No acknowledgement. I went back to my paper.

I heard the sounds of more struggling, a groan, some clicks, and I put down the paper just in time to see him slip free of the jacket and drop to the floor, landing almost soundlessly like a cat.

I will admit I was astonished. ‘Bravo, Holmes!’ I said.

He smiled in delight, then bowed with a flourish and a groan. He rubbed his shoulder. At thirty-four, Holmes was wiry and fit, far too thin by some accounts, but remarkably athletic in spite of never, to my knowledge, taking exercise for its own sake.

‘All right, how did you do that after dropping your lockpick?’ I asked.

‘The locks are the least of it. Preparation is all.’

He was paper-white, and his face was covered with a thin sheen of sweat.

‘What do you mean, “The locks are the least of it”?’ He was standing oddly, favouring one side. ‘And what is the matter with you?’

‘Well, some of the locks are left in place. One has to more or less dislocate one’s shoulder to escape that particular straitjacket. Borelli spent two years stretching his ligaments to accommodate it. I had only ten days.’

‘Oh, come Holmes! You haven’t dislocated your shoulder. You would be writhing in pain. And you would need me to yank it back in place for you.’

I glanced up at him. His dark hair, usually neatly groomed, was a mess and damply stuck to his skull. He inhaled shakily, then moved to a large bookcase and slammed himself against it. There was the sound of a loud pop.

‘Good God, Holmes!’

He carefully flexed his left arm. Back to normal. He smiled at me in amusement. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

I threw the paper down. ‘What are you thinking, Holmes? You risk serious damage, dislocating a shoulder like that! How did you do it? And more to the point, how did you stand it?’

‘A touch of morphine, going in. Borelli uses it, I will wager, but he claims not. It does fog the thinking. I shall try to do without. And I’ve learned to pop it back myself.’

‘You have learned? How many times have you done this?’

‘This is the third.’

‘Idiotic, man! Of all your bad habits, this takes the prize. What of your violin playing? Boxing? You could do yourself permanent harm! Those ligaments don’t always return to their original length.’

‘Light me a cigarette, would you, Watson?’ Still rubbing his shoulder, he stepped out onto the landing outside the room. ‘Mrs Hudson! Some ice, if you please!’

He came back in and sat before me.

‘There is no ice, Mr Holmes,’ came Mrs Hudson’s voice. I detected a note of irritation in it.

‘Send Billy,’ he shouted. Then as an afterthought, ‘Please!’