Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. This little bunny wouldn't leave me alone- I suppose because I've seen girls like Molly treated like this before. So this is for all the Mollies out in RL... Enjoy!

~ AS RARE ~

It starts the day after news of their first date breaks.

At least, that's the first time Sherlock notices it, though for all he knows Molly has been listening to this nonsense for weeks. (She is not, he is aware, the sort to complain so he can't be sure).

But be that as it may, when Sherlock swans into St. Bart's to pick up Molly (as is his wont) he notices Vickie, the hospital's receptionist, reading a copy of Heat magazine. She's grinning gleefully, not even noticing him until he walks up to be buzzed in. When he demands her attention she puts the magazine face down on her desk, shoots him a slightly guilty look before beginning the daily Ceremonial Search for His Visitor's Pass-

She won't look at him as she does it, and Sherlock can't help but be intrigued; She's not one of his many admirers, has always fancied John in point of fact, so this sudden bout of maidenly modesty is exceptionally strange. As is the fact that she put her magazine down, face first, so that he can't see the cover. Curioser and curioser. Being used to being in the public eye by now Sherlock frowns, wondering what new (and doubtless false) rumour Vickie is trying to hide from him-

He reaches over and, without asking for permission, plucks the magazine away from her, holding it out of her reach and grinning despite her protests.

"What do we have here?" he asks mockingly.

The receptionist throws him a sour look.

"Don't blame me," she says tartly. "Everyone's reading it. Here-" And she pushes his visitor's pass over the desk at him, looking rather less than pleased. "Clip that on your coat or you're not getting in, you git."

Sherlock shoots her a cheeky look. "You say the sweetest things."

"Get bent," she mutters, glowering, before turning her attention reluctantly back to her computer screen. It appears the poor girl might actually have to do some work now, Sherlock thinks, his grin widening.

How terrible.

Deciding that he should probably not antagonize someone who helps him see Molly however, he puts her magazine back down on her desk, using both hands to clip his visitors' pass onto his coat.

As he does he glances down at the rag, still faintly curious about what lies it's peddling about him this week. (He rather liked the one where Lestrade was falsely identified as his "Silver Fox Lover," though obviously he understood why Mrs. Lestrade had not).

The cover shows the usual: The fallout from a nightclub tussle between some reality TV Lothario and a footballer, the news that three Hollywood actresses had- Shock! Horror!- left the house without makeup and must thus be named and shamed. The bottom banner is given over to spoilers on an upcoming Eastenders storyline while a box near the top proclaims Fashion Disaster, a photo of a petite-looking brunette swathed in the sort of gloriously ugly jumper which Molly would adore set against a garish pink background-

Sherlock frowns again, looking more closely at the photo.

I know that jumper, he thinks.

I've tripped over that jumper whilst manhandling Molly into bed. But why would-?

It comes to him.

Oh, he thinks.

Oh bugger.

Because he looks at the photo more closely and realises that yes, the photo is Molly. It's hard to tell because she's muffled up in the afore-mentioned Megajumper, a thick scarf around her neck and a massive woolly hat hiding most of her hair. A pair of bright yellow fingerless gloves grip a paper cup of coffee and her favourite red boots are on her feet. She's refusing to look at the person who took the photo, everything about her body language screaming her distress as she shies away from the paparazzo-

With a growing sense of alarm Sherlock opens the magazine, flicks through until he comes to the article about his girlfriend.

When he does his mood gets progressively worse.

For there, in full colour, is an entire page devoted to her apparent Fashion Foul-Ups, helpfully time-lined and annotated. There are pictures of her crying after he nearly died hunting down Moriarty, there are pictures of her only days after she herself had been kidnapped by a devoted follower of General Shan's. There are pictures of her in her scrubs and her civvies; They'd even managed to dig up a photo of her in her (lovely but admittedly… festive) dress from John's wedding, the article gleefully excoriating each and every outfit and asking its readers to do the same-

As he reads one hand fists at Sherlock's side as he reads, his teeth going on edge.

He doesn't usually care what people think of him but, but, this is Molly. Lovely, sweet, kind, generous, brilliant Molly.

Molly, who managed to become a Specialist Registrar in one of the world's finest teaching hospitals by the time she was thirty. Molly who helped him take on Moriarty and saved Mary Watson when she was wounded defending he and John.

So what the Hell is all this "fashion disaster," nonsense about?

Because Molly's not a starlet or a model. She clearly hates being photographed and is far from wanting to be in the public eye. She's a pathologist, not a damn clothes horse.

So why on Earth, he thinks, are people writing articles castigating her sense of style?

He's brought back from his rage by the sound of Vickie clucking her tongue disapprovingly, this slightly… sly look in her eye which he likes not at all.

