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They seldom talk now.
Once, a library of words flooded out of Sherlock’s lips—deductions, demands, complaints—like the profligate fountains that once dotted Hyde Park. They don’t have that luxury now. Speaking dehydrates them and risks giving their position away to whatever predators—human or animal—are nearby.
When they speak, they usually sign, short minimal messages that often cut meaning to one or two simple gestures. It’s a sort of private code by now, with little resemblance to the BSL that was once its foundation. Sherlock imagines some linguist might find it an interesting study, if there were still such a thing as linguists.
The thought amuses him enough to sign it to John, who huffs a near-silent laugh as they ghost down the remnants of the M1, skirting burnt out wrecks where skeletons still sit sentinel at the wheels.
They seldom need to talk now. If John’s mind has never been able to follow Sherlock’s deductions, his intuition is honed to a razor’s edge, and he often knows what Sherlock plans as quickly as he realizes it himself. Once, tied on opposite sides of a concrete post, unable to hear or see each other, they nonetheless attacked their captors at the same moment, stealing a car (this was before gasoline vanished entirely) and squealing off into the night with laughter that reminded them both of the days when a serial killer was the worst of their worries.
Sherlock often thinks John is more at home in this world than he ever was in London. The sand, the danger, the focus. Keeping his team—even if that team is just Sherlock, now—safe and healthy. His eyes are rock-steady in the nest of wrinkles the sun and sand have given them both. When he shoots, he rarely misses.
In comparison, Sherlock is often too aware that he will never truly belong in this world. He longs for the days of long showers and texting, would give a great many things (but not one precious, irreplaceable thing) to be able to simply make a call and have food simply appear. His skin is tanned dark now, his hands rough with callous, and he is all too aware of how little he appreciated the value of a good pair of socks.
They are a study in contrasts, even now, even as they find themselves more and more acting as two halves of one organism rather than two different people. If there are few words between them, there are other ways of communicating. Often, as they walk, they brush against each other, the tops of their hands whispering I am here, you are not alone. In the dark, concealed in the remains of a building that will almost certainly not collapse tonight, they lie together, sharing silent kisses with the shadow of death in them.
One day, one of them might die, and then the other will die as well. It’s not something they ever discuss—it’s simply a truth as inevitable as gravity. They have outlived too many people, and will not endure the final loss.
For now, they lie in the lee of an overturned car, watching a brilliant sky that is, for once, clear and free of sand, and watch something that might have been a satellite or might have been a meteor slowly blaze across the sky, making its last descent towards a quiet planet.