A/N: Title is debatable and may change, but mainly was inspired by the color of Sherlock's hair and eyes. It does not mean that Sherlock has been beaten, though he may look that way after chasing down someone in this chapter. I did not add the case sequence, because sadly I lack the amazing skill to write that out and really do not want to botch up the deductions of Sherlock. I would have to disown myself if I ever did that...

He had only meant to stay until he had received what he had been after all along; the seven percent solution of drugs that now coursed through his veins left his mind whirring either too fast or too slow, and for the hundredth time since he had started taking it, he wondered if this had gotten out of hand before firmly clamping down on the thought. Sherlock Holmes was above being hooked on things like this, he didn't have a problem and that was what lead to his doing this every so often (almost three times a week and steadily growing worse).

Stumbling haphazardly out of the building and into the alley, his clear eyes darted around nervously and studied his surroundings, finding a couple of people walking his way. It seemed they hadn't spotted him, honestly it seemed like they were more focused on one another than the doped up bystander slouched against the dumpster. The man ahead of the other had just started walking a bit faster when the other behind him drew out a gun from inside his jacket pocket. Sherlock's eyes began to analyze from the second the click of the gun rotating the barrel had started to shift.

'mid to late thirties- half Irish and not from town, no he's from an area further north of London- just arrived- eyes scrunched in an odd way, this is revenge, not for him, for someone else, sister? - Shift in his stance says drunk, eyes hazed, confirmed drunk-'

The first shot flew through the victim's shoulder and Sherlock jumped at the sound before three more were being buried into the helpless man. He did what he only knew to do at the moment with drugs crowding his mind and forcing him to start thinking erratically; he ducked behind the dumpster and hid. Breathing heavy and heart speeding like a jack rabbit, he knew he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He should have never come here! The drunk stumbled a bit forwards, having spotted the quick movement before hearing sirens- someone from the complex beside the alley had called the Yard, after having heard the multiple shots fired.

"Damn it all-" He fired one last shot, straight into the dead man's head, then ran from the scene, back down the way that he came. Sherlock without a seconds hesitation, ran as well. One-third of him told him to stay, the other two-thirds told him to keep running. He had drugs in his system, and though he had no weapon on his body he would be pinned as a likely suspect and a likely scapegoat for the killer to get off free.

When the case had went unsolved for days afterwords- the solution long gone from his system- Sherlock stood listening to the news of it with a ruffled air about him. The impudence that ran the so called 'brilliant men' of London's police force were nothing short of imbeciles! It irked him enough, that he had strode down to the alley himself to survey the scene just to spot all of the things they had missed for the hell of it. It was his walking around on the crime scene that a man with very faintly salt- flecked hair stopped him for questioning. He looked tired, worn down and on edge- but he stood tall and his eyes shone. Holmes didn't know how to react, it was the first sign of mild intelligence that he had seen in ages (besides his own family of course) and he suddenly began standing straighter, holding his head higher.

"Sir you cannot be here, this is a-"

"Crime scene." Sherlock finished for him, causing the man to tilt his head and eye him suspiciously. "I assure you I am no threat."

"Walking into a crime scene and nosing around makes you a potential threat. You can't be here."

"I know this. Did you miss the bullet casing kicked into this crack in the wall or did you just forget to mention them..."

The officer looked at him, a bit startled, eyes still trained on him as he bent to look. Sure enough, the casing to hold bullets was there- wet from mornings rain and night's chill- but there.

"I can also tell you, that you are looking for a man of five foot fifteen, has a drinking problem and lives out of town."

"And why should I believe that I'm not looking at the killer right now..."

Sherlock looked at him, baffled. "A man who has sunk his whole life into his job, stays late at his desk and tried desperately to make DI, should know a killer when he sees one. Do I look like a murderer to you?" He asked.

When the man stared at him, Sherlock smirked and walked up to him as he spoke again in his deep baritone voice. "I can help you catch him. I can give you every detail and description... the size of his shoes and the color of his coat... it may perhaps, even help you receive the promotion you so desperately wish for."

"What do you want for it." He stated. 'The man is no fool, this should be fun,' He thought. "To find him on my own of course. Let me work it out, find all of the evidence and track him down, and I will deliver him to you on a silver platter after I've solved it."

An odd silence followed, a couple of officers further down the alley stopped to look at the two with questions in their eyes. After being given such an offer, and being denied so long the position he wanted... the man caved.

"Alright."

Sherlock smiled devilishly, "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Lestrade."

Was it fair? Lestrade didn't seem to think so. He had received all of the spotlight for the case, and had gotten what he wanted... but the man who had done all the work, on one of the hardest cases he had been set upon, received nothing. After all of the thanking and congratulations had been dealt him, he slipped away from the Yard and made his way back to the last place he had seen Sherlock- beside the Bart's academy while he was people watching.

"Sherlock," He huffed, spotting the rake thin man on the park bench.

"Ah, Lestrade. Seems you've been promoted-"

"Shut up and listen to me."

That caused the man to frown, but Greg straightened his back to continue. "What you did to solve the case... it was nothing I've ever seen before," He lifted a hand to silence Sherlock when he was going to interrupt, "I want to ask you... if we run across a case like this again, if I could contact you for assistance."

"You have hundreds of people-" Sherlock heard himself saying.

"But none of them could tell me what you could. None of them could see or do even half of that... I can offer you cases to solve, but it requires two things from you."

Sherlock stiffened at that, eyes growing cold. They always wanted something, it was never just give. There was always a catch...

Greg handed him a phone, brand new and never used. He knew instantly who had filled the new DI of London in on him. 'Mycroft...' "Find a good flat and clothes, and quit the drugs. I can't have you trouncing about the Yard to meet me over a case with toxins in your veins."

It was silent for so long after he had finished speaking, that Greg was worried that he had destroyed his chance to save the man. But Sherlock rose to his feet, looking down at the phone before pocketing it. It was his chance to be something no one else ever was and probably never would be. The drugs had gotten him by when he thought he couldn't live for the dull world around him closing in. Now there was a hint of color, a glimpse of hope- and he was on it's trail. He was finally in the right place, at the right time.

After quite a few cases, Sherlock had moved from his old complex to the flat marked 221B Baker Street ,with the compliments of Misses Hudson- a woman whom he had agreed to help on the case of her husband. His wardrobe shifted back into the expensive brands he fit in so well.. his black curls returned to their natural luster, and his ice blue eyes held no haze of drug use, and things had remained that way for several years now. On one odd day, he was in the lab at Bart's working with chemicals... waiting for Molly to bring coffee when the door opened- his life ended, and began at that precise moment...

"Hmm... a bit different from my day..."

John has arrived! Have you ever stopped to think, what if Sherlock had turned that case down, or had never met Mike Stamford? The man could have forgotten, he could have not said a word, but no- he took it upon himself to introduce them. I dedicate this chapter to that man, we of the John and Sherlock-shipping fandom adore and thank you, Mike Stamford!