A/N: Not necessarily a slash fic, but all of you Sherlock/John shippers can feel free to analyze as I'll admit to there being undertones.
Upon entering the hotel, Sherlock dashed across the lobby to the elevators. It was imperative that he reach the ninth floor.
No, elevators are too slow. Given the urgency of the situation he'd have to take the stairs. Pushing through patrons, he ran to the stairwell.
Bounding up the stairs two at a time, he thought about the consequences of the action he was about to take. If he went through with this he would reveal himself to be still alive. For John's safety he would have gladly remained dead, but the present circumstances had forced his hand.
Reaching the ninth floor, Sherlock strode down the hallway; he was looking for room 916. That's where he'd find John, according to the receipt he had found back at the flat. Approaching the door in question, Sherlock could hear his friend moaning. Acting under the assumption that the door was locked, Sherlock kicked it in with force.
"What the bloody hell is the matter wi–? Oh shit."
"John!"
"Sh-Sherlock? But… but you're dead!"
Sherlock calmly glanced over the scene - his friend's tousled head poked through the bed sheets, his face was pale. And next to him, or rather on top of him, was a red-headed woman who quickly made to cover herself. It was true!
"YOU GOT MARRIED?"
"Sherlock, I can explain. It's that –"
"You got married and you didn't tell me?"
"You were dead!"
"Oh, don't deny that you visit me for a chat every other Wednesday."
"You've been spying on me at your grave?"
"Obviously."
"You're sick!"
Dismissing the conversation, Sherlock looked over at the woman. Mid thirties; her hunched posture as she covered herself with a sheet indicated that she worked at a desk most of the day. Her nails were uncared for, obviously not a secretary or an office worker. Taking into account the majority of desk workers John having dated being teachers, Sherlock decided to take a leap and assume that this was the case. As she had obviously washed thoroughly for this special night, there were no stains or trace elements to support his hypothesis and her lack of clothing left much to his imagination. Her clothing, a wedding dress, was crumpled in the corner across the room; discarded by John in the throes of passion no doubt. All in all, Sherlock realized he was right in coming here.
Shoving his hand into his coat pockets, he coolly turned to face John.
"This will never do."