"I know," she says. "So terrible. Still, she's a good girl, isn't she Mr. Holmes?" The woman gestures to the photos. "And it's so sweet that you don't mind when she goes out looking like that…"

Sherlock knows that he is on his last good grace with St. Bart's regarding his access, and should therefore not make one of their employees cry simply for being, a, well, the phrase "colossal bitch," seems to sum it up rather nicely.

So he shoots Vickie an icy smile and hands her back her magazine, turning on his heel and presenting his back to her.

"You'll find," he tosses the words over his shoulder, "that some women are rather more spectacular than the sum of their wardrobes, Victoria. Not that you would understand such a concept.

Good day."

And with his head held high he marches into the morgue, bending down to press a welcoming kiss to Molly's cheek. He wraps his arms around her, gives her a searching look.

Her unwillingness to meet his eyes tells him she's seen the article and been upset by it but there's absolutely nothing Sherlock can think to do which will console her, so he keeps his own council and bribes her with coffee. (At least he knows how to do that.)

They get through the day together though, she subdued and he slowly planning the financial and personal ruination of the entire staff of Heat magazine-

It's as they're making their way back to Baker Street, Molly's shoulders hunched over and her coat buttoned tightly over her clothes despite the summer evening's heat that Sherlock decides something will have to be done.

After all, just because she's foolish enough to stick with him doesn't mean she should have to put up with anyone else's nonsense, now does it?

Molly wakes up the next morning to hear whistling coming from the bathroom to her right.

It sounds chipper and loud and that weirdly gleeful shade of aggressive which always warns her that Sherlock's in a mood and probably looking for someone to take it out on-

And that someone is often her.

So that being the case she closes her eyes and snuggles back under the covers, too tired from yesterday's nastiness with that bloody magazine to deal with a Sherlock who's feeling torment-happy. Instead she decides to enjoy a rare lie-in and try to get back to sleep. She's doing just that, drifting off when she feels a weight press down onto the bed beside her, feels long, elegant fingers stroke through the hair at the nape of her neck onto to skid protectively down her neck and between her shoulder-blades, the touch turning tickling as it reaches the small of her back-

"Mooollllyyyy," a familiar voice half-whines, making her smile in her sleep despite herself. "Molly, do get up and stop being boring-"

And as if to emphasise his point Sherlock bounces a little on the bed, jostling her and disturbing her bedclothes. Making it impossible to sleep, even if she actually were doing so.

Knowing that there's no use pretending she smiles and opens her eyes, shoots him a sleepy smile.

"Did you want something?" she asks dryly and he nods, almost puppyish in his enthusiasm. It's her favourite side to Sherlock, one she doesn't get to witness often enough- The loveable little boy who wants to play but is not (currently) set on mayhem, arson or damage.

It's a rare enough sight that she sits up, smiling more widely and making a show of rubbing her eyes, just to remind him that he's waking her.

He nods gamely at her though, darting in to press a quick kiss to her lips but pulling away again, proud as punch with himself for his reflexes before reaching under the bed-covers and grabbing her wrist, trying to pull her out of bed.

Molly mock-pouts and shakes her head, refusing to move until Sherlock reaches under and- before she can even squeak at being pulled out of her warm cocoon- grips her by her knees and at her shoulders and swings her out of bed, jostling her in his arms for a moment before swinging her onto his shoulder with a quick tap to her arse and a sharp, "Behave yourself, woman-"

Not being in a position to complain Molly contents herself with an equally gruff, "Get bent, skinny!" She might be wrong but she thinks she hears Sherlock snort at it and she can't help but grin. Still strewn over his shoulder she's carried into Baker Street's front room, her boyfriend dumping her unceremoniously down into his chair with a huff and a final, quick-striking tickle to the delicate flesh underneath her arms-

Molly opens her mouth and makes to climb out of the chair- Let's see if he's quick enough to stop her getting back into the bedroom- But before she can Sherlock pulls the curtains open, bathing the room in light, and all plans she had to tease him immediately stop in the face of what she sees.

For the front room of Baker Street is festooned in jumpers.

And not just any jumpers, oh no, the sorts of jumpers that Molly Hooper knows she would love.

There are Christmas jumpers, hideous of form and eye-wateringly scratchy of texture. There are floral jumpers of the sort not made since the eighties and considered in poor taste then. There are kitten jumpers and checked jumpers and a few day-glo, Mohair monstrosities that even Molly would have a hard time liking the look of…

She blinks and looks at Sherlock for clarity but the git's just grinning.

This time though it's his real smile, his good one, not the "sociopath special," he shows to the press and despite her confusion it warms her heart.

He's staring at her, his expression hopeful and, well, the word she actually wants to use is adorable but she can't bring herself to think it, not about Sherlock bloody Holmes-

"Well?" he asks. "Do you like them?"

He's practically bouncing on his heels in excitement.

