#sherlock holmes pub

[famousinuniverse]

Sherlock Holmes Pub, London, United kingdom: The Sherlock Holmes is a Victorian-themed public house in Northumberland Street near Charing Cross railway station and Trafalgar Square which contains a large collection of memorabilia related to the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. The original collection was put together for display in Baker Street in London during the Festival of Britain in 1951. Wikipedia

[holmesoldfellow]

"Sherlock Holmes" Pub and Restaurant ("Шерлок Холмс" паб і ресторан) in Kharkiv, Ukraine

[frothytundra]

Churchill Square at Night

As a follow-up to my previous post, and with thanks to Jeremy Nickaruk for the inspiration, I went back to Sir Winston Churchill Square this evening in order to take these pictures. As you can see, the Moon Garden light show by Lucion is quite lovely. The colours in the domes change every few minutes and I saw them purple, red, and orange. It surprised me to realize that as the model railway…

[blueintimeart]

Holmes after he gets home from sending that guy home in a cart :)

ID in alt.

[microwavablefork]

actually cannot get over how infatuated i am with sherlock & co’s portrayal of sherlock

[werrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcat]

Happy international women's day!!

Baker Street girls are chilling at the local bar (maybe owned by Elizabeth?)

Left to right, top to bottom: Eglantine Holmes (yes, Holmes sister again), Ann Wiggins, Irene Adler, Elizabeth Moriarty, Mary Morstan/Watson

[somethingintheforest]

i'm listening to 'Sherlock & Co.' and the characterisation is a bit too close to BBC for my liking but I'm definatly sticking around for the autism

[meandhisjohn]

Sherlock and traces of the H.O.U.N.D

[mistresscitrusslice]

This but I don’t think anyone’s calling Aziraphale a master detective anytime soon

What I love so much about the idea of a mystery plotline in Good Omens series two is that the writers so clearly looked at the archetype of a crime solving duo and said “no but what if Aziraphale, the poster child for the helpful yet easily impressed sidekick was actually the master detective while his gritty, cynical, crime noir companion couldn’t care less about the actual mystery and only stood to point out obvious clues to him like Dora the Explorer.”

[pier-carlo-universe]

Londra tra mistero e fascino: un viaggio nella città di Sherlock Holmes

Un itinerario tra storia, letteratura e locali iconici nella capitale britannica

Un itinerario tra storia, letteratura e locali iconici nella capitale britannica Introduzione Londra è una città che incanta con la sua storia, il suo fascino intramontabile e il perfetto equilibrio tra tradizione e modernità. Tra le sue strade avvolte nella nebbia, i palazzi vittoriani e i caffè illuminati dal crepuscolo, si nasconde un’anima letteraria che continua a ispirare viaggiatori e…

[whats-in-a-sentence]

"(...) He ended a string of abuse by a vicious back-hander which I failed to entirely avoid. The next few minutes were delicious. It was a straight left against a slogging ruffian. I emerged as you see me. Mr. Woodley went home in a cart. (...)"

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[literarylondonhq]

We Sold Out!

Obviously tickets. Never principles! A lovely sell out crowd on today’s #edinburghLondonLiteraryPubCrawl. @thepleasance @edfringe

[pretty-hills-i-die-on]

See, we SAY that Watson is better at interacting with people but let’s not forget The Solitary Cyclist.

Sherlock: This girl says that a mysterious man has been following her on her bicycle when she goes out. I’m busy with another case so you, Watson, will go to the town and gather information.

Watson: Sure thing, Holmes, you can count on me.

Two days later.

Sherlock: Ok, what did you find?

Watson: The man exists and he lives at this certain house.

Sherlock:

Sherlock: And…? What does he look like?

Watson: I couldn’t just randomly approach him, that would be rude and weird.

Sherlock: What does his house look like?

Watson: I couldn’t just snoop around his house, that would be rude and weird!

Sherlock: What is his name?

Watson: I can’t just ask a random person their name! That would be rude and weird!

Sherlock: Did you do anything else apart from polite observation?

Watson: I went to the pub and asked direct and obvious questions, it turns out there was a scandal around that man a few years ago.

Sherlock: Ah! Now we’re talking! What was it?

Watson: I couldn’t pry, that would be rude and weird.

Sherlock: …

Sherlock: Right…

When they go back to the town together.

