Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Happy Birthday, Chrwythyn, love! This is just whipped up in a rush, so it's not much... and I hope you don't mind if I mixed up the current "Bolthole" prompt on Tumblr too. ^^''' I recently rewatched ASIP, so this is somewhere around that time. Oh, and sorry love, it's only half of it (probably) but my Muse is lazy these days.

Surprise

As much as Sherlock didn't want to admit it, Mycroft was useful sometimes. If only to ensure that, when his little brother appropriated an old bunker that had never been used for its actual purpose, everyone would look the other way. It wasn't like anyone else needed it, and Sherlock needed his web of dens...boltholes, better still call them boltholes, around London.

The life of a detective was full of unforeseen circumstances. Tailing someone taking way longer than expected. A disguise being seen through, as rare as that was. Occasionally (not since John was at his side, bless him), getting hurt enough that stopping and regrouping was the only option. Going back to Baker Street (or, worse, an A&E) could be a waste of time, energy, and mean losing whatever track he was following. Disappearing in the area for a nap, a quick change of clothes, or patching himself up was a much better option. And if for some reason (John's continuous string of girls) he couldn't stand home anymore, it was brilliant to have his pick of refuges already settled instead of picking a random hotel.

Despite his perfect planning for every conceivable situation, the sleuth would never have believed what that bunker would eventually witness.

John had left – again. Sherlock, in a fit of pique, had deleted whatever reason his flatmate offered this time. When Hopkins came, asking help about the gorish case of a burglar that evidently brought along at least one, if not more, dog trained to attack, the sleuth accepted immediately. John would regret missing the case.

Tracking the man took him no more than a couple of hours. The Irregulars had noticed a huge dog dragging a burlap bag around. Sherlock sighed, assuming the drugs some of them were still taking were responsible for the scared warnings that he was given, and the obviously overblown memories.

It was late afternoon by the time he let himself in the burglar's hideout. The man couldn't complain about being a victim of breaking and entering, could he? He'd find at least some of the loot, trap his quarry, and then call Hopkins. And maybe check on the poor dog before someone got in their heads to put him down for what he'd been ordered to do.

That plan went out of the window before he could even announce to the surrprised thief that his crimes stopped here . Hit by moonlight, the other man changed into...something. Something canine, sort of. He had no idea there were airborne drugs here.

The bite wasn't his imagination – at all. Sherlock fought wildly, but was the one thrown to the floor. He was going to die here. He should have not come alone. John – and his gun – would have subdued the...creature. A hand looking for a weapon, any weapon, he found a belt kicked under a dresser. He tugged it out, using it as an impromptu whip.

The other yowled and jumped away. Sherlock blinked, surprised. The buckle was bloodied, but with the awkward angle he'd hit at, he shouldn't have done so much damage. Before that...that could lunge again, Sherlock ran.

A victorious howl followed him. Perhaps Hopkins would consider coming to trap the burglar with a better equipped team. Maybe with help from the zoo. The not quite man probably thought he'd overcome a colleague. Why would he flee?