Molly's not sure what to say so she decides to be honest. "Yes, Sherlock, I love them." She frowns. "But, but… Why? I mean, how, as well, but really, more, why..?"

He looks delighted to her response. "I put word out to my homeless network-"

"Did these belong to them?"

Molly's not sure how she'd feel about that but he shakes his head sharply.

"No, I told them to go through the local charity shops and pick up anything they thought you might like- They were told to keep the rest." Again the pleased bouncing on his heels. "Most of them seemed rather happy with that, said it was like an early Christmas bonus-"

Molly stares at the fruits of several homeless people's labours and again asks the obvious question. "All of which is very interesting, but- Why, Sherlock. I mean, I mean… Do you need me to wear them? Are we going on some sort of a stakeout or something?" Her voice drops as she remembers the article in Heat yesterday and she squirms in her chair. "Or is this an example of what you don't want me to wear-?"

"Don't be ridiculous- I'd never tell you how to dress."

Now he's sounding petulant, his moods quicksilver as ever.

When Molly risks a look at him his arms are crossed over his chest and there's a definite suggestion of a pout to his mouth.

But something in her expression must hit home because he crosses the room, kneels down in front of her. With her sitting they're about eye to eye and his expression makes Molly's heart twist a little sharply in her chest.

She puts it together then.

"You read the Heat article," she says, and it's a statement, not a question.

He nods once, slowly. She supposes she's not surprised.

"I did," he said. "And I must say… I've never read such an utter pile of bollocks in my life."

Molly blinks. "You mean you-"

"I mean I can't believe what passes for journalism these days, if that's the tripe that's being sold on newsstands," he says. "And I have no idea why they would think they had any business judging you-"

She twists uncomfortably in her chair, not sure how to put this. Yesterday hadn't been the first time she'd heard other people's opinion of her wardrobe, it was just the first time she'd seen it disseminated en masse.

"You're a public figure, Sherlock, you're interesting to them," she says haltingly. "You have been since John started his blog: Is it any wonder that they're, well they're… confused, by what you see in me?" He frowns, looking a little befuddled, and she sighs. Sometimes explaining social things to Sherlock can be a little… difficult. "I do have eyes, you know," she says. "I do know how I dress and what other people think of it. I just, I just-"

"You just like looking like you, and not a clothes horse," he says quietly. "Believe it or not, that's one of the things I always liked about you." Again she blinks at him in surprise but his expression tells her that this, he understands. With that odd awkwardness she finds so endearing he reaches out and takes one of her hands.

"I like your hideous jumpers," he says quietly. "Actually, I adore them. Always have. Always bloody will. In fact…"

He trails off and for a moment Molly's on the edge of her seat, waiting.

"Yes?" she prompts.

Discussing jumpers should not be making her breathless, she thinks.

Sherlock looks at her, though really looks at her, the expression John and Lestrade long ago dubbed Blue Steel Baker Street and she feels her heart flip in her chest.

"In fact, the first time I ever imaged doing something… A Bit Not Good to you, I imagined you wearing a jumper," he says.

The tips of his ears turn red as he says it.

"You did?" Molly lets out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Now that was interesting indeed. "And which jumper was it?"

He frowns, gestured dismissively to her shoulders. "It was a cardigan, actually. I think it had… cherries on it?" His brows draw more tightly together as he tries to recall the image. He's so many things barrelling around in his Mind Palace, after all. "Yes," he says after a moment, "that was it. It was white with cherries on it, and you were wearing your Molly trousers and little flat shoes and you had your hair up and I thought… I thought…"

"Yes?" Molly again prompts.

There's no way she's not hearing the end of that story.

He looks her right in the eye. "I thought that it was probably the sexiest thing a woman has ever worn. Ever." He reaches out before she can stop him and presses a single kiss to her forehead. "Because it was you. And I liked you.

I still like you, no matter what some wanker in a magazine says, ok?"

And without giving her a chance to speak he pulls her to him and kisses her again, his mouth finding her lips this time. The kiss is hungry and questioning and oddly tender and it tells her more than she suspects Sherlock could ever put into words about how he truly feels. Molly responds, opens her lips to him, her tongue chasing his back into his mouth and sliding wetly against her own-

Within moments neither of them are wearing a stitch, let alone a woolly jumper.

Turns out such jumpers are great for making love on, however- Even the itchy mohair ones seem to give Sherlock ideas.

Two weeks later Molly again makes the cover of Heat magazine- She's been spotted in one of her signature jumpers, running out to the shops.

When the magazine runs the article she ignores it entirely however. Doesn't listen. She's far too contented with herself and her situation to give a rat's arse what a rag thinks of her.

Sherlock- as it his wont these days- meets her at the front door to Baker Street and, well, she's rather too distracted to pay attention to anything with that sight in front of her.

After all, he's wearing nothing but one of her jumpers, and she can't ask for more than that…