Nonplussed

Rated M for violence, language, and implied adult themes (including slash)

A/N Yes this is yet another Return of Sherlock post TRF. Yes it is Johnlock, because I can't help myself. This is my second attempt at fanfiction, and reviews and constructive criticism are devoutly to be wished. In fact, I have tried to use the helpful criticism that I received from my first fanfic to improve this one. To begin with I will be uploading chapters separately for easier reading (thanks to firevithrol for the advice.) Hopefully I will receive more helpful advice to keep improving my Work.

Disclaimer. Obviously I own nothing but my imagination and this laptop computer. Holmes, Watson and almost all the other characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and more recently to the BBC and S. Moffat and M. Gatiss.

Nonplussed

Nonplussed. Adjective: 1. (of a person) Surprised and confused so much that they are unsure how to react. see also John H. Watson. The dictionary doesn't actually state see John H. Watson, but it should. My picture should go with the definition…

Chapter 1 Moving On

As usual, my day started in the middle of the night with a horrible dream. As usual in my nightmare, I stood helplessly and watched Sherlock die horribly. This dream was only remarkable in that I got to relive being shot in Afghanistan and lose my best friend in the same dream. Chalk one up for efficiency.

As usual, I was too miserable to go back to sleep, so at 0230 hours I went jogging. At 0420 hours, I returned to 221B Baker Street sweaty and tired. I didn't have to try to be quiet because Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her cousin.

The morning proceeded in its usual boring routine. Shower. Get dressed. Go downstairs. Make tea. Put the extra tea mug away. After three years I still pull out two mugs? Really? Pathetic. Make toast. Drink the tea. Take two bites out of the toast. Throw the rest of the toast away. Pack up the briefcase and head to class or work depending on which day of the week it is.

Today was Wednesday. Oh how apt, Wednesday's Child is Full of Woe. Wait I've moved on. The world thinks I am happy and content with my busy life. No woe for me.

Smile for all the nice people John.

So I was at Uni all morning. Only five months until my doctorate in Forensics is complete, whoop-de-effing-do. Oops, negative thinking slipped out, again. Think positive and all your troubles will disappear. Don't forget to smile.

After class, I went to work at the yard from 1400 to 2000. Of course I was stuck tutoring, I mean working, with Anderson again. Oh well it's better than going back to the empty flat. Yes my life is so boring that I count working with Anderson as a positive.

Time for my patented fake smile. Just tilt my head a bit, and force a grin. No one can tell it's fake.

I spent a couple of hours at the scene of a supposed suicide. However the apparent weapon was a 12 gauge shotgun with a 76cm long barrel. The suicide victim, so-called, was a petite woman whose arms were only 56-757 cm long. I pointed out that it was impossible for her to shoot herself in the head with the shot-gun, but Detective Inspector Dimmock said that her note confirmed the suicide. It was truly unfortunate that Greg Lestrade was busy with another case right now. I enjoyed working with him; he was a professional.

"You know Detective Inspector Dimmock, not all suicide notes are authentic," I stated rather harshly. "We need to gather and check all the evidence. We need to analyze this note to determine whether the victim actually wrote it. Then we need see if it all makes sense." I received pitying looks from the team. I flashed them my best fake smile.

I could hear their thoughts. "Oh, poor Watson, he still believes in Sherlock Holmes." "He won't believe that Holmes was a fraud." "He can't believe the 'note' that Sherlock left." Everyone ignored the evidence that I published showing that Holmes was a real deductive genius and that Richard Brook was a fraud. Bloody idiots.

Well I still thought it was a homicide scene, and insisted that Anderson gather evidence accordingly. Anderson was seriously annoyed and accused me of trying to be Sherlock Holmes. I accused him of trying to be incompetent.

Then I apologized. "Sorry Anderson, you don't have to try to be incompetent. You have completely mastered incompetency. Now since I'm overseeing forensics on this crime scene, we'll collect and analyze all the evidence. Then and only then can anyone make the right deductions," I finished.

I ignored the looks and the mutterings about "someone who thinks he's a detective." Keep on smiling John Watson.

I rather enjoyed bickering with Anderson. It was like arguing with Harry when we were kids; the pointless arguing helped blow off steam from other, more serious emotional fires.

