When ordinary people dance around in their houses –a perfectly normal, if often vehemently denied behaviour- they usually pop in a pair of headphones and play a special selection from their preferred portable music player, or put in a CD, or turn on the radio in the Top Forty station.

Not Sherlock Holmes. Of course he would not do that.

He plays vinyl records –the kind that was already antique when John was young- and turns up the volume on the ancient turn table, until classical music fills Baker Street as if an entire orchestra were inside. Sherlock does not seem to care who sees him. In fact, he appreciates having an audience. And John would rather die than admit it, but he enjoys the private demonstration of fine culture. The fact that Sherlock goes all out with his impromptu shows –dressing the part is important, he tells John as he pulls on black tights and a snug white t-shirt- helps a lot.

John recognizes some of the melodies and even some of the dance steps Sherlock does –John is not entirely uneducated, thank you very much- and he cannot help but be amazed at the grace and elegance that radiates from the brilliant consultant detective and into the flat, which momentarily turns into a stage, when Sherlock dances ballet.