Lieutenant Abbie Mills blinked slowly – once, twice, three times. She rubbed both eyes for good measure and blinked rapidly to clear away the tears that the action caused. The hazy image of a ramshackle apartment building came into view. Its only exit, a single door painted dark evergreen, was cast in the shine of an ancient streetlamp that looked like it had sprouted out of the crumbling cement sidewalk like a weed. The numbers spray painted in black on the sidewalk, just ahead of where Abbie had parked her SUV, marked the unexceptional residence as 2367 Berman Avenue.

She had been sitting, watching this stupid little door for so many hours that her eyes kept crossing. Stake-outs usually weren't this bone-wearying for her, and she was surprised at herself. This was a basic cut-and-dry drug bust, and a return to some normality after spending the last few weeks chasing demons through the Sleepy Hollow sewers. She wondered absently when normal police work had become such a rare occurrence. Probably has something to do with the 18th century time traveler sleeping in my passenger seat. She glanced over at Crane, who had passed out about an hour before. He had insisted on coming with her, as with all of her other calls, standard or not. And despite the inconvenience he sometimes posed; correcting witnesses' grammar while she was taking their statements, butting into her personal life at any chance he got, shouting at museum tour guides; she had come to genuinely enjoy his company. He was smart; ridiculously smart. Abbie didn't know how she could have made sense of any of the supernatural happenings of the past few weeks without his incomparable knowledge and insight. This was without mentioning how fun it was to tease him, and ruffle his straight-laced sensibilities every once in awhile. When Sheriff Corbin had been murdered, Abbie had thought that no one, no one would be able to fill the space that he'd left in her life. How ironic was it that Crane was now overflowing that same space? Within their first week of meeting each other, he'd forced her to face a wound that she'd hardly realized she'd been carrying for years, and by the end of that week she had become indebted to the man for saving her life.

However, she thought as Crane snored lightly, I think this makes us about even.

The dim light of her dashboard clock told her that it was 3:29am. That made it…her brow furrowed as she counted back the hours. That made it nearly seven and a half hours of absolutely nothing. No one going in and out of the apartment, and less cars passing by than she could count on one hand. A small shudder coursed through her petite frame, and she wrapped her arms around her body for warmth.

"Ah-choo!" Abbie sneezed loudly, startling herself and breaking the thick silence that had settled in the car.

The entire frame of the vehicle shuddered as "tall, dark, and British" jolted awake in the passenger seat.

"What the devil…" he trailed off, looked around dazedly.

"Sorry." Abbie grinned smugly at his confused expression before yanking a tissue out of the glove compartment and loudly blowing her nose. Crane yawned and rubbed his eyes slowly with one hand.

"Is that really necessary?" He griped without opening his eyes.

"Would you like to volunteer your coat sleeve?" Abbie tried as she wadded up the tissue.

At that his eyes snapped open. "Certainly not."

She laughed at that; a laugh that ended in a raspy cough. She cleared her throat and patted her chest, quickly brushing it off. She did, however, feel Crane's eyes on her as she brushed her hair over her other shoulder.

"Are you quite well?" He asked, sounding a slight bit concerned. Abbie rolled her eyes. Leave it to Crane to blow a sniffle out of proportion. He didn't know all that she did - that her head had been pounding for the past hour and a half and that she'd nearly dozed off four separate times. But she wasn't worried. It was normal to occasionally feel a little run-down on the job – especially during boring stake-outs. She cleared her throat once more before answering.

"Healthy as a horse."

She ignored Crane's deadpan stare and winced as she massaged her temples.

"But I've got to be honest, I would love to slack off and take a nap right about now. It's not like we're on assignment or anything." She stared at him pointedly, waiting for him to get the joke.

He bristled and immediately straightened his posture, as well as his coat. There's that 18th century attitude.

"Apologies."

Yeah, right. And I'm Martha Washington.

Abbie flashed what she hoped was a placating grin before returning to the business at hand. "Well, you didn't miss much. Our perp hasn't so much as gotten up to use the bathroom in nearly eight hours." She spoke around a yawn, "In another hour I'll call Irving for the go-ahead so we can leave."

Crane squinted at the fluorescent streetlamp in perplexity. "Did you not state that this man, this "perp", has had over five eyewitness reports filed against him, all unanimously accusing him of being a committed criminal? A dealer of illegal imports, if I'm correct, with-"

"No, you're not correct." Abbie interrupted, keeping her face all-serious. Crane's brow furrowed in surprise, and Abbie could detect some genuine shock in his expression. She decided to give him a break.

