She was like puzzle pieces, she was a mystery, a riddle he couldn't quite grasp. She wasn't one person to him; he saw fragments of her everywhere. In every woman that passed his way. And he could swear that she followed him, that she was his shadow and that she laughed at him because he couldn't see her when he turned his back. And she was there. He was certain.
Damaged and delusional. She had been right of course; a disguise is always a self-portrait. Sherlock Holmes had never thought about changing his life-style or personality, but he did know that people consider him… not very nice. A monster. A freak. He regretted some of his actions now and then, but didn't care enough to apologize. However, he wasn't perfect. The memory of her was carefully saved in the bottom of his heart, and was the only perfect piece of him. The only piece he could never regret. Sherlock didn't want to destroy that source to inner peace, so he never looked for her after the Karachi-incident. He was still convinced that the world would be rather meaningless without her living in it, and as he knew that she was out there, somewhere, and alive, he didn't feel an urge to see her again.
He loved her. With all his fragmented heart. He loved that he couldn't have her, that she was only her own and didn't belong to him. The thought of their first meeting, the thought of Irene Adler kept him alive. She would always be his secret.
They texted.
They loved each other, but accepted that they never would meet again.
Sometimes she wanted more, but he knew that he couldn't deal with the sentiment if they actually started seeing each other. Though, deep down, he wanted more too. But he never told her. He thought about her. He thought about them. He saw fragments of her everywhere, in every woman that passed his way.
His hand brushed against hers, but he never really gripped it.