CHAPTER 2

Katrina's eyes fluttered open gently at the sound of the front door closing. The entrance had been soft - as if the person was trying their hardest not to wake her - but she had been awaiting their return for some while now and had subconsciously tuned herself in to the scrape of the key in the lock.

The clock on the mantle piece announced it was well past one in the morning. Last she remembered it had been just touching twelve and Ichabod and William had not yet returned home. Her husband had explained the situation and that they may be out until very late, but she had found herself unable and unwilling to retire to bed until she was sure they were safely under their roof once more. It had been the same way ever since he had started this new job and she had quickly gotten used to these long, drawn out vigils, wondering where he was and what he was doing. All these nights of waiting patiently up however seemed to be finally catching up with her, and she stifled an exhausted yawn as she reached down to pick up the book which had slipped out of her hands as she drifted off. Replacing the book on the shelf she turned to greet her returning heroes with a smile, only to gasp when she saw them.

An air of defeat accompanied the two into the room, the scene made all the worse by the sight of Ichabod pressing a bloodied handkerchief to his nose.

"Goodness," she exclaimed, going to immediately help her husband to a chair, "You look dreadful! What happened?"

"Our murderer decided to give himself his just deserts," Ichabod said with a sigh as Katrina fussed over him, trying to get a look at his nose. Once she was satisfied that the wound was only superficial and nothing was broken, she turned her attention to Masbath who was hovering nearby.

"And you, William?" she asked, kneeling in front of him to check the boy over, "Are you hurt?"

"No, Ma'am," he said softly, a mixture of sheer tiredness and disappointment.

Catching the boy's look, Ichabod patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. He knew that despite all the terrible things he had seen, Masbath still held a somewhat idealistic child's view of the world. He expected things to turn out well and when they didn't, it was almost as if it shook the very foundations of his beliefs. Ichabod remembered what it was to feel like that and knew that it couldn't last. Eventually a cynical realisation of life's true nature would assert itself and things would never be as clear cut as they once where. He only hoped Masbath could hold on to his slightly rose tinted view for as long as he could.

"Thank you as always for your invaluable assistance, Young Masbath," he said with a smile, "But I think now is time for you to get some rest."

The boy looked a little troubled, "Will you be all right, sir?"

"I think Katrina can manage enough fussing for the both of you," Ichabod replied, throwing her a dry look, "And besides, you are no good to me if you are falling asleep on the job."

Masbath brightened a little, nodding. Ichabod would be fine and tomorrow they could continue as always. Perhaps a new case could come in. A new chance to help someone and learn something interesting. His mother had always told him that things got here more quickly when you slept, and he wanted nothing more than for it to be tomorrow.

"Very well, sir," he said, with a look of assurance, "Goodnight. Goodnight, Katrina."

Katrina planted a kiss on his forehead as the boy passed, and he briefly consented to a fierce hug. When Masbath had first joined them things had been a little strange. He had been brought up to a life of servitude and felt the need to act appropriately for such a position. Ichabod and Katrina had managed to teach him otherwise though. Both of them had been left without true family and the more people they could cling to, the better. William Masbath had become their ward and pupil, as well as their friend and family. He idolised Ichabod and doted upon Katrina, soon losing any sense of inferiority he had felt. As Katrina said, he was both kinder and braver than both of them were - they were the inferior ones.

Breaking the embrace a little reluctantly, William gave them a warm, reassuring smile just before he left the room and slowly plodded up to bed.

Upon the sound of the closing bedroom door, Ichabod visibly sagged, feeling no need to keep up appearances anymore. He felt such a terrible sense of defeat. Indeed, the man had been doomed to die anyway, but what had happened wasn't justice in the strictest sense. It wasn't what Ichabod had strived to do, even if the end result was the same.

Katrina was pained to see him in such a state. One his most admirable qualities was his determination. Ichabod never gave up. Not when the other boys at his school had picked on him for being quiet and bookish. Not when he had left his father's home at a young age and had had to fend for himself. Not when his attempts at sense and reform were constantly disparaged by the constabulary. Not when he had come to Sleepy Hollow and been at worst despised and at best tolerated by the people he was trying to help. Not when the seemingly unstoppable horseman was pursuing them intent upon killing her.

Something awful must have happened this night to shake his confidence so. Or at least an accumulation of things. The straw which broke the donkey's back, so to speak.

