Later that evening a window was cracked open, letting the curtains move with the gentle breeze.
Somehow John and Sherlock had made it back to the bed.
Bathing in pale moonlight were two very sated and sore bodies.
Spread out like two starfish on the blood red satin, they smiled lazily in post-coital bliss.
They were about to drift off to sleep when John's mobile binged and started to blink.
It was a text from Lestrade:
"Merry Christmas boys. Hope you're getting ready for Boxing Day."
The next morning they found themselves on their knees in front of the sofa. Legs spread, hands handcuffed behind their backs.
Greg paced up and down the length of the room. He was quite impressive in nothing but his usual coat and unusual biker boots.
Sometimes he would quote embarrassing situations from the past year's crime scenes, and repay by giving them a whip with his belt.
This was recreational scolding if ever there was one. In the end it really was a bit unclear if Lestrade wanted them to behave or mis-behave.
Either way, pre-cum already formed at his tip in beads.
Sherlock drooled around his red gagging ball.
John giggled, more excited than bemused.
"Enough of that", Greg said, whipping the doctor's already burning buttock.
"It's time for business. Now: brace. And bend..."