Author's Note: This story takes place one year after the film. Hope you enjoy it. And please review it if you do!

Disclaimer: The characters from the movie/book obviously do not belong to me. In fact, I don't know who they belong to, but it's definitely not me (if I owned Johnny Depp I would most certainly remember the fact) and I don't make any profit from playing with them a little...

CHAPTER 1

The thick, bulbous snow clouds which had obscured the New York sky for weeks, frequently unburdening themselves of their load, finally parted allowing the stark white moon to shed it's eerie light upon the city. A closer inspection revealed that the sky itself was not the traditionally considered black, but actually the deepest midnight blue. The clouds that drifted lazily around the moon seemed suddenly unwilling to pass over it, instead skirting around its circumference as if fearful of its incandescent beams. In fact, so bright was the full moon that clouds could be observed all over the night sky, illuminated in grey highlights. The snow, lying two inches thick on the cobbled streets glistened too, appearing almost more ice blue than pure white. The overall affect was the a scene from the most common of fairytales or ghost stories. And yet it was all real.

The pounding of racing feet, loud even in the soft muffling snow, disturbed this holy sense of peace. Robert stopped for a short moment, a little enchanted by the atmosphere. Christmas was almost upon them and it was if nature itself knew. As if it was celebrating along with them by creating the ambiance the season deserved. It was the sort of place that should be strolled through lightly, absorbing its aura without desecrating it. Its beauty was simply ethereal. Otherworldly.

But the sound of his pursuers managed to knock him roughly out of his reverie.

Instinct made him run as fast as he could. In the soft snow it was difficult to get any purchase and that made the chase all the more tiring. But if they caught him, it would be his end. And he refused to meet his end as a consequence of such a noble deed. Surely that simply couldn't be just. In the name of the good Lord, it was unthinkable.

Willing his aching legs to continue was hard, but a rush of determination was great assistance. Somehow he seemed to move beyond pain and exhaustion. To pass the barrier and get to a point where it felt as if he could simply run forever. Indeed, he might just need to. His main protagonist was certainly a determined man.

He continued to run, feeling surprisingly light and free. Even clambering up the incline of the footbridge that passed over the Hudson was seemingly easy. Perhaps it was the realisation that safety was visibly in his sight. The district lit up in the near distance was his own. The people there would be his saviour.

As he reached the peak of the rise he stumbled slightly, his foot losing its tenuous grip. Falling to hands and knees, the breath he had been subconsciously holding was knocked out of him. His hands stung viciously through a combination of the force of blow and the cold. For just a moment he allowed himself to rest before a cry was heard from behind.

"Stop!"

That jolted Robert back into action and he forcefully pushed himself straight into a run.

"Stop right there!" the voice cried again, closer this time.

While the shout was obviously intended as a command, the tone betrayed the speaker slightly. He was asking Robert to stop, not telling him. And since that meant Robert had a choice, he felt free to ignore it.

Running over the incline, he took the first opportunity to glance back over his shoulder. His pursuer had just put foot on the bridge. If Robert really put in one last effort he could be lost within the myriad of streets below before the other man had him in his sights.

Perhaps it was the illusion of victory that made him forgetful, or perhaps it was exhaustion. Only when he was turning back in the right direction however did he realise that he had but seen a 'pursuer', not 'pursuers'. Sure enough he found himself facing right into the barrel of a pistol.

The boy couldn't have been more than twelve years old, seemingly easy to dispatch with, but Robert wasn't entirely sure how to handle him. He had seen the young man to be a brave sort who served his master with an almost godly devotion. He would certainly have no second thoughts over whether or not to put a bullet in Robert, should the man try to run past him.

But was that a chance Robert was just going to have to take?

The moment of indecision cost him dearly for it allowed the other man to catch up. It seemed he had underestimated him. Such a slight fellow. Who would have known he'd had he stamina for such a chase?

Robert knew his options were limited. The only way off the bridge and to safety was past the boy, and if he took that then certainly he would end up with a bullet in his back. Not really a fitting hero's end.

Turning wildly back to face the other man, a smile found its way onto his face and he laughed slightly manically.

"Mr Crane!" he said brightly, as if they were old friends, "A strange place to be meeting you. Surely a pleasant coincidence."

Ichabod found himself a little discomforted by the man's amiable manner. His authority and sense of control abandoned him momentarily, and the words would just not come. Winslow's reaction was a strange one. It spoke of a confidence that he would be able to escape from this situation - or a certainty that he if was to leave this mortal coil, he would take the former constable with him. A reason to be nervous if ever Ichabod had known one. And he had known many.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he resolved to be strong.

