The journey back to New York stretched on to forever. The whole of the way, Ichabod stared out of the window at the world passing him by. Not once did he drift into sleep in the carriage as he usual did, just glaring out of the window. Every tree and building stretched by, seeming to loom over him. Sometimes he would not focus on what was outside, but on his reflection in the glass. His face tired, worn and his eyes a sharp red - from all the exhaustion, all the choked out sobs. He had kept the letter, of course. The only material piece of Inspector Frederick Abberline he had left of him, the rest was just memories that he would surely never forget. From the day they met, to the day they parted.

A dignified, stately house came to view through the carriage window. Ichabod recognised this as his home, a female silhouette lingering behind an upper floor window. Katrina watched from inside, eagerly squinting to the carriage that was pulling up with dear hopes. Her face lit up when she caught sight of what was a pale faced man with a concentrated expression and a mop of black hair. A bright smile swept across her face, reaching a hand to excitedly cradle her vaster stomach. Bulked after the many months. She wore a radiant white, long and loose dress and her blonde, ringletted hair fell over her shoulders and down her back. Her pale cheeks a rosed colour. The lady rushed as fast her she would allow herself, stepping down the stairs as she fled to meet her beloved. As she met the cool, brisk New York air just past the door, Ichabod stepped out of the carriage. He kept his head low at first, telling himself to force a smile - for she could not know. She could never know.

'Ichabod,' Her soft voice called from the doorway, simply assuming he had not noticed her as she found herself to still be smiling at his back. The wind picking up her flowing hair and the tips of her bright dress. The constable took a deep breath, turning painfully and willing himself to return her welcoming smile when their gaze met. And as Katrina rushed to him and flew into his arms, Ichabod looked up at the sky, watching the clouds gather slowly as if by heaven's will.

Your mine, Abberline. He thought as Katrina embraced him, Your really mine.

A petite cottage stood on a hilled land beside a sea, the waves breaking upon the bank. The day was clear and brightly lit, the sun generous and the sky clear. A little girl with the fairest hair and a ragdoll tucked under her arm hummed as she skipped along the bank, the water touching her shoes.

'Alice!' Mary called, emerging from inside the cottage doorway and draping a shawl around her shoulders. 'Alice, come here darlin'!'

The little girl glanced up, hugging at her doll as she stepped up the grassed hill. 'Coming mother!'

The matured lady looked to the child with a pure love, her face delicate and gentle and her fiery hair reflecting the daylight. As Alice approached her, she wrapped her arm around the girl and lead her into the cottage. Every day she told herself he would come, and they would live happily by the sea. As he had seen. One day.

It had been a number of years now since the day the Ripper case had been solved. Ichabod had kept true to his silence throughout as he had married Katrina, went through his day to day duties and watched his child be born. Not once did he let the Inspector escape his thoughts, often slipping into a long pensive stupor. Though he tried to allow himself to slip into his life's role, he could not let himself forget his spell in London all those years ago.

Snowflakes fluttered from the sky outside the window, lying on the streets of New York and slowly building a white wonderland in the dim dark that was the night. Behind the glass, stood the constable. Candle plate in hand and it's wick flickering away with a dancing flame. He approached a chest of drawers in his work room, the very place where it was his own sanctum. Where he kept his tools and notes of practice. Letting the plated candle rest on the wooden surface, he let his fingers fall to the drawer handle and slowly ease it open. Inside the gradually opening door, lay the very note. It was more worn now, rumpled and creased after the passing slowly began to impair its quality. He would always keep it though, his only memoir of Abberline's final thoughts before he passed into the afterlife.

'Father,' There was a gentle knock at the door before it eased open, a young boy stepping in. A young boy with a mop of brownish dark hair that touched his shoulders and fair skin, his dark eyes stubbornly neglecting to let light reflect. 'Dinner is ready.'

Ichabod kept his back to the boy at first, discreetly pressing the drawer closed. When he turned, he wore a casual grin on his face as he looked to his son. 'So it is.'

He began to step toward him so they may continue onward, but the boy had his fascinated eye on a pair of rimmed spectables lying on a surface near him. He reached a hand toward it, letting his fingertips curiously brush. 'What are these, father?'

Ichabod followed his glance, 'You have not seen them before?'

'I have seen them,' The child answered, 'But .. I didn't know what they were.'

The constable nodded, accepting his answer. 'Well, perhaps now is not the time.'

'Please?' The boy pleaded, his lips quivering. Ichabod shook his head with a smile, lowering himself on one knee to the boy's level and resting a hand on his narrow shoulder.

'One day when I pass they shall be yours, then you shall know what they are,' He kept a smile, knowing he was teasing the curious boy. With a final pat, he rose up. The child accepted his answer reluctantly, nodding once to his father. 'Alright,'

'Good,' Ichabod said, beginning to guide the boy from the room. 'Your mother is calling us. Come, Frederick.'

THE END.