Every time Holmes has laughed/chuckled
“Oh, that’s all right,” he cried, with a merry laugh.
“I really beg your pardon!” said my companion, who had ruffled the little man’s temper by bursting into an explosion of laughter.
Holmes laughed and threw his card across the table to the constable.
The instant he entered I saw by his face that he had not been successful. Amusement and chagrin seemed to be struggling for the mastery, until the former suddenly carried the day, and he burst into a hearty laugh.
“Didn’t I tell you so when we started?” cried Sherlock Holmes with a laugh.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” he cried, laughing.
“You see, Watson, if all else fails me I have still one of the scientific professions open to me,” said Holmes, laughing.
Sherlock Holmes and I looked blankly at each other, and then burst simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
“Here it is,” said he, laughing, and pointing to an open newspaper.
As I exhibited the empty box he leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.
Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.
“Well, really!” he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.
“I do not wish to make a mystery,” said he, laughing.
Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.
“Never mind,” said Holmes, laughing; “it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?”
“There’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!” said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more.
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he answered, laughing.
Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat.
“Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog,” said Holmes, laughing.
Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
“No, no. No crime,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.
A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him
“He seems a very amiable person,” said Holmes, laughing.
Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.
“Experience,” said Holmes, laughing.
“It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own,” said Sherlock Holmes, laughing.
Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“Very good, Lestrade,” said Holmes, laughing.
Holmes thought a little and then burst out laughing.
Holmes, with a laugh, passed his hand behind the child’s ear, a mask peeled off from her countenance, an there was a little coal black negress, with all her white teeth flashing in amusement at our amazed faces.
“The fates are against you, Watson,” said he, laughing.
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily
“I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness,” said Holmes, laughing.
Holmes laughed at my suggestion.
“With all our precautions, you see that we have cut it rather fine,” said Holmes, laughing.
He was quivering with silent laughter.
“The old shikari’s nerves have not lost their steadiness nor his eyes their keenness,” said he, with a laugh, as he inspected the shattered forehead of his bust.
Something in his tone caught my ear, and I turned to look at him. An extraordinary change had come over his face. It was writhing with inward merriment. His two eyes were shining like stars. It seemed to me that he was making desperate efforts to restrain a convulsive attack of laughter.
He was immensely tickled by his own adventures, and laughed heartily as he recounted them.
Holmes laughed good-naturedly.
Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them and laughed aloud.
He snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of laughter.
At last, however, on a wild, tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against the windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward fashion.
Holmes laughed at the young giant’s naive astonishment.
Holmes burst out laughing.
He laughed at my expression of dismay, and laid it upon the table.
Holmes put his finger on his lips, replaced his hand in his breast-pocket, and burst out laughing as we turned down the street.
He laughed at my bewildered expression.
Then he burst into a hearty laugh.
He burst into one of his rare fits of laughter as he turned away from the picture. I have not heard him laugh often, and it has always boded ill to somebody. (This line is so fucking funny when you’ve been sitting for an hour counting the number of times Holmes has laughed)
“Come, come, sir,” said Holmes, laughing.
He tossed it across with a laugh.
Holmes laughed good-humoredly.
He laughed heartily at my perplexity.
Holmes tore it open and burst out laughing.
“It won’t do, Watson!” said he with a laugh.
Holmes seldom laughed, but he got as near it as his old friend Watson could remember. (Yeah ok Watson)
Then, with the dry chuckle which was his nearest approach to a laugh, he tossed it over to me.
“I am a bit of an archaeologist myself when it comes to houses,” said Holmes, laughing.
Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.
He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.
Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits.
Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.
He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.
Holmes chuckled heartily.
I could see that Holmes was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and rubbed his hands together.
Holmes chuckled to himself.
Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight.
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands.
Holmes struck a match and held it to the back wheel, and I heard him chuckle as the light fell upon a patched Dunlop tyre.
He chuckled as he poured out the coffee.
Several letters were waiting for Holmes at Baker Street. He snatched one of them up, opened it, and burst out into a triumphant chuckle of laughter.
Once or twice he chuckled.
He held them on his nose, endeavoured to read through them, went to the window and stared up the street with them, looked at them most minutely in the full light of the lamp, and finally, with a chuckle, seated himself at the table and wrote a few lines upon a sheet of paper, which he tossed across to Stanley Hopkins.
He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.
Holmes chuckled and rubbed his hands.
Holmes pointed with a chuckle to one of these, a row of residential flats, which projected so that they could not fail to catch the eye.
My companion gave a sudden chuckle of comprehension.
“And you might add of the attempted murder of one Sherlock Holmes,” remarked my friend with a chuckle.
Holmes knocked out the ashes of his pipe with a quiet chuckle.I heard his dry chuckle as he turned away.
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