Only, everything changes the next day.
It's Sunday and Lestrade calls at half-past seven with an urgent appeal for help with a serial killer who has the rather unpleasant hobby of shooting and then skinning his victims. They end up in the Yard by ten to eight. Lestrade hands them both cups of the NSY's disgusting coffee and lays out the information they've got so far, the details of the first two murders. Once he's finished sniping at Lestrade for not having called him after the first murder, Sherlock demands to see the crime scene. In the taxi they're both quiet, but it's not tense. It's just early and somehow things feel normal-ish, even if John still feels the deeper bond that he'd felt with Sherlock last night. They're best friends but physical intimacy does matter. Does change things. It's not just imaginary.
The case grows more complicated as the day goes, until finally they're crouched outside a warehouse on the south bank of the Thames with Lestrade and eight or nine back-up officers that Lestrade's commandeered from other cases. Technically they're not part of the breach, but they're right behind Lestrade. The signal is given and all hell breaks loose. Shots are fired and the next thing John knows, Sherlock is on his feet and sprinting past Lestrade's men. John shouts his name and runs after him, but he sees what Sherlock has seen: the short, wiry frame of what has to be Mark Davis, the suspect. He understands even as they're running: Davis rigged the warehouse to explode as a simple diversion while he was to make his escape, only Sherlock must have guessed that was his intention all along and had been ready. John catches up with Sherlock. Davis stops suddenly and turns, drawing a gun.
"Sherlock!" John barks and thrusts out an arm. Sherlock drops to his knees as the shot rings out. It comes so close to John's face that he feels the heat and instinctively hits the ground face first, though it would have been two seconds too late had Davis' aim been better.
"John!!" It's Sherlock's voice, frantic like he's never heard it before, not ever. He's stunned from the shock of the bullet passing so quickly and realising he nearly took it in the face but otherwise all right, and pushes himself over onto his back. Meanwhile Lestrade has caught up and Davis is already on his face in the south bank mud. Sherlock crawls the short distance over, bending over him. "John," he says again, urgent.
John is still catching his breath, but manages to speak. "I'm okay, Sherlock. I'm fine. He didn't hit me."
The look on Sherlock's face is almost frightening. It's as emotional as John has ever seen it, more so than when they were stuck in the tube car with the bomb, more than when Sherlock shot Magnussen. His lips are actually trembling. He's not touching John but his face is less than a foot away, eyes raking over John's face. He seems to be utterly lost for words.
"Er, Sherlock?" Lestrade gives a rather fake cough. He's kneeling over Davis, one knee pinning him to the ground. "You wanted to question this one?"
Sherlock jerks, as though he's forgotten anyone else is there. He sits back on his heels and gives Davis a look so venomous it could practically kill. "You," he spits. "Consider yourself lucky. If you had killed John Watson, you would not have got out of this alive." His eyes flick to Lestrade. "Question him yourself," he says shortly. "John and I are going home."
Lestrade looks as pole-axed as John feels. "What?" he demands. "Sherlock!"
"You've got him, what more do you want?" Sherlock retorts. "I'm not interested in this one. We're going home."
Lestrade looks at John, who can only shrug; he doesn't know what's got into Sherlock, either. "Fine, go," Lestrade says. "It was really you who led us here anyway, so yeah, we've got him. Thanks."
Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge this. He stands, holds out a hand to help John to his feet, lowers his voice and says, "You're all right?"
"Yeah, fine," John insists. "Really."