Unfortunately all good things come to an end and I had to secure the evidence and head back to our flat. Shite. I mean my flat.

Back to the flat, for another fun-filled evening of pretending to have a life. Naturally it was pouring rain, and naturally I could not get a taxi. As I recall, Sherlock had always been able to hail taxis magically out of thin air.

I slogged all the way back to the flat in the deluge and let myself in. Mrs. Turner had evidently stopped by and left a light on in my flat. She probably left me some food too; she and Mrs. Hudson don't think I eat enough. They shared an ongoing campaign to make me eat. Dull.

I imagined Sherlock saying, "Eating is dull". I could hear his deep voice in my head. I could visualize his pale skin like fine china and his dark hair with its unruly curls. Let's not forget the eyes, the eyes that changed color with his many moods. His eyes that varied from bright blue and to sliver and even green. I think tonight they would have been grey like the rain.

Oh yes, I have finally admitted it, at least to myself. Indeed, I have had the bad taste to fall in love with my asexual, sociopathic flat-mate, but only after he was dea.., gone. God, I'm such a loser.

I slowly climbed the stairs, I always dreaded the lonely nights. I would of course end up roaming the streets in the middle of the night. I usually slept a couple of hours until the nightmares intervened. Then I invariably left the flat to walk, sometimes to jog.

Of course, sometimes I couldn't fall sleep at all. Often, the flat fairly echoed with silence. Then the sheer emptiness of the flat without Sherlock drove me out early on my expeditions to nowhere.

By now, I know London, nearly as well as Sherlock does. Note to self, please use the past tense John; he is dea..., gone. Time to move on. I felt a tear nearly escape my eye. This is me, moving on. Brilliant. I took a deep breath and moved on up the stairs.

I entered my flat and began tearing off my sopping clothes. I hung the jacket up to dry. I threw my wet grey jumper and tee-shirt on the floor. In retrospect, I was lucky to still be wearing my water-logged jeans when I heard the tentative cough. I was not alone. Things sort of snowballed from there.

I looked up into the amused and slightly contemptuous eyes of Mycroft Holmes (the traitor). I stood shocked, holding one wet sock in my hand; I probably looked like Gollum with his fish.

I took a deep breath, ready to tell Mycroft (the dirty traitor) what I thought of breaking and entering, not to mention voyeurism. That's when I saw the apparition, Sherlock, smiling smugly in his old chair.

Now, I was used to imagining Sherlock alive, often in that very chair. In fact,I imagined him all the time. It was one of my dysfunctional coping mechanisms. I figured dysfunctional was better than nonfunctional.

I sometimes had lengthy conversations with imaginary Sherlock. It was all that was left to me. I had my memories and my daydreams of what should have been.

Nevertheless, I always, always knew it was just my imagination. I could always control it and make the imaginary Sherlock appear or disappear. However, this time he wouldn't go away. I blinked; he was still there. Not my imagination then? A bit not good, I was suffering from a fully developed visual hallucination.

"John." Said my hallucination. Wow, a complex visual and auditory hallucination. I was secretly impressed that I could develop such a life-like hallucination.

So it's finally happened, I have suffered a full psychotic break. That's more than a bit not good. I'll get a section. I'll rot in some institution, my mind rotting on psychotropic drugs. Better to leave now, and go join the homeless people.

My hallucination frowned and said "John." again. A repetitious hallucination, how dull. It figures I'd have a dull repetitious hallucination. Not so impressive after all.

"No." I said, and after that, I admit that I forgot to breathe. My hallucination stood up and looked worried; proof positive that this was unreal. The real Sherlock would never look that worried.

I wanted that hallucination to be real. I wanted it so bad that it hurt. Time to go Watson before your psychosis controls you. I executed a perfect about-face, threw open the door and ran out, slamming the door behind me.

I still hadn't taken another breath. Didn't someone say, "breathing is dull?" Unfortunately lack of breathing meant my vision became a bit blurry. This set the old snowball rolling.

In other words, I didn't see the stairs.

TBC

A/N I just made a few changes to Chapter 1 which somehow didn't come through during editing. In other words, i probably forgot to hit the save button. Anyway, thanks and please review. Virtual candy floss and kittens (or biscuits if you don't like candy floss) for all who send reviews.