Watson: *Peacefully resting in their hotel room at night*

Sherlock: *bursts in with a black eye, bloody clothes and several bruises* Hellooooo!

Watson: OMG Holmes what the hell happened to you?!

Sherlock: You’ll never guess what. I approached the man, snooped around his house, and asked prying questions at the pub. I subsequently got beat up at said pub but that was unavoidable I’m afraid. All in all, you can safely say that I was extremely rude and inexcusably weird. BUT, important detail, I now know who did the crime

Watson: The man’s a genius!

[aizawashuichi]

Mary waiting for Watson at home and he's just like "THANK GOD fucking FINALLY my awesome and incredible best friend Sherlock Holmes, this BEAUTIFUL specimen of a man, was disguised as old drug addict in this pub I was sent to, so I can get my patient home, and now that that's done, I can fuck off and go with him because I literally couldn't ask for a BETTER way to spend my night"

[foxaftershocks]

Safe and Sound (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)

Synopsis: When you're in trouble, there's only one man you call. And he always answers.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: some mentions of violence, creepy men

You wish you could have said that you’d called Sherlock. He’d be awake, of course he would, and he most likely would be able to help you. If he picked up. But your impulse was never to call him when you needed something. Or, more importantly, when you were in trouble. 

You always called the other Holmes brother when you needed help. 

“This is hardly an ideal time,” Mycroft said into your ear.

“Mycroft,” you whimpered, “I um…”

“What is it?” he sighed.

“I know this isn’t exactly ideal but Carolyn went off with this guy she knows and now I’m here alone and some guys are… I just feel… They keep looking over at me and shouting and I’m not sure if I leave if they’ll stay here or follow me and I… sorry, I know this is a pain but…” you rambled, trying to get out the words you needed to say.

“Stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way,” he said.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He hung up but you saw when the CCTV camera turned towards you. You hunched in your seat, fingers curling around the empty glass in front of you. Your eyes darted over to the group of men, drunk and loud. One leered over at you. You looked away as quickly as you could, going back to considering the ice melting in your glass. 

The door opened, cold air sweeping into the pub. You pressed back in your seat, not risking looking up and inviting more attention on you.

Someone slid into the booth across from you.

“This is a rather depressing place,” Mycroft said.

You looked up, feeling yourself relax a fraction of an inch. He was gazing around at the pub, nose wrinkling in disgust. And despite the late hour, he was still dressed impeccably, the way he always was, not a hair out of place. 

“Don’t bother, mate. She’s being a prick tease,” one of the men from the big group called over.

He didn’t bother responding, turning his eyes back to you. You released the glass, your knuckles aching from how tightly you’d been gripping it. 

“It’s Carolyn’s local,” you said, keeping your voice soft, “she wanted to grab a drink so I met her here.”

“And she left you alone?” he asked.

“I told her it was fine,” you replied.

“It’s two in the morning,” he said, soundling less than impressed. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, looking down at the fingers twisting together in your lap.

“I’m not-” He cut himself off in frustration before he softened his voice, “there is no need to apologise for calling me. I would rather you do that than have harm come to you. I’m angry at her for putting her selfish needs before your safety.”

“She really liked the guy,” you said, your only defence for your friend.

“Irrelevant,” he replied.

Your gaze darted up to him. He hardly looked happy, but if he was being honest, always a toss up with him, then it wasn’t you he was unhappy with. He reached across, moving the glass away from you, no barrier between the two of you.

“Come on,” he said, “I’m taking you home.”

His hand hovered over the small of your back as he led you out the door. You did your best to ignore the wolf whistling from the group of men who had been harassing you all evening. His hand landed on you, giving you the strength you didn’t know you needed.

You slid into his car, idling by the front door. He settled beside you, watching the door of the pub until you’d pulled away, leaving it behind. When he looked at you, you shivered, breath catching.

“You should reconsider your friendship with this Carolyn,” he said.

“She’s not so bad. She just really fancies that guy,” you said.

“You would never act so selfishly for someone you care about. Even for a man you may find yourself attracted to,” he said, dismissive, haughty, passing judgement without even knowing.

You stayed silent. Through your mind flashed all the plans you’d dropped when he’d called, all the events you’d left early when he’d asked, all the texts you’d left unanswered when so caught up in his presence. Not that you were going to tell him any of that. Unbearable embarrassment is all that would bring. 