"Give yourself up, Mr Winslow," he advised, firmly, "There is nowhere to run. I have had Mrs Munroe inform the police of your actions and even now half the New York constabulary is hunting for you."

Even as he said the words however, he doubted them. The police were most likely to have scoffed heartily at the mention of his name. Their contempt for him seemed to have only escalated following his resignation. It was unlikely he would receive any help from them. But Robert Winslow didn't know that.

Robert snorted a laugh, as if sensing Ichabod's lack of confidence, "Hardly a terrifying prospect, Mr Crane. They investigated this murder before. Got the wrong man as I seem to recall."

Ichabod's face flickered with emotion. Yes, he did remembered. The murder of Mr Dalton Munroe had been quite a shock to the quiet community in which the businessman had resided. Even more horrifying was the conclusion that since no sign of forced entry could be found, the murderer must have been one of Munroe's own family.

His youngest son was a bad sort. Up to his neck in gambling debts and without a penny to his name. His father had refused to help him any further and they had argued on the matter. Just hours later, Munroe was found dead. Suspicion immediately fell upon the young man and within the week, Julian Munroe had been tried and executed on the charge of murdering his father. Say what you will about the constabulary, but they always proved themselves highly efficient in dealing out swift punishments.

Ichabod had followed the progress of the case in the paper, but since his departure from the New York Constabulary, he was no longer directly involved in such matters. Frustrated with his colleagues' and superiors' constant disregard for him and his methods, he had reinvented himself as a private investigator. The insecurity of the job had concerned him, but Katrina's own fortune allowed them to live more than comfortably without having to worry themselves about his income. He hadn't felt quite right - as if he was being a burden to her - but she had stated quite firmly that she would rather have to spend a few more of her own pennies than continue to see him unhappy, and, as always, he had been unable to refuse her wish. The job also allowed him to become a true mentor to Young Masbath - a task he enjoyed far more than he ever actually let on. The boy's willingness to learn was something he had rarely encountered, and the chance to shape a young mind was most welcome. If Ichabod left one epitaph behind in this world he would be proud for it to be the fine, intelligent man the boy would one day become.

Despite his initial fears, Ichabod had rarely found himself without work. The constabulary's ineptitude saw to that. This case was a prime example of such. Mrs Munroe had contacted him just days after Julian's execution. The boy was not her own son - his mother had died, and she had replaced her five years later - but still she felt as if a great injustice had been done. She had said that she didn't think him capable of murder, but the police had not listened. As far as they were concerned, they had caught their man. Ichabod had been suggested to her by a friend who had hired him when some of the lady's most precious jewellery had been stolen. The thief had been apprehended, but the goods had remained at large. Ichabod had eventually deduced that the thief simply couldn't have left the premises with the stolen property. He was proven right when he and Masbath had fished them out of the garden's ornamental pond. Full of praise for Crane and his work, the lady had recommended him to Mrs Munroe who wanted not only a final justice for her husband, but a absolution for her step son.

To Ichabod's surprise and dismay, the main piece of 'evidence' the police had used to convict the unfortunate younger Munroe, was easily proved to be a fallacy. While there was indeed no sign of a forced entry, a simple investigation of the surroundings discovered a clue which had been overlooked. So sure were the police that the murder had been committed by someone inside that they had neglected to check the exterior. Which is where Ichabod had discovered a small smear of blood on the windowsill. Further investigation with his powders and chemicals had shown there to have also been a considerable amount of blood on the ground nearby. Again, the police had seemed to overlook the fact that such a vicious head wound would have bled profusely, and yet the bloodstain on the carpet was small. Clearly the murder had been committed outside, after which the body was dragged indoors via the window. The attacker had used Munroe's own keys to open it and secured it again following his exit, making it appear impossible for an outside party to have been involved and thus covering his tracks.

Once it had been established that Julian Munroe in all likelihood had been an innocent party, a stroke of good fortune had delivered the true culprit to them. Katrina had been teaching Masbath to read and had sent him to the public library to find some storybooks. All Ichabod owned were scientific texts and her own tales of romance weren't really of interest a young boy. Over the weeks, Masbath had developed somewhat of a friendship with the kind old librarian, Mr Charles. He took an eager interest in the boy's work with Ichabod, often asking him what they were currently investigating. When Masbath had mentioned the Munroe case, Charles had shook his head saying how perhaps it was some kind of divine justice the man had met such an end after the conduct of his youth had caused such tragedy. Intrigued, Masbath had asked the man to elaborate. As it turned out, Dalton Munroe had once been subject of quite a scandal. Engaged to be married, he had began flirtations with a young widow. This apparently continued in secret right up until his marriage at which point he broke the affair off, saying he would not be an adulterer. The poor widow however had fallen madly in love with him. For a time she took to following him around, spying on him, trying to win herself back into his favour. When he had confronted her however, telling her he did not love her and would have her committed to an asylum if she continued to harass him, she seemingly lost her mind. She had walked straight to the Hudson and drowned herself.