"Of course you're correct, Crane." she amended, rolling her eyes at him.

He exhaled with a reluctant laugh. "It would be exceedingly singular were I not, Miss Mills."

"I'll get you one day." she murmured, her eyes scanning the dark street that stretched endlessly in front of them, punctured only by faint dots of electric light, all eventually swallowed up by the morning fog that would just be creeping in from the Hudson.

"As I was saying," he continued, "a man of this sort of reclusive nature would logically require a means of connection with the world outside of his…"

Crane leaned forward in the seat as he searched for the right word. Abbie had noticed that he tended to use his hands to make gestures and pictures in the air as he spoke. He also tended to lose himself in whatever he was discussing…if the topic interested him enough. And the most bizarre things seemed to, from the rightful name for 'french fries' to Thomas Jefferson's favorite hobby to God knew what else.

"…property, as it were." he continued. "And, of course, the execution of business transactions without an audience to cast suspicion. If he is as clever a man as Captain Irving thinks, then there may be some other entrance…"

Abbie took the moment to lean back heavily in her seat as she listened to his musings. Her ears stayed focused on Crane's voice while her eyes stopped responding to her commands and drifted shut of their own accord. I'll just rest them for a minute., she thought wearily. Her throat was so sore. She swallowed, wincing, as Crane's deep voice blurred around her ears. Only one more hour…then home…

"Miss Mills."

Nope, nope, nope.

"Miss Mills?"

Go away…let me sleep…

"Lieutenant!"

"Gah!" Abbie jolted awake as someone shook her – hard. Her left hand reached for her gun while her right grasped her attacker's wrist in a death grip, trapping the person before they could bolt. Her gun had cleared its holster when she looked up – right into a pair of alarmed blue eyes. Ichabod freaking Crane was leaning over the seat divider, his face precariously close, with a fistful of her jacket gripped in his right hand.

"Jesus, Crane!" She gasped, releasing his wrist and immediately holstering her weapon. "Don't scare me like that!" A shudder ran through her and she looked him up and down to be sure that he wasn't hurt. "I could have shot you!"

Crane leaned back a few inches from her in the small space, but seemed reluctant to retreat more. He was giving her one of his intense stares; looking at her like he was studying a cryptic passage or a challenging riddle. Or like she'd sprouted wings. She felt self-conscious at the attention, and more than a little disoriented.

"I don't doubt it, Miss Mills. However, you are the one who is frightening me at the moment."

"What are you talking about?" Abbie wheezed. Her chest felt tight; constricted, and she was panting like she'd run a marathon. Her gaze flitted to the dashboard as she tried to pull herself together. The little clock read 4:32 AM in bright green letters. 4:32AM? How long was I…?

Her eyes flashed back up when she felt a light pressure on her forehead. It was Crane, holding the back of his hand to her forehead. The rest of him had shifted as far away from her as the length of his arm would allow, like she was a cobra and he was desperately trying to avoid getting bitten. She would have teased him about it if her head hadn't been pounding so loudly.

"You are not well." He murmured, almost to himself.

She managed a swat at his arm. He hastily snatched his hand away before she got the chance to smack it off her forehead.

"I'm fine." She bit off.

"No, you are not -" Both of them looked as the walkie-talkie on the dashboard suddenly bleeped to life.

"Mills, come in. Over." Captain Irving's voice, though distorted with static, held its normal no-nonsense tone. He must have been stuck working a long night, too. Abbie grabbed the walkie-talkie and tried to catch her breath.

"Mills. Over."

"Any change at the Berman place?"

Abbie coughed into her arm before answering.

"Absolutely nothing, sir. It's more quiet than the western front out here. Over"

Abbie could feel her nose start running, and she couldn't control the shiver that shook through her. When had it gotten so cold in here? She sniffed and reached for a tissue. Crane noticed and quickly handed one over.

There was a pause on the walkie-talkie. Then Irving was back. "Alright. I was afraid that would be the case."

There was another pause.

"Sir?" Abbie asked.

"We're gonna need a warrant to search the place to be sure about this guy. For now, both of you get some sleep; make your report when you come in today. Over."

"Yes sir. Over and out." Abbie finished wryly before leaning back in relief. Thank. God. We get to leave. She shivered again and coughed into her sleeve.