“You don’t agree,” he said.

“I’ve not always been the best friend,” you replied with a small shrug.

He considered you for a moment, eyebrows drawing together. You looked away, staring out the window as the night drenched streets rolled past. He shifted but didn’t say anything more.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said when the car had stopped in front of your building.

“You don’t have to,” you said, voice quiet.

“My duty is not done yet,” he said. 

“Okay.”

He followed you up the stairs to your door, hand lingering on the small of your back. His touch was burning through your coat and shirt. Your hands were shaky as you tried to unlock your front door, not used to him touching you so much. His hand closed over yours, steadying it as he inserted the key into the lock.

“Thank you,” you said.

You stepped away from him, into your flat, turning to look at him on the other side of the door, still in the hall. 

“Duty done,�� you said, “sorry for calling you so late.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said.

“Why?” you asked, “I thought you didn’t do caring.”

He was staring at you like you’d asked an incomprehensible question. Sighing, you shook your head.

“Never mind. Thank you,” you said.

You closed the door on him before he could say anything. You stepped away from the door, wondering if you’d messed the whole thing up. It was possible he was going to go home and realise he had been acting out of character and was never going to help you again. 

You flung the door open.

“Wait,” you called, only to find him only about a step back from the door, pretty much exactly where you left him.

“I’m waiting,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I do want you to explain why you’re glad I called you,” you said.

“Perhaps we should discuss this inside,” he said.

You glanced to your neighbour’s front door then nodded your head. He didn’t bother looking around your cramped flat, as if he already knew what it looked like. It wouldn't surprise you if he did. He was known for his surveillance skills. Stalking, some might say. Still, it made you feel safer to know he was watching you.

“I believe you had a question,” he said, turning to look at you, both hands clasped on the head of his umbrella.

“Why were you glad I called you tonight?” you asked.

“Your safety matters to me,” he said.

“Why?” you asked.

“I find myself feeling rather protective over you,” he replied.

“Why?” you asked.

“You do seem to enjoy asking questions like a child,” he said.

“I want you to expound on your reasoning,” you said, “better?”

He raised an eyebrow at you. Rolling your eyes, you brushed past him towards the kitchen. You flicked the kettle on, craving your cup of bedtime tea. He watched you.

“Do you want one?” you asked.

“If you’re offering,” he said.

“I am,” you replied.

Pulling down the mugs from the cupboard, you turned your back on him. Under his scrutinising gaze you were finding yourself feeling jittery. It was hard to keep yourself together when you were around him. Especially when he was finally answering some questions.

Especially when the answers were making your heart flutter.

Placing the mugs down on the counter, you took a deep breath before turning to face him again. He’d drawn closer without you noticing. You froze, not sure what to do now. He took another step closer. 

“The thought of those men hurting you made me consider the torture I would put them under in retribution,” he said, “I got very creative.”

“Oh,” you said, not sure what to say to that. But the thought did make you tremble. You couldn’t tell if it was from fear or from arousal. Maybe a bit of both.

“You should know your continued wellbeing is important to me,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me why?” you asked, voice soft, looking up into his face.

“Despite my better judgement, I’ve found myself caring for you,” he said, voice deepening in a way that made you feel breathless. 

“I thought you didn’t allow yourself to care for others,” you said, “I thought caring was a weakness.”

“It is,” he replied, sounding frustrated about it.

“But you’re doing it anyway,” you said.

“I find myself enjoying it,” he said, fingertips brushing over your cheekbone.

You shivered from his touch.

“Even if it’s a weakness?” you asked.

“It’s difficult to remember it’s a weakness when it feels so lovely,” he said.

You tilted your head up towards him, lips parting, an offering you hoped he took. His eyes were taking a leisurely path over your face. The expression on his face had softened, the danger gone as he gazed down on you. He took his time, lingering in places that had you heating under his gaze.

“I’m truly hoping you feel similar to me,” he murmured, “otherwise this will be excruciating.”

“I suppose it depends on what type of caring you’re talking about,” you said, voice equally soft.

“The kind where it wouldn’t be a burden to share a life with you. The kind where I wonder what you’re doing at all points of the day. The kind where I’d quite like to kiss you now, if you’d allow it,” he replied, head dipping towards you.

