I guess you sort of hate me. I know I would. I generally hate people who never update their stories, and I've been gone for such a long time. Almost two years. But now I'm back, with another Sherlock/Irene one-shot for you. I assume I did a Sherlock Holmes, my dear friends.
Eventually, Sherlock Holmes deleted things, persons and places from his precious mind-palace. If they didn't come to any use, why would he keep them? Sometimes, people who he thought were gone for good returned. And sometimes they didn't. Everything depending on the actual case he was solving at the moment.
He knew he would never delete Irene Adler. She was just as much a part of Sherlock, as Sherlock was of himself. She would escape his inner thoughts now and then, just as she had escaped him in real life. With a smirk, she would disappear for a while. Ten seconds, two weeks, six months. But she would sooner or later come back, as she always did. Like a wild tornado, she would storm into his fragmented heart, body and soul.
But as his best friend got married, and he simultaneously investigated a murder, he wanted to be left alone. But of course she had to turn up then, stroking his cheek. Smile a haggard smile. He rejected her and continued, knowing she would show up later. Whether he wanted it or not, as it always had been.
"Are you busy now?" A high pitched voice asked when he was back at Baker Street. He smiled.
"No. Not for a while."
"Good. I've missed you." She kissed him briefly; it could have been the wind itself since the window was open, and Sherlock reached out his arms, desperately trying to catch her, a memory, a lost love. She embraced him swiftly, and Sherlock could almost feel her scent, the smell of her expensive perfume. As if she was actually there, in his arms, and not only a hallucination.
"John's married."
"Hmm. I know."
"Of course you do dear."
"Have you ever fantasized about marriage?"
"We were never like that, Irene."
"I wasn't talking about us, I was talking about weddings in general! But it's nice knowing that you think about me when you're talking about settling down."
"Who would I otherwise marry?"
"Molly Hooper. I would marry Molly Hooper. Never mind, I think Greg fancies her." Irene giggled in a very Irene-unlike way. Sherlock grinned.
"I've never noticed that."
"Of course you have dear. I'm you. You're me. I'm a part of you, I'm just a memory. Everything I say or think is your thoughts and realisations." She sounded genuinely sad when she uttered those words, and Sherlock hugged her harder. But he felt how she started to pass into nothingness in his arms, like thick fog she glided through the room, and out of the open window. And his Irene Adler was no more. Of course she existed somewhere, and sometime. But Sherlock liked his reminiscence of her better, where she could never disappear from him completely. After all, there was nothing more left of her in Sherlock's life than the shattered pieces he had collected, saved in the bottom of his heart. The recall of her would always live on, steadfast and loyal. Not like the real Irene Adler, who was manipulative, daring and never would return to him, return to Sherlock. But of course, that was why he loved her. Loved the fragments. And that was why he could never let the memory of her go. Delete her.