Sherlock absorbed the information about Lestrade and the lessons, typed a few more words. "Why?" he suddenly enquired.
Molly was just texting back, and she looked up from the phone. "Why what? Why the self-defense? Well, I guess I just wanted to feel more confident. I spend a lot of time around dead people. Sometimes I have to provide evidence in court about really bad people. I hang out with cops." She finished the text and sent it, looked pointedly at Sherlock. "I know people like you," she said wryly. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Sooner or later it might come in handy."
"He likes you," Sherlock suddenly announced. He'd known that for a while, but it had never seemed relevant before.
Now it was her turn to ignore the innuendo. "What? Greg? Well, yes, I like him, too. He's a good friend. We talk. He's going through a hard time, he's probably getting divorced."
Sherlock sat back in his chair. "Ah yes, the PE teacher."
Molly signed heavily in exasperation. "Nobody wants to be reminded of that." She put the phone down. "I'm going to get ready." She left the kitchen.
Again, that bloody disastrous Christmas party, he thought darkly. His then throw-away comment to Lestrade about his wife's affair had probably sent his marriage over a cliff. The same throw away comment now had sent Molly out of the room. He still didn't understand why telling the truth was bad, wouldn't people want to know the truth? Probably he should just shut up. He looked down the hallway and when she was out of sight he immediately grabbed her phone and checked her text messages. He had cracked the PIN ages ago, 221B, so ridiculously simple. He saw there was a long string of texts from Lestrade. It made him cross to see the messages. In a rare moment of self-control, he did not read them all and set the phone back down where she had left it.
When she came back to the kitchen, he was still typing but looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He noticed she had changed into black exercise pants and a tank top. She looked very trim and toned and clearly she had been working out a lot. He felt suddenly very put out about this, too, his mood growing even darker. Personally he had an 8th degree black belt in judo, and if she wanted proper instruction she should have come to him. Never mind the fact that he had been in Dubai or Serbia or wherever in the past six months and not around. He imagined Greg Lestrade in baggy grey sweat pants and an old stained t-shirt, standing behind her, maybe his hands on her hips to readjust her stance or him running a hand up her arm to correct her position. He was scowling.
She had her keys and her coat in her hands and one of her famous multicolored scarves around her neck. "Will you be here when I get back?"
He stopped typing for a beat, but did not look up. "No," he said curtly.
He heard the flat door close with much more force than needed. He sat back in his chair, pushed the laptop away and slammed the lid shut. He really could be an asshole sometimes.
