Strange, strange name for a pub and, one day, Mycroft would have to get Marty behind the bar drunk so he'd spill the story as to why any-one would consider it a good name.
It was, in all consideration, a pretty small and only mediocre bar.
The food could be slightly hit-and-miss, but the bitter ale was good, as was the wine (not fine restaurant good, but acceptable to Mycroft's palate) and it was a family business and didn't entirely rob you blind.
Mycroft liked the booths and they were all too pleased to do so, hoping the politician would recommend them.
Shame they chose the friendless (/antisocial) and clever man who knew that promoting the bar would lead to his quiet, private drink-hole to become far too busy for his liking. But he did tell a few at the Yard about it.
Lestrade asked him out for a drink occasionally.
As sort-of colleagues and one of Sherlock's begrudging keepers, they chatted rather well really, all things considered.
So, once more coaxed from his solitude, Mycroft sent the car round to pick up Lestrade and another dropped Mycroft outside the typical-looking pub. He waited a few minutes and then went inside, ordering Lestrade's favourite drink and a hoppy beer Marty highly recommended and then went to his table, a walled-around booth with worn carpet seats.
Listening to: The other three men muttering
Watching: Froth in his pint
Drinking: Beer (God yes!)