"What the flying fuck was that?" John Watson demanded, sinking into the plush seating of their private sleeper compartment.
"Murder on the Orient Express?" Sherlock smirked mischievously.
"Mycroft, that bastard! I should have known. First class tickets… the Orient Express... all expenses paid… Oh, by the way, while you're there, would you mind apprehending an international assassin who's hiding on the train?" He scowled. "Don't look at me like that, you could have been killed!"
"I hate to say it…" Sherlock wrinkled his nose, moving towards the Dom Perignon resplendent in its silver ice bucket, "but it was thoughtful of him."
John was about to reply, but instantly forgot what he was saying as Sherlock deliberately and provocatively popped the cork. Its tiny bubbles spilled quickly and suggestively down the front of the bottle.
He had three thoughts: firstly, that was wasteful; secondly, he'd never seen a bottle of champagne opened so filthily; and thirdly, how had he never known that Sherlock could do that with a champagne bottle?
"It's our honeymoon, you're not supposed to be engaging in anything dangerous or reckless. You promised," he continued undeterred as his lover moved towards him, two glasses in one hand.
"Oh, I don't know about that." Sherlock smiled, brushing his wet lips lightly across John's collar bone. "Permission to climb on board?"