Not only does it not bother Sherlock, he loves that she can talk about corpses as casually as he does. Part of the appeal. And he tucks away that bit about Dr. Mario, because he remembers that game too and because there's something about it that suits her so well it charms him all over again.

He looks at her with faintly narrowed eyes over the lip of his mug, trying to picture her as 'the museum girl'. (And, yes, he can't help but remember being eight and getting in a world of trouble for breaking into an exhibit at the British Museum for a closer look--although now, he finds himself thinking about how that incident would have gone if he'd been able to share the adventure instead of taking it as proudly and stubbornly alone as he's done for several decades.)

The thought that she didn't have a lot of friends, though--that's new. He's always sort of thought of Molly as one of those people to whom connection comes vastly more easily than to someone like him, and it's odd to realize that hasn't been a constant in her life. That she may have been, at some point, almost as lonely a child as he was.

"Popular's overrated," he says, the least awkward way he can think of to say I understand, and now we're here together, which is better. "I'd probably have made you show me how you'd butcher a coelacanth."