"I think you'd be wise to heed your own advice," she said softly, stroking a gentle hand across his cheek knowing that, like William, rest and the dawn of a new day would do him the world of good, "Surely that great mind of yours cannot function without sleep."

He looked up at her, his dark eyes penetrating in their intensity. He seemed to know what was written in her soul. To read exactly the thoughts of her mind as if she were an open book. In a way that was always left her a little unseated, and yet she trusted him so deeply she was never afraid for him to see.

"You didn't even ask me what happened," he said, a little despairingly.

"I didn't think you'd wish to speak of it" she admitted, "Wouldn't it be better for you if you could come back here and leave that world behind you?"

Ichabod sighed deeply as he pulled her to his lap, feeling the compulsion to be close to one of the few things in his retched life that he could count as a success. How he had ever wooed this lovely young lady, he'd never know.

"Oh, Katrina," he whispered softly, his lips close to her ear, "I only wish I could. But these cases haunt my waking hours like my childhood haunts my dreams. And if I fail the hauntings only become worse."

"Fail?" she enquired, softly.

He quickly related the story of the night's events as she sat peacefully in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, listening to his every word without comment.

"In short," he concluded, "Three men have died in this fiasco. And at least one of those had no reason to."

"But," she reasoned, "You cannot blame yourself for the constabulary's failings."

"That is simply the problem, Katrina," he said with a deep, mournful sigh, "I must. I failed to enlighten them to more productive methods of crime solving. While the conclusion that Winslow was to blame for this was certainly a chance discovery, the realisation that Julian Munroe was innocent was an easy enough truth to find. Rarely have I had such a simple deduction. And yet the man was hung, when he should have been pitied and left to mourn his father. It is bad enough that a guilty man should escape punishment, but that it should be inflicted on an innocent one is simply unforgivable."

"Perhaps not entirely," Katrina said, suddenly a little introspective.

Ichabod's heart turned to lead as he saw the troubled expression in her peaceful eyes. Hadn't he himself been guilty of such a thing when he had accused her innocent father of murder before his own tragic death proved him wrong. And, thankfully unbeknownst to her, he had also incorrectly concluded that she had been the one in control of the horseman and hence the one who had murdered her own father? And even if the reference had passed her by and it was simply her soft heart touched by the plight of an innocent man, hadn't he silently promised himself that he would not sully the light and peace of her world with the darkness and despair he often found himself in?

"You're exhausted," she said softly, slipping from his lap, "Go to bed. I'll be there in a moment."

Too tired to argue with her, Ichabod found himself plodding up the stairs almost in a trance, dropping onto the bed and slowly changing into his pyjamas. Despite his tiredness however he refused to fall asleep until she joined him. He didn't feel secure without her. A crazy notion - he had survived alone before his trip to Sleepy Hollow had brought them together - but somehow he felt safer when she was around. Less emotionally vulnerable.

After what felt like too long, she entered the room with a candle in one hand and a bottle in the other.

"What is that?" he asked curiously, propping himself up on his elbow.

"Shh," she instructed, placing the candle to one side as she sat on the bed next to him. Her hands reached forward and pushed his nightshirt up his back. Ichabod looked at her a little startled, and she smiled, part sweet and part mischievous. "It's a soothing oil," she explained, "When applied to skin it helps to calm a person and relieve them of anxiety." A trace of humour found it's way into her eyes, "Sometimes I believe there has never been anyone more in need of it than you."

There was a dry scolding in his look, but he obeyed the instructions of her insistent hands and rolled onto his stomach.

He held his breath slightly as her fingers came in to contact with his back. Such an intimate touch set his emotions into turmoil. His heart began to thud noticeably and his skin flushed - so clear against his normal pale complexion. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Katrina's almost lascivious grin. Obviously she found his uneasy highly amusing.

"You must relax," she whispered, softly.

"That is not as easy as you would imagine," he said, his voice a little high strung.

It took him a little time but eventually he did managed to calm himself. When he did so, he realised that Katrina was right. The oil was soothing in both its application and scent. A pleasant heat was also generated, but whether this was the affect of the oil or the brush of her warm fingers against the flesh of his back, he wasn't sure.

He was teetering on the verge of sleep by the time she had finished. Changing swiftly and silently for bed, she slipped underneath the covers without disturbing him. Immediately two arms sneaked their familiar way around her waist and pulled her tight against her husband.

The lullaby of his heartbeat sent her to sleep shortly after he drifted off.