A/N: Hello, and welcome to The Life of a Resurrected Man! If you read my other story, The Life of a Dead Man, please read on. If not, go read it! Nothing in this story will make sense without it! And then, if you like it (which hopefully you will), come back!
Disclaimer: In a cruel twist of fate, I was unable to secure the rights to Sherlock BBC. Apparently some idiots called Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss already have dibs. I do, however, own Ainsley. And Elsa. And Lucinda the cat.
To the untrained eye, the man and woman entering 221 Baker Street were insignificant. They had no particularly memorable qualities; they did nothing to draw attention to themselves. Their clothes were modest and unassuming; their appearances on the whole were rather plain. In short, they were a pair of nobodies. Mere blips on the radar, if you will.
But if someone had bothered to look just a little bit closer, they would have seen that one of these nobodies was Sherlock Holmes, a man who was supposed to have committed suicide over four months ago. Yet here he was, totally alive and well, albeit with dyed blond hair. The other nobody, however, was a little less recognizable.
Her name was Ainsley Boyd, and she was Sherlock Holmes' second-ever friend and first-ever girlfriend. After helping to take down Moriarty's web of criminals, she had moved to England with her sister, Elsa, and her father, Patrick. At that exact moment, Elsa was resting in a hotel and her father was getting acclimated to the hospice he'd just been moved to, leaving Ainsley plenty of time to go exploring with her boyfriend.
"Exactly how do plan on getting in?" she muttered to him, taking a moment to examine the building in front of them. It was much less... dramatic then she had expected. Not that a building could be so very dramatic, of course. She had just thought it would be more noticeable or impressive, from the way Sherlock talked about it.
"With a key," he scoffed. She rolled her eyes.
"Right, because there's no way John and Mrs. Hudson decided to change the locks after everybody in London became fixated on their home," she agreed sarcastically. He flicked his eyes over to her.
"Of course not," he dismissed. "John's far too sentimental and Mrs. Hudson doesn't trust construction workers." To prove it, he plucked a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. With a click, the door opened. "Ta-dah."
Without waiting for a response, he strode over the threshold of the building and began jogging up the stairs.
"Coming?" he called down.
Ainsley crinkled her nose, staring after him. It felt a bit weird to be barging into a stranger's flat. Sherlock may have lived there once, but that was a long time ago. Now, it was John's home. That meant it was filled to the brim with his personal items, and she was going to see it all without even meeting him.
Then again, Sherlock did still have a key. And the lease was in his name. Surely they weren't doing anything wrong. Besides, John would understand. In fact, he would probably greet them with open arms. After all, his best friend was coming home after months of playing dead.
Before she could change her mind, she charged up the stairs and followed Sherlock to the door marked 221B. Pulling out another key, he unlocked it. It swung open with an ear-splitting creak. She half-expected someone to come running in, asking who they were, but the building stayed silent.
"Where is everybody?" she asked, subconsciously lowering her voice to avoid disturbing the peace. It was understandable that John had things to do, but she'd always imagined Mrs. Hudson as an omnipresent force, flitting around the flat and making sure it was up to snuff.
"John's at work, I expect," he shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson's probably gone to the store. But it's not important. All that matters is that we're in." He flicked on the light, grinning wildly. She peeked behind him and took in the mess that was 221B.
The floor was littered with old newspapers and various articles of clothing. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and that wasn't even counting the cereal bowl, mug, and plate that had been left on the coffee table. For some godforsaken reason, his old skull was still displayed proudly on the mantelpiece. Huge cardboard boxes filled with junk were piled by the back window. Ainsley guessed that the contents had once belonged to Sherlock and no one had gotten around to getting rid of them. She felt a stab of pity. She knew firsthand how hard it was to clean out a loved one's room. She shivered, remembering the horrible days she spent going through her mother's belongings. Shaking away the memories, she refocused on the room in front of her. Despite the mess, the flat itself actually wasn't too bad. If someone would bother to clean it up, it might actually be fit to live in.
"It's nice," she remarked, nodding approvingly.
"Of course it's nice," he spat. "I lived here." She shot him a wry look.
"Sherlock, we all know your definition of 'nice' does not align with the rest of the world's," she sniped, thinking back to his dingy one-bedroom in Edinburgh. He ignored her and flopped onto the couch.
"Ah, it is good to be home," he sighed contentedly.
She smiled to herself at his excitement and began examining the photographs placed on the mantel. Practically all of them were of the famous crime-solving duo, Holmes and Watson - it was almost like some sort of shrine to the past. For most of them, Sherlock wasn't smiling, but that was to be expected. He would never smile just because he was getting his picture taken. John, on the other hand, looked like a relatively happy man. At least, he was able to muster up a grin at Christmas time. He was short, but not too short, and had thick blond hair. It would appear his fatal flaw was an addiction to jumpers. The elderly woman lurking in the background of the photos had to have been Mrs. Hudson. She smiled to herself. The landlady looked sweet.
Absentmindedly, she tried to imagine who the other people in the pictures were. There was a mousy brunette who looked perpetually nervous. She was in the Christmas picture, so she must have been fairly good friends with the two. Ainsley noticed her smiled looked a little forced in that photo, probably because of something Sherlock said. A man with salt and pepper hair appeared fairly often. He looked vaguely official in his spotless suit. Maybe he worked at Scotland Yard, she mused.
"I have to say, the fact that John still hasn't disposed of my things is a bit concerning," Sherlock frowned, eying the boxes filled with syringes and test tubes.
"At least you know you're missed," she pointed out, picking up another picture. She chuckled to herself at the sight of him in a deerstalker. "Did you actually wear this?" At the speed of light, he had moved to look over her shoulder.
"I wore it once," he sneered. "Some paparazzi turned up at the site of a case and I needed a disguise."
"And you chose this?" she cackled, raising an eyebrow at him. "Sherlock, it's a hat; that hardly constitutes a disguise."
"It was the only option," he insisted. She smirked.
"No," she taunted. "I think you just wanted to look really cool and dramatic, with that turned up collar and fancy hat-"
She was interrupted by someone slamming the door very, very forcefully.
"Right," a furious voice growled. "Who the hell are you, and what the fuck are you doing in my flat?"
"Shit," Ainsley breathed. It would appear John didn't recognize Sherlock with blond hair and thought they were actual criminals. Slowly, she spun around to face him, expecting to see the man in the pictures.
Instead, she found herself looking down the barrel of a gun.
A/N: Cliffhanger! (Kind of.) Ainsley meets John! (Kind of.) What do you think of the prologue? It will get more interesting later, but it's always hard to write the beginning of a story. I think I'll start doing some chapters from Ainsley's perspective, like this one. Would you want to read that? Review, please!