Collect
By Any Unborn Child
Irene Adler was a collector.
Not in the provincial sense, though. She didn't collect edible stars, amulets, scarves, jewelry, or anything that belonged in an antiques store.
No. The objects that she collected were not of the tangible sort, not something that one could carry on their person, if they did at all.
She collected hearts.
In the walls of her domain, a special room in her mind, she stacked small reminders of each stranger against the wall. There were no shelves, no altars in this place.
She did not ponder or peruse these reminders often. Call it predatory. Call it shallow. To Irene, to remember was to shed light on the fragments of yesteryear. She was simply too busy for that sort of activity.
There were times though when she cheated. When she would walk back home after a long day, blood still blazing through her body, there were times when she did look. It was never a long, lingering look – just a tiny peek, out of the corner of her eye.
Small antiquities dusted around the area – charms, mirrors, lipstick containers, chains, the kind of objects that could easily be forgotten and never really missed.
Other items had their own little corner of the room - they were quite cumbersome in size. Spiral lamps, picaresque paintings, entombing pictures, and an umbrella stand, "HRH" emblazoned, held their stature.
In many ways, these collectables were forthright and forgettable. The longer they stayed in the room, the more the memories that brought them in Irene's possession faded away.
To Irene, the words of one-time lovers, these passionate, dutiful meetings - they flickered like dust. As soon as the night disappeared, remnants of fault and pleasure fell within the midmorning sun's glare, and soon settled into nothing.
To Irene, it had been some time since she had collected something remotely interesting, something that stood the test of the dust that pondered and sat in waiting.
Not since Sherlock Holmes was gone.
She did not have anything resembling an object in the room for him. Oddly enough, there were many things about Sherlock that could be considered memorable. The way his eyes furrowed in concentration alone could have populated a whole other room of souvenirs and trappings.
It was for the best, though.
Sherlock Holmes was simply too memorable. To have a room dedicated to him, to what could have been, would be too much, too gaudy.
She collected many things, that Irene Adler.
Collecting hearts were one thing.
On their own, hearts had much to offer, but very little to nourish.
Collecting someone else, and carrying them with you, was another matter.