The last thing Sherlock remembered before his brain went off line was walking into his bedroom and seeing John standing by the window wearing nothing but a pair of black, leather motorcycle boots and red pants, holding a riding crop.
Somehow he ended up kneeling naked at John's feet, purring as he rubbed his face against John's bare thigh. Then there was caressing and moaning and the beautiful sting of the crop on bare flesh and sobs and heated flesh and thrusting and groaning and being held in John's strong arms, safe and loved, his mind peaceful, calm, and quiet.