When John Watson came home from his shift on Christmas Eve he found the flat lit and tidy, but seemingly abandoned. He sighed, shrugged and went to get himself a bath.
Bathed and redressed, he found his lanky lover leaning against the corridor wall, silken dressing gown nearly falling off his naked frame.
"I want to ask you something", Sherlock purred and led the way to the bedroom.
Their bed had been draped in satin, the same colour as blood.
The room was dimly lit, but John could still see the mistletoe hanging from the ceiling in generous bunches.
"If one twig of mistletoe grants me one kiss on the lips", Sherlock mumbled in John's ear, "What does 221 twigs grant me?"
"Let's find out", John breathed.
Before he knew what happened, his shirt no longer had any buttons.
That didn't matter. What mattered was cold satin against his back, a bottle of cinnamon lube and a very inquisitive berk.
When John was a child he often leapt out of bed at six on Christmas morning, not able to contain his excitement anymore.
Then there were the years when he couldn't be bothered to get his arse out of bed at all on Christmas morning.
This Christmas his arse spent Christmas morning hovering about 45 centimetres over the bed – being buggered.