'

'You left it three weeks before seeking medical advice, Constable Crane?' The doctor asked, a concerned furrow on his face.

A weary shrug passed through Ichabod's shoulders, 'I hoped it would pass.'

'I see.' Rofle said, lifting himself out of the seat and leaning across the desk, pressing his palm against Ichabod's forehead. 'Hmmm. Do you have fever often?'

The constable waited before Rolfe's thick hand was away from his head before answering, 'Yes, I do. But it is strange because my skin will burn hot yet .. I shiver with cold.'

'You suffer with cold sweats then?'

' .. Yes?' Ichabod answered uneasily, noticing how the doctor seemingly ignored what he just said.

'Alright, I think I may know what is the matter with you.' Rofle declared, cupping his hands together. 'You don't have a thing to worry about, constable.'

'I don't?'

'No, I'm confident.' He said, nodding with a reassuring grin. 'You see, there is a common cold spreading around New York this spring because of the harsh winter just passed. I'm confident that all that has happened is that you caught it.'

'A .. cold?' Ichabod was tense in his seat, his own sweating palms clasped together.

The doctor nodded once again, 'The facts are simple and are as follows, you have contracted a common malaise, if you will, and will be better in no time. I recommend staying warm though, wrap up abit.'

A final nod was sent Ichabod's way, a hint of his dismissal. But Ichabod was too busy frowning at the floor to notice, so unsure of what he was thinking. Was he relieved, or was he as unsettled as ever? Just hours ago he had thought there was chance he was dying, and now to be given an almost-clear bill of health so suddenly was, well, overwhelming. So why the uncertainty, why this niggling feeling that he didn't quite believe what Rolfe was telling him?

The doctor began to eye him strangely, clearling his throat loudly to gain his attention. 'Constable?'

It worked, Ichabod blinking back to the concious world and realizing that Rolfe was gently trying to dismiss him. He decided he would not try to dig into a debate with the doctor, standing up with abit of a fluster and bidding a hurried goodbye to Doctor Rolfe as he was already half-way out the door. Outside the carriage waited patiently where it halted, Abberline inside still. His head tilted back against the peak of the seat and his fingers drumming on his knees. The sounds of the outside muffled, from the clippings and cloppings of passing horseshoes to the mumbling chatter of the city folk. God, he would have killed for a cigerette right there. He lifted his head back up as he felt the coach shake with another body climbing into it, closing the door sharply behind them.

'So?' Abberline asked, looking at Ichabod. Who was staring absently down his hands, clasped together and his fingers entwined. Inside his head unclarity, unable to act with understanding. The Inspector didn't know what to think by his silence, taking to reach over and shake his knee. 'Oi.'

Ichabod's head swung, as if startled. 'Yes, what?'

'What did th' doctor say then?'

'Oh,' The constable pressed his lips together, primming them as he slowly shook his head. Abberline watching him carefully, hand still on his knee. 'He said .. well, he said I'm fine.'

The Inspector broke into a grin right away, patting his leg heftily with his palm. 'Y'see? I said you woz' fine.'

'I don't know, Abberline.'

'O'come on, Crane.' The Inspector smirked, his own relief overshadowing the need to acknowledge Ichabod's uncertainty. 'I said you woz' going t'be fine, and guess what? Your fine. Come on, let's go 'ave a drink.'

Ichabod's voice was a mutter, 'I don't drink, Abberline .. '

His smirk deepened, 'Who said it woz' for you? Come on, I've been gaggin' in here.'

The mirth in the Inspector wasn't enough to ease the constable. It was just, we was not convinced that Doctor Rolfe was right. They way he avoided acknowledging certains things, the fact that he didn't even examine him, aside a quick feel of the forehead, well, it told Ichabod that perhaps the doctor wasn't as practised as most liked to think. Ichabod had suffered colds before, and what he was feeling now .. it wasn't a cold. He decided that he would take his own charge, and discover what was truly wrong with him. Because as sure as the sky was blue and the grass was green, it certainly wasn't a cold.