Masbath had run straight to Ichabod and told him what he had learnt. Surprised and pleased by his young assistant's work, Ichabod had at once set about investigating the one black mark in Munroe's otherwise well conducted affairs. He soon discovered that the widow had had a son. A boy who had been eight at the time of her death and had since gone on to live with his uncle who was by all accounts a terrible, violent man. Loss of the mother leading to a disturbing childhood? Certainly a motive for murder.

Nervously, Ichabod and Masbath had broken into Robert Winslow's rooms to look for clues, and without much difficulty had discovered the murder weapon - a club covered in blood, displayed like some sort of trophy. The man himself though was a little harder to find. Only this very night had the pair of them finally tracked Winslow to a tavern where Ichabod had meant to confront him with the accusations. It seemed however that the suspect was aware of their investigations, because the moment he had seen them he had bolted and the chase had begun.

Staring down the murderer now, Young Masbath's swift feet having allowed the boy to get into a position whereby he could back him up, Ichabod felt a shiver of cold. Even so he was determined to be in control. He held the cards. He was in the right. Winslow was at his mercy.

"I have considerable evidence that you are guilty of murder, Mr Winslow," he said crisply, "You cannot expect to get away with it. In this life or the next."

"And what of Munroe?" Robert spat viciously, "Wasn't it fair that he was punished for the murder of my mother?"

Ichabod shook his head, surprisingly calm, "Mr Munroe did not kill your mother, sir. It was a suicide."

"He drove her to her grave!" Robert shouted fiercely, a nerve clearly struck. Without hesitation he began advancing on Ichabod in a threatening manner.

Before the former constable had a chance to defend himself a shot rang out landing in the snow between himself and the advancing man. Both of them turned to see Young Masbath having discarded one pistol and now holding a second. He simply nodded in acknowledgment at Ichabod's silent thanks.

Ichabod swallowed the lump in his throat his voice cracking just slightly as he spoke again, "I do believe you should accompany myself and Young Mr Masbath here to the police station. You have nowhere else to run."

Robert stared him up and down almost disdainfully. As if he couldn't believe that this slip of a man standing before him had managed to do what New York's finest hadn't. He shook his head slowly in disbelief. Then he shrugged.

"It seems you've undone me, Mr Crane," he admitted, quietly. Then his face turned to an intrigued frown, "How in heaven's name did you come to discover the younger Mr Munroe was innocent?"

Ichabod preened just slightly at a small chance to demonstrate his remarkable deductive skills, "The case against Julian Munroe entirely depended on the predicate that the murder was committed inside the house. I simply proved this to be a fallacy by discovering the chemical remnants of some blood in the gardens. Even in the present inclement weather the remains were detectable."

Robert nodded, impressed, "Congratulations, sir. Remarkable work. You might have done what the full force of the law couldn't."

"There's no 'might' about it," Ichabod said with a derisive huff, showing clearly what he thought about the constabulary's crime solving abilities.

"I suppose you must still defer to them on matters of punishment though," Robert stated, gazing at him levelly.

Ichabod and Masbath glanced at one another. It appeared as if the man's surrender was indeed imminent. Ichabod, for one, was mightily relieved. Robert Winslow was a large, stocky, well-built fellow. If it had come down to a physical contest Ichabod would have come off undoubtedly the worse. Brawls were not really his forte.

Slowly they herded the man in front of them, preparing for the long walk to the police station. Ichabod wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say when he got there. The High Constable wasn't really going to be willing to listen to a man he undoubtedly despised, telling him that they had executed an innocent gentleman. Ichabod just prayed that they would actually impound Winslow. What good would Ichabod be as a detective if the law was never on his side and hence his cases could never gain any satisfactory conclusion?

Winslow took just two paces however before his demeanour seemed to change. He stiffened as if something had suddenly struck him.

It was the realisation that if he gave in now it would be like admitting that he had been wrong. And that monster Munroe had been right in all he had done to his dear mother.

A righteous anger spread over him and a decision was made.

Roughly shoving the boy to the snow, he didn't hesitate in punching Ichabod across the nose before the man could pull his pistol, sending him sprawling onto his back.

Ichabod was on his feet again in moments, clutching at his already bleeding nose. He stumbled over to the wall but he was far too late. He was only in time to watch Robert Winslow bounce sickeningly off the side of the bridge as he struck it and fell dead into the river below.

Joining his mother in her own watery grave.