#classic holmes

[chazchaschad]

Ok go my sherlocks

[jonk-md]

My friend performed a Sherlock Holmes themed play, and they sent me one picture of them, where they were STRUTTING like the streets of London were a catwalk. So here is Holmes doing the very same.

[perregrin-of-1885]

Ronald Howard and Howard Marion-Crawford Holmes and Watson appreciation post cause not enough people love it

And of course

[solarotters]

Happy birthday sherlock holmes!

[forensiccountermeasures]

[coolcabinet]

Sherlock Holmes dating sim where you play as Watson send tweet

[anaki-boo]

everything is about John

[gentleman-detective]

I wrote this last night while complaining about the lack of Granada fanfic and sipping cheap wine. Idea from this post. 

Of all the cases we had encountered throughout the years, perhaps my most preferred were the ones in which my companion and I took to the countryside. The slower pace allowed Holmes’s mind to relax, and he relished in predicting the habits of each innkeeper and farmer. We pretended to be inconvenienced by cases that required us to leave London, but the change in scenery was often welcomed among us.

We walked the fields and trails as easily as we strolled along the city sidewalks of London. Holmes would lecture me on the different varieties of moss and their chemical compositions and perhaps even ask my professional opinion on its use in old medical remedies. I was satisfied in simply listening to my friend’s voice without interruption and helping the country-folk whose issues were often overlooked by London authorities.  

This case in particular had grabbed Holmes’s attention because of the Yard’s assurance that nothing was to be feared despite the citizens’ persistence that evil lurked among the townsfolk. The Yard was hardly to be blamed as the local authorities despised outside interference despite their incompetence. Legend told that the town was the most haunted in England. The lore originated with a fire that eradicated a wealthy family and their servants. Stories of their haunting over the town were told at every gathering and tavern. Thirty years later, isolated fires began occurring from seemingly no cause and killing or seriously disfiguring prominent individuals throughout the countryside. A letter was found at each scene, entirely blank except for the seal of the poor family who met the same fate so many years ago.

The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas J. Wessington arrived at our flat early one morning after catching the first train to London. This time, the seal was left on the door of the house, presumably as a warning. Her father had laughed at the matter, but Mrs. and Miss Wessington feared for their lives. Holmes had examined the seal for quite some time, testing the wax and studying the stamp under his magnifying lens before determining we must leave immediately.

With my walking stick in one hand and my other holding Holmes’s arm, we searched the fields overlooking the Wessington estate for any signs of footprints or other human life. Stopping within view of the front door, Holmes laid out the blanket he had wrapped around him and motioned for me to sit.

“We’ll rest here. We have just short of half an hour before Mrs. Wessington arrives and the advantage in height gives us a favorable view of both the stable house and the main entrance. You do have your revolver?”

I shot him a look but was contented with not asking why this was of importance. I was accustomed to receiving all the facts at the end of the case, when Holmes’s mind was clear and there was nothing more to do than sip whiskey and lounge by the fire.

I thought of the fire and our post-case relaxation that seemed so distant. The blanket did little to absorb the dampness of the ground or protect against the hardness of the earth. In this sea of grass animated by the chilled wind of the season, I longed for dryness and warmth. We want fires where they’re warranted and nature until it surrounds us. Everything in containment. 

Holmes leaned into me, resting the back of his head against my chest and letting his eyes flutter shut. His body blocked the wind and sent warmth through my chilled figure. I wrapped him in the excess of my coat, knowing he was prone to colds and appreciating the contact in which was normally absent on cases.

“Warm enough?”

“Mmm, yes. Recite to me the facts, if you will.”

I slid my fingers into his hair with the attempt of a soothing hand and fixated my gaze on the road leading to the estate. With his warmth enclosed against my own, I began.

“The first fire occurred in…”