"Alright, let's go." She huffed, jacking her seat fully upright and turning the key in the ignition.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you're not going anywhere." Crane reached out quickly and tried to block her hands from the steering wheel using his long arms.

Oh HELL no… Abbie raised both arms in one fluid motion, shaking him off.

"Crane." She stared right at him with her hands suspended out of his reach, infusing some ice into her tone to get her point across. A person could not just grab a police officer – twice. Even if that person was Ichabod Crane.

"Miss Mills…" He stared right back, his expression matching hers in its determination, though also tinged with an unsettling amount of concern. "Do you honestly intend to operate a vehicle of transportation in your condition?"

"I had planned on it." She deadpanned, and then scoffed, "My condition? What on God's green earth are you talking about? I am-"

She bent nearly double in the seat as, suddenly, air seemed to stick in her throat like a lump of half-chewed gum. It took a minute of coughing and gasping for her to get her breath back. With shaky arms, she slowly straightened herself in the seat. Well, that was embarrassing.

"Alright…" She rasped. "I may be getting just a little sick. But," she held up a hand, stopping him before he interrupted, "I am still perfectly fine to drive, Crane. Let me just get you back to Corbin's – well, your – cabin, and then I promise you, I will drive straight home and take a damn Tylenol."

Crane's brow furrowed at the term 'Tylenol', but he didn't ask.

"Just a little sick?" he repeated her words incredulously. "Lieutenant, I have been on the battlefield. I have treated numerous injuries, have watched my friends stare death in the face and come crawling back to life at the very last minute. I know illness, Miss Mills. Something so encumbering cannot have changed so very much in a mere two centuries."

Abbie watched his little tirade, both eyebrows raised as she waited for him to finish. "You done?"

"Not just yet. As I said, I know illness. And you…" He ignored her when she flinched away and determinedly laid his hand against her damp forehead. "…are burning up."

Crane's large palm was incredibly warm and comforting where it rested on Abbie's brow. She could feel his long fingers tangled gently in her bangs, keeping the hair out of her face as they rested against her temple. For a moment – just a split-second, really – she enjoyed the feeling of being cared for; of being worried over. Then, with a slow, steady breath, she pulled her head away from his palm and out of reach. He was overreacting; plain and simple.

"Crane," she said as she buckled her seatbelt and put the Jeep into gear, "I know what you must be thinking. But believe me when I tell you that medicine has come a long way since you were a soldier." She kept her tone mild and reassuring; she didn't want him worrying over her. Lord knew, the man had experienced enough pain to last a lifetime without useless worry stacked atop it.

"Illnesses that may have once been life-threatening can now be pretty much cured with a single pill."

She could feel, rather than see, his disbelieving frown as she pulled on to the main highway that led away from the center of Sleepy Hollow. She chuckled and threw him a look.

"I swear, it's true. I'll show you sometime – bring some Benadryl in to work or something."

"That would be…most enlightening." Crane ventured, before falling silent. Abbie chanced a look at him out of the corner of her eye. Bad idea – his eyes were glued to her face, and he looked more worried than ever. Was this apprehension about illness in general, or about her being ill, specifically? Stop right there, she told herself. He's just a concerned friend. That's all. And truth be told, she did feel horrible. This flu had just smacked her full-on in a matter of moments, and now she could not wait to crawl into bed and be dead to the world for a solid eight to ten hours. But first, she had to get Crane home.

It felt like hours, but it was only a few torturous moments later that Abbie's Jeep rumbled down the uneven gravel driveway that ended at the antiquated cabin. She put the vehicle into park and fought the urge to slump completely over the steering wheel in exhaustion. No doubt that would alarm Crane. So instead, she fumbled with unbuckling her seat belt as he got out and walked around the front of the car to open her door. He always seemed intent on making her get out of the car and say goodbye at the door whenever she dropped him off at the cabin. Often he had another question for her that he had not asked earlier in the day, or once he had been curious about how to work the microwave. Abbie had not particularly minded this harmless tradition, until this moment, when all she wanted to do was sleep. Her nose was running again, and she grabbed another Kleenex. Ignoring the quickly-worsening throbbing in her joints, she stood and stepped out of car.

No, no, no, no, no…too much, too much…crap, crap, double-crap...

Those were her last thoughts as massive black spots bloomed in front of her, blocking out the cabin completely. A cold sweat gathered at her nape. Then, abruptly, the muddy ground was rising up to meet her.