English example sentences with "holmes"

Learn how to use holmes in a English sentence. Over 100 hand-picked examples.

Baffled by Sherlock Holmes' cryptic remarks, Watson wondered whether Holmes was intentionally concealing his thoughts about the crime.

Holmes went out of the room without being noticed by anyone.

I would like to see Mr Holmes.

Benson and Holmes analyzed the psychological effect of artificial insemination on parents.

Holmes is a great pipe man as well as a great detective.

You can always count on Holmes in any emergency.

Justin Bieber is more famous than Katie Holmes.

Basing his conclusion of guilt on deductive reasoning, Sherlock Holmes ratted out his own partner, Watson.

Good day. Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?

Mr. Holmes, you are very interesting to me.

And you, Doctor Watson and Mr. Holmes, interest me.

The family has problems, they interest Mr. Holmes.

Holmes and Watson, why do your problems interest me?

"I observed it when you entered the chamber," Holmes said.

Sherlock Holmes could deduce much out of the smallest details.

Sherlock Holmes is smoking from a calabash pipe.

While I was thinking over whether I should accept such strange apologies, Coutabay leafed through the book and read loudly and expressively: "While I was thinking over whether I should accept such strange apologies, Coutabay leafed through the book and read loudly and expressively: 'While I was thinking...' Holmes quickly snatched the volume from Coutabay's hands.

Boyle is the inventor of Sherlock Holmes.

The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker Street.

It is as impossible for man to demonstrate the existence of God as it would be for even Sherlock Holmes to demonstrate the existence of Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock Holmes had exceptional problem-solving skills.

Sherlock Holmes would have certainly been proud of you.

You'll never make a Sherlock Holmes out of me.

I'll never be another Sherlock Holmes.

Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm investigating the crimes". "Like Sherlock Holmes?" "Something like that".

"You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet," he said; "perhaps you would not care for him as a constant companion."

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Stamford, introducing us.

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me.

That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with. He was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult man to live with.

Sherlock Holmes used to beg for the use of the sitting-room, and I would retire to my bedroom. He always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these people are my clients."

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock Holmes had not yet finished his breakfast.

"What is it?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Have you read Gaboriau's works?" I asked. "Does Lecoq come up to your idea of a detective?" Sherlock Holmes sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he said, in an angry voice; "he had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill."

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.

I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention.

Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrows sardonically.

Sherlock Holmes approached the body, and kneeling down, examined it intently.

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.

It's all very well for you to laugh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You may be very smart and clever, but the old hound is the best, when all is said and done.

Sherlock Holmes led me to the nearest telegraph office, whence he dispatched a long telegram.

"You amaze me, Holmes," said I. "Surely you are not as sure as you pretend to be of all those particulars which you gave."

Holmes took a half-sovereign from his pocket and played with it pensively. "We thought that we should like to hear it all from your own lips," he said.

"The blundering fool!" Holmes said, bitterly, as we drove back to our lodgings. "Just to think of his having such an incomparable bit of good luck, and not taking advantage of it."

Holmes was engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin.

"Old woman be damned!" said Sherlock Holmes, sharply. "We were the old women to be so taken in. It must have been a young man, and an active one, too, besides being an incomparable actor. The get-up was inimitable. He saw that he was followed, no doubt, and used this means of giving me the slip."

I left Holmes seated in front of the smouldering fire, and long into the watches of the night I heard the low, melancholy wailings of his violin, and knew that he was still pondering over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.

"There's more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force," Holmes remarked.

The tremendous exertions which I have gone through during the last day or two have worn me out. Not so much bodily exertion, you understand, as the strain upon the mind. You will appreciate that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for we are both brain-workers.

"You do me too much honour," said Holmes, gravely.

"You remember the hat beside the dead man?" "Yes," said Holmes; "by John Underwood and Sons, 129, Camberwell Road."

I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your nerves.