The whistle of the kettle was loud as it broke into your little bubble of conversation. You jumped, breathless and wanting in ways you hadn't known were possible. Turning away, you pulled the kettle off the stove. Mycroft dodged out of the way as you brought the steaming kettle over to the counter with the mugs, pouring the water in. 

His hands landed on your waist, turning you once the kettle was no longer in your hands. He pressed you back against the counter, pinning you there, so sure in his movements. 

“Mycroft,” you whispered.

“Why did you call me to come look after you?” he asked.

“Because I knew you would,” you replied.

“I’m sure others would have,” he said.

“Maybe, but they’re not you,” you said.

“And that matters because?” he asked.

“I feel safest with you.”

He let out a soft breath, not smiling exactly, but looking calmer, like you’d settled things in his mind. 

“No one will keep you as safe as I will,” he said.

“I know,” you said, certain of it. He’d proven it time and time again that he was always going to prioritise your safety. He always helped you when you asked. He always answered your phone calls.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“Please,” you said.

His lips were slow to descend onto yours, kissing you with an intensity that stole your breath. Whimpering, you curled your arms around his neck. His hands were still on your waist, pinning you to the counter, pressing forward. You’d never felt so alive, nor so safe, as you did in his arms. 

He groaned, kissing you deeper, pressing you harder against the counter. He seemed unable to help himself, the loss of control the sexiest thing you’d ever experienced. His hands slid around your waist, pressing into your spine, arching you into his body. You moaned into his mouth, muffled, fingers curling in his hair. The sound he made, a low growl in his chest, was going to be burned into your brain forever more.

And you were sure every time you revisited it you’d be flooded with the heat of desire just as you were now. 

“I will always take care of you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I know,” you said.

He kissed you again, as if unable to stop himself. You liked this version of him, the one that seemed to be less in control due to you. You felt powerful. Dragging him closer, fingers tightening in his hair, his groan was filthy. You wanted to keep hearing it. 

You forgot about the tea until the next morning, finding it stone cold, still in the cups on the counter.

[anmaje]

I have so many Thoughts about S&co Sherlock Holmes, so have my headcanons:

- He was raised, at least partially, by his grandparents. Maybe by the french, maternal grandmother(NAVA). His oldtimey poshness is wonderful, but I can only explain it with some oldmoney, eccentric pensionist giving him a weirdly free, yet emotionally constipated upbringing.

- The houseplants of 221b and a are in pristine health because of him.

- He doesn't have any actual diagnoses. This is basically canon, but I'm putting it on here anyways. He doesn't, but Mycroft does. It's the classic instance of the more "severe case" or "more affected" sibling getting the help they need. And the symptoms of the other "less affected" sibling are overlooked. He also self medicates, which makes sense if he doesn't have access to prescription meds.

- He only wears clothes that fit. Oversized or skinny styles are the inventions of Satan himself. They're straight from sensory hell, and Sherlock agrees with me. He's very picky with fabrics too, preferring natural to synthetic. He detests wool against his skin though, so he wears tights, or long underwear beneath wool trousers in winter. He also gets a lot of clothes adjusted or made by a tailor(Who also did his grandparent's tailoring).

- He shaves his legs and armpits aswell as his face every day.

- If you ask him about his sexuality/gender identity you'll get a "that's none of your business". If John asked him, he'd get a "labels limit the vast expanse of the human experience". In truth he doesn't fucking know, it's weird and muddy, like the rest of his identity. He's read every book on the subject, watched so much porn, had a lot of one night stands, but ultimately comes up with: sex and relationships get in the way of my work, so I'll ignore that. Gender is a social construct, so I get to decide what a man is. And I'm queer, I guess.

- Dogperson

- He plays Mendelsohn for John, like in the canon. Not because John has asked him to(John doesn't know who Mendelsohn is), but because he's made a careful study to garner John's reaction to different composers. He's been doing the same with Mariana, and is slowly but surely honing in on Mozart. Both of these composers bore him, but he doesn't care when it's for his friends <3

- Despite not liking to dance (solitary cyclist part 2), he's very good! He was forced to do ballet and ballroom dancing as a kid. He's mustering up the courage to ask Mariana to dance salsa with him on their next pub escapade, but he always puts it off.

-FRECKLES. A LOT OF 'EM.