"On the other hand," (she throws in a backflip that would snap any neck attached to a chin caught in her foot's path, then resumes her flurry of blows at the air from farther back) "hearing you talk I'd figure you for English. And you also fail to look six or seven years old."
She snickers. "Opinions on the backflip? I was so pleased when I discovered I could do that."
"Is it ever useful to be flashy solely for the purpose of being flashy? Does it scare people, or anything?"
"It can scare them, or make them underestimate you, or distract them. All very useful, under the right circumstances."
"The backflip would make someone underestimate me because...?" Her onslaught against the vile villain, The Air, is unslowing.
"It's flashy," he repeats. "If you consistently display unnecessary theatricality, you look inexperienced, or arrogant."
"I am inexperienced. I'm not arrogant about this." Pause. "Yet."
"Personally," he says, "I tend toward maximum economy of movement unless there is some reason to act otherwise. And yet I am probably among the most arrogant vampires on the planet about my fighting abilities—granted, not without cause."
"Yeah, I saw you, you're very good," Bella agrees. "Do you have any more notes about how I'm doing at beating up all this nitrogen-and-whatnot?"
"My comment is that you are good enough at beating up the atmosphere that you might benefit from a more substantial opponent."
Bella decides to see if she can obtain any value from whatever limited element of surprise she can get against Sherlock, and aims a kick at the back of his knees.
"Well done," he compliments, and counterattacks. Not at full speed. The point is to teach her, not to kill her.
Bella is going as fast as she can, and she needs to, to compensate for his skill and her lack thereof. Most of the aikido she watched involved working from someone attacking - she remembers this one throw - she tries it.
Half aikido and half making things up, she tries something else. The sooner she can convey her repertoire the sooner he'll know what else to teach her.
He still retains enough control that whenever she fails to block or dodge, he adjusts for minimal impact at the last moment.
Something else.
Something else.
She runs out of knowhow and starts improvising.
This way.
That way.
Little of this little of that.
"You're definitely a Slayer," he remarks—naturally, not out of breath. "Your instincts are good. Listen to them. But instinct can be improved upon."
"Yeah, how?" She's using her lungs differently than he is, but she's not tired - not yet.
And smoothly, seamlessly, he brings himself up to full speed and starts answering her every move before she makes it. Still with enough control to avoid hitting her full-strength. It seems almost choreographed, like they have been practicing this exact sequence for months and she just somehow forgot.
"If I can -" duck roll sweep-kick kip-up punch - "figure out -" feint uppercut grab throw - "what the instincts' moving parts are -" dodge block swat dodge - "would that help?"
"I can probably do that." (attack, attack, whoa duck dodge roll regroup jump kick) "Figuring out what's going on in my brain is a hobby of sorts for me."