Glass: Reader Requests

The Woman in the Window

A Victorian AU.

Firstly, I'd like to apologise to @casutara for making you wait so long for your request!

Secondly, although I do remember the requester wanting to see Vaughan in a victorian setting, the story I ended up writing just didn't lend itself to Sherlock and Margaux having children. But if this story is well-received then I will absolutely look into writing another one that includes their children.

Finally, This is not technically a oneshot. It's a full-length short story and therefore much longer than the other chapters in this book.

I found this a real challenge (in a good way) to write. I haven't written anything Neo-Victorian since my undergraduate degree, so I wanted to take my time with reading, research and finding a way to blend my style with the great ACD's to create something a little more authentic. And by 'authentic', what I really mean is 'why did victorian authors use so many words? Like, so many.'

Content Warning: this story contains a mild sex scene.

~*~*~*~

The Woman in the Window

The first time Mr Jenks saw the woman in the window, he tipped his hat politely, taking only slight offence when she did not return his niceties. It was only when he pulled his carriage away, his horse trotting slowly down the street did it dawn on him that nobody had occupied that house for many years, and to see someone inside was not only strange, but downright unsettling.

The second time was not much different to the first. Mr Jenks slowed his horse to a stop, allowing his passengers to climb out of the cab when he saw her there again. She was as still and unmoving as the first time, gazing through the clouded glass as if bemoaning the vibrant bustle of the London street outside. Once again, he tipped his hat, only to be met by a blank stare, and as quickly as it took him to blink, she was gone.

~*~

It had been an exceptionally warm summer in London, and like every day before, the ground had soaked up the warmth of the afternoon sun and radiated it back into the air with an oppressive heat. The stench of sewage and carriage horses had been masked, rather welcomingly, by a blend of chimney soot and spices from the market, making Sundays perhaps the most favourable for a stroll.

Doctor Watson had taken his daily constitutional earlier than usual, escaping the oven-like temperatures of his home with an enthusiasm that did not usually accompany the idea of physical activity. He tucked a cane beneath his arm as he walked along the path that stretched the length of Paddington Street Gardens, sharing a nod with a passing couple and wrinkling his nose to ease the itch of his moustache.