The compact, slightly spiky package made by the armour in its resting state is nearby.

Sherlock picks it up and gives it a twist, fitting her hands into the depressions that appear when she does so. It unfolds itself up her arms, wraps around her torso, and clicks and shakes and rattles into place; she hardly has to move except to step into the boots. From the moment she picks it up to the last quiet click is maybe three-quarters of a minute all told.