AN: Hello fellow Sherlockians. I'm not sure if anyone has already done something similar to this…I know there are other 'five times' so this is mine. I'm planning on making this a 6 chapter story, with a possible short sequel. So here we go.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.

Chapter 1: Every time

There is something about this time of the year that makes John' s insides flip over. The light crunch of the leaves, as he steps over them, should be relaxing and not irritating. The distant outline of the hill, that has completely yellowed now, shouldn't anger the once very patient man.

It's raining. He used to love rain…well not exactly love, but it has never bothered him. It has even been pleasant taking a quiet stroll down the street in a rainy day.

And now, John thinks, quickening his pace with puddles splashing below his feet, that there is nothing special about it. Nothing special about autumn. He simply can't understand what fascinates people so much in this particular season.

For people, autumn is something spectacular: full of fragile colours and beauty. It makes them smile, it makes them happy… it makes them feel the whole wonder of life. It never does the same things to John, though.

For John it is dryness in the throat, stinging of the wind and the bitterness of his memories. Autumn means that another year is coming to an end. Another year without the familiar notes of the violin, heads in the fridge, experiments on the kitchen table or thumbs in their non-existent laundry. It means another space of 12 calendar months coming to an end without the so desired miracle…without his infatuating flat mate. His best friend.

The path that has become very familiar through the past three years, starts narrowing. He's almost there then. John allows himself a small sad smile as the dark stone appears into his vision.

He makes a skip, where he knows there is a hole, now well hidden under a colorful blanket of leaves. He doesn't know if he should feel proud or disturbed by the fact that he has memorized every small detail of the area.

John doesn't like autumn. He doesn't like it, because every autumn he loses another small amount of hope. Because it is a reminder to John, that he's hoping for something, that will not happen. Cannot happen.

He lowers the flowers to the ground. The same every year… every time.

"Hello, old friend." He mutters softly, straightening his composure.

Calloused fingers gently stroke away the drops, hitting the side of the headstone. He moves his hand right to the front…just to make sure. He sighs as his fingers run over the engraved 'Sherlock Holmes' yet again. Every time.

He doesn't know what he's hoping for anymore. He always avoids that question…just hopes and that is it. A quiet 'Almost three years…' comes out of his mouth and he shivers. He isn't sure if it's because of the crisp autumn air or from the feel of the words on his lips.

"I should stop hoping…" he says eventually, then laughs hoarsely at his own words. 'Useless sentiments' Sherlock would say. He rubs furiously at his eyes, before looking up. Gray clouds are covering the blue of the sky, blocking the rays of the sun.

This is precisely why John Watson hates autumn. He takes a deep breath, bids a silent goodbye to his dear friend and turns around. He stars walking back in the same direction he came from. It takes John a few minutes through his ragged breathing to realize that he is running. Every time.

He braces himself and inhales sharply. The smell of the rain is still fresh and strong to his nostrils. He frowns and continues to the road.

The good doctor clutches at the lapels of his jacket. It is cold today. Anybody else however, would find it rather warm for an autumn afternoon. But not John. Another shiver runs through his spine and he effectively buries his hands in his pockets, expecting the hired cabbie to arrive any moment.

Until then, he entertains himself with watching the multiple cars pass by in front of him. His mind wanders to another dull evening that is awaiting him at his new…old flat. The sounds of the horns are loud but he is actually grateful for it. It numbs out his thoughts for a while.

A sudden movement on the other side of the street catches his attention. He can't hear anything through all of the traffic noises, but he notices the shifting and then he sees it.

John jerks his head up at the sight of the tall, dark figure standing beside a street sign. His breathing quickens and he is struggling for air. John wants to call out, but all he can do is stare; his eyes wide in disbelief and mouth agape. Ella says it can happen to people who are grieving…who are in denial. But this is no hallucination. He blinks twice. John can recognize that elegant posture, the curly mop of hair…oh God that ridiculous coat. John could recognize them anywhere.

It seems like he has been staring for hours, which in fact were a few lucky seconds. And he too realizes it as out of nowhere a bus drives right past the man and comes to a halt.

A feeling of terror goes through John as he loses the man from his view. He shakes himself from his trance and strides across the street and to the other side. He ignores the angry and annoyed voices of some drivers, shouting something at him.

"Sherlock!" he goes for a shout, but it only comes out as a whimper. Hardly anyone could have heard him through all of the buzzing.

He looks around frantically for the man…for someone, for something. But he is alone. Not even a trace of his friend is left. John closes his eyes to recover from what happened. 'Must've imagined it…' he tries to assure himself, insecurely. He takes unsure steps along the lonely road, trying to clear his head.

"Sherlock…" he murmurs to himself, shaking his head. His voice is full of sadness and regrets. Every time.

AN: So should I continue? Let me know.