Sherlock gives Molly one of those dour looks that may or may not satisfy her paranoia. It's a look that says, Are you an idiot? at the same time it says, Stop embarrassing yourself.

Then, inexplicably, he smiles at her for a tick. "Who am I to turn down the offer of free food?" he asks, picking up the fork for emphasis.

He takes a stab at the eggs; dwindling appetite or not, he should eat something soon. The body is a vehicle, you know, which requires constant maintenance and blah blah blah. (Sometimes he gets sick of himself. Lately, more often than not.)

Fantastic, she called it. Sherlock much prefers compliments regarding his intellect, but it's nice (more than nice) to know he didn't botch the whole thing. It's not like he goes out of his way to have sex with anyone, ever, for various reasons. He hasn't a bailiwick for getting his wick wet.

"Unless you believe it's more in my character to up and flee in the middle of the night."

There's something almost insecure about his choice of words--

Are his feelings hurt?!

"What would that even be like?" he demands scornfully. (Defense mechanism.) (One of many.) (Shut up.) "I'd come to my senses whilst up to my elbows in you and think, 'Dear god in heaven. I've seen Molly Hooper in and out of her knickers. How will I ever live with myself after this?'"

He shoves a forkful of eggs into his mouth. They're acceptable. Could use some pepper, though.

"Molly, I don't do anything I don't want to do."