I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

"And now comes the strangest part of the affair. What do you suppose was above the murdered man?" I felt a creeping of the flesh, and a presentiment of coming horror, even before Sherlock Holmes answered. "The word RACHE, written in letters of blood," he said.

Sherlock Holmes sprang from his chair with an exclamation of delight. "The last link," he cried, exultantly. "My case is complete."

"All this seems strange to you," continued Holmes, "because you failed at the beginning of the inquiry to grasp the importance of the single real clue which was presented to you. I had the good fortune to seize upon that, and everything which has occurred since then has served to confirm my original supposition, and, indeed, was the logical sequence of it."

"I guess you're going to take me to the police-station," he remarked to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character.

I could not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he stayed up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.

“Really, Watson, you excel yourself,” said Holmes.

"I presume that it is Mr. Sherlock Holmes whom I am addressing and not—" "No, this is my friend Dr. Watson."

Sherlock Holmes waved our strange visitor into a chair.

Holmes leaned back in his chair, placed his finger-tips together, and closed his eyes.

When Dr. Mortimer had finished reading this singular narrative he pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and stared across at Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes leaned forward in his excitement, and his eyes had the hard, dry glitter which shot from them when he was keenly interested.

Since the tragedy, Mr. Holmes, there have come to my ears several incidents which are hard to reconcile with the settled order of Nature.

Through the haze I had a vague vision of Holmes in his dressing-gown coiled up in an armchair with his black clay pipe between his lips.

Sherlock Holmes had, in a very remarkable degree, the power of detaching his mind at will. For two hours the strange business in which we had been involved appeared to be forgotten, and he was entirely absorbed in the pictures of the modern Belgian masters.

I remembered the case well, for it was one in which Holmes had taken an interest on account of the peculiar ferocity of the crime and the wanton brutality which had marked all the actions of the assassin.

Good heavens, Holmes! Are you sure of what you say?

Never have I seen a man run as Holmes ran that night.

“My God!” he whispered. “What was it? What, in Heaven’s name, was it?” “It’s dead, whatever it is,” said Holmes.

It was the end of November, and Holmes and I sat, upon a raw and foggy night, on either side of a blazing fire in our sitting-room in Baker Street.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name.

"He said that there were no traces upon the ground round the body. He did not observe any. But I did—some little distance off, but fresh and clear.” “Footprints?” “Footprints.” “A man’s or a woman’s?” Dr. Mortimer looked strangely at us for an instant, and his voice sank almost to a whisper as he answered:— “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound!”

The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street.

It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed.

I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him.

"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily.

My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson.

"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low voice. "What, then?" "It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror."

Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.

I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart.

Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India."

"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning.

"I am afraid, Watson, that I shall have to go," said Holmes, as we sat down together to our breakfast one morning. "Go! Where to?"

And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter, while Sherlock Holmes, with his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped travelling-cap, dipped rapidly into the bundle of fresh papers which he had procured at Paddington.

I lay back against the cushions, puffing at my cigar, while Holmes, leaning forward, with his long, thin forefinger checking off the points upon the palm of his left hand, gave me a sketch of the events which had led to our journey.

I had listened with the greatest interest to the statement which Holmes, with characteristic clearness, had laid before me.

"Have there been any fresh developments?" asked Holmes.

Inspector Gregory was full of his case, and poured out a stream of remarks, while Holmes threw in an occasional question or interjection.

We all sprang out with the exception of Holmes, who continued to lean back with his eyes fixed upon the sky in front of him, entirely absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Perhaps you would prefer at once to go on to the scene of the crime, Mr. Holmes?" said Gregory.

"This is a very singular knife," said Holmes, lifting it up and examining it minutely.

"Surely I met you in Plymouth at a garden-party some little time ago, Mrs. Straker?" said Holmes. "No, sir; you are mistaken." "Dear me! Why, I could have sworn to it. You wore a costume of dove-coloured silk with ostrich-feather trimming." "I never had such a dress, sir," answered the lady.

Also check out the following words: Round, trip, oneway, pity, somebody, dies, speechless, Damn, Pull, into.