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


When the Inspector had left his native land; dank, unhappy Whitechapel which contained all that was vile to the wretched man, his prospects had been the same as he arrived into New York. Too easily followed the impulse of his treacherous heart, and trusted his happiness on a tempestuous ocean the young constable's had been, whereas Abberline's had been wrecked and lost for ever; Ichabod had been more fortunate, he was once united to a woman of honour and humanity, united by the most sacred ties, respected, esteemed, and admired by her, and surrounded by innumerable blessings of which the Inspector was bereaved, enjoying those pleasures which had fled him never to return. Alas, sorrow and deep regret had taken their place within Ichabod. B ""imit of his power: and may his offences be no more remembered in the day of general retribution, than as from his soul he forgave every offence or injury received from a fellow creature, even Ichabod. The child was indeed a forgiving being.

'Can I 'elp you, lad?'

From the loft of the stairs the voice came, the boy lifting his head disturbed from his musings. 'Are you, Mister Inspector Abberline, sir?'

The man caught the neurotic scent in the child's voice, beginning to descend down the stairs. 'Ye'.'

'I've a message for you.' Masbeth feebly continued.

But the Inspector was already looking at the note in his hand, clutched a little tighter than he had realised. Almost immediatly he was introduced to a quickened beating within his heart, his cigarette paused between his fingers.

'Who's it from?'

The boy offered the scroll. 'A Constable Ichabod Crane, sir.'

Though these were the ideas that involuntarily rushed upon the mind of Abberline as he perused the note, yet after a few seconds had elapsed, the syren Hope again took possession of him, and he flattered the scroll out infront of his eyes and discover an air of dolour in the few lines he had left, which at first had escaped his notice.

The letter read, 'Remember New York.'

Slowly lowering, Abberline feared what emotion spurred the short letter. Anger, bitterness, sadness? He loved the constable, and the very idea of incurring his upset the way he had gave him the greatest feeling of selfwretchedness but there was a more forcible reason still remaining: should he hand the letter back to the boy and merely send his regards back to Ichabod, or flee now and most likely be turned out of doors. What was the consequence to be?

Flicking the last of the cigarette away, the Inspector threw on his faded plaid overcoat and bid the boy a quick 'Thanks, lad' before stealing out the door. Abberline was a man whose character might be comprised in a few words; and as he had already made some figure in the preceeding events, he had already described himself. He possessed a genteel fortune, and had a liberal education as well as a short fuse and a sharp tongue, not to mention a thirst for self destruction. But he would be damned before he would let himself believe he had no heart, and that it did not belong to another.

The words of the letter faulted his tongue, the Inspector running over them again and again as he paced through the square. A lover's guilty anguish, when disappointed in his tenderest hopes, none but a person whose heart had been shread a hundred times over could conceive. Yet, he would have read the scene with attention, and reflect that he had done a world of wrong to his poor Ichabod. His friend, as he valued his eternal happiness, wound not, by thoughtless ingratitude, the peace of the one who bore what could be his baby. Remember the tenderness, the care, the unremitting anxiety with which he had attended and yet had still continued to see him. Abberline listened, listened to his reproofs with silent attention; they proceeded from a heart anxious for his future felicity. He must show he loved him; nature, all-powerful nature, had planted the seeds of long standing affection in the Inspector. Then once more he read over the sorrows of poor Ichabod, and remembered, the one whom he so dearly lovedand venerated might feel the same, when he, forgetful of that respect due to his maker, forsaken the paths of virtue for those of vice and folly, and the terrible pleasures he now cursed known as the dragon. Ichabod might quite rightly turn him away, it was all down to heartfelt chance.

Abberline knew too well the consequences that he must unavoidably ensue, the letter in hand as he approached Ichabod's doorstep. He therefore wisely resolved to walk onto the doorstep, tear it in pieces, and commit the fragments to the care of the icey wind. If Ichabod refused to hear him, he did not want to remember New York.

'Ichabod,' Abberline began to knock. 'Ichabod .. it's me. Please .. jus' open th'door and let me talk to you.' The Inspector was melted by the affected contrition and distress of himself, he would converse with him for hours if he would have him, endure his verbal beatings, listen to his every complaint, cry with him, and promise to protect him to the utmost of his power. Anything.

His brow contracted into a frown, noticing he had yet to be answered. He knocked again. 'Ichabod? You in?'

He easily knew Ichabod's character; the man would not be as impolite as to ignore him, even if he were scorned. He would either answer with the opening of the door or call through to him. And how did poor Ichabod pass hid time during a tedious and tempestuous passage? Naturally delicate, the fatigue and sickness which he endured rendered him so weak as to be almost entirely confined to his bed, and all of the time his home. Abberline knocked more and more, harder too to the point where his knuckles began grazed.

The painful moments of expectation had passed, replaced by moments of growing panic. Commited to a sense of his own panic, he began to shove his shoulder against the door repeatedly, knowing there must be a reason the man was not answering the door. 'Ichabod! .. Ichabod!'

The door trembled loudly with each bash Abberline forced into it, spurred only by his aim of getting inside. It thrived and gave him strength, the door's hinges succumbing and shifting open with a final and almighty blow from the Inspector's shoulder. At that instant, he fled in, holding a hand against his aching arm and looked around wildly. There was something in the darkness of the house, the chill breathing through. To the Inspector, while it soothed the turbulence of his passions to know he was not yet faced with whatever wrath Ichabod had for him, it brought increase of melancholy reflections. He leant his arm against the wall, holding it as his eyes looked helpless. He called Ichabod's name over and over, but there was a silence, a silence he wished to break so unaccountable, but was unable. Ichabod was not in his house.