(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock, no copyright infringement intended.

Author: Mrs. Monster (MissusMonster)

Word count:

Notes: Earlier this week, or it could have been last weekend, I don't really remember, epilepsyoftheeyes pulled me out of a jamb concerning booze and party planning via Tumblr. I offered her my everlasting servitude as payment, but we settled on a one-shot and and internet hug as a more reasonable bargain.

Here's your story, doll, hope you enjoy, and thanks again for the help!

It should also be noted that I have another store with a similar title called Domestic Terror. The stories are in no way related; Terror is of slasher/horror genre, while Bliss is more romantic/comedy.)

Domestic Bliss


When Molly Hooper began dating Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't with the happy delirium she'd once thought it would be. Dating may not even be the proper word, when she actually stopped to think about it. They actually hadn't been on a date in the year they'd been together. Unless one counted examining dead bodies as a date, and she didn't.

It hadn't come about because of one of her many attempts to snare his attention, or catch his eye, or because she'd brought him a cheap cup of coffee. He'd been living with her, more like hiding in her flat, and she'd actually been on her way to rather hating his face.

As it turned out, Sherlock Holmes was no better than a little boy on the playground, pulling the girl's pigtails because he thinks she's pretty, but doesn't know how to tell her.

They went about things in an unconventional way, of course; she'd killed him, without actually killing him, he moved in with her, he finally pulled his over-sized head out of his ass and realized that he had those things called feelings for her, she'd brought him back to "life", and then he'd moved out again.

He'd balked when she'd declined his offer (demand) that she move to 221b with him, insisting that Sherlock needed the time to repair his friendship with John. She, in all honestly, needed a break from Sherlock. Just a tiny one.

It had been four months since Sherlock had made his public resurfacing, and London was in the thick of mid-summer. There was no air-conditioning in Molly's flat and the osculating fans set sporadically around did nothing to relieve the heat. Sticky sweat clung to Sherlock's skin as he sat completely naked in the uncomfortable barrel chair in Molly's bedroom. The woman herself was on her knees in front of him, equally as naked, and was putting her mouth to very, very good use.

Sherlock was panting, fingers of one hand carding through Molly's thick dark hair, the other gripping the arm of the chair, white knuckle tight. He looked down at the woman displayed in front of him, the woman who had done the impossible task of capturing his heart.

"You know, I was right," Sherlock said, voice almost whisper thin. "Domestic bliss does suit you. You've put on seven and a half pounds since we altered the paradigm of our relationship."


And that was how Sherlock found himself standing in the hall outside her flat, wearing not a stitch, listening to Molly slide the deadbolt and chain home on the other side of the door.

"Molly, you are being ridiculous. Let me back in," he said through the door, arms crossed over his chest, seemingly mindless of the show he was putting on. "Your menses aren't due to start for another two weeks, so there's no reason, or need, to be hormonal."

"Go to hell!"

Down on the pavement in front of her block of flats, Sherlock could only be thankful it was nighttime, and not mid-day when Molly decided to be completely irrational and kick him out without his pants.

"Molly! I am naked in the middle of downtown London!" he yelled up at her still lit, second story window. "If you get me arrested for public indecency, Lestrade won't bring me any cases for a month!"

When her window slid open, he grinned, sure that she was going to beckon him back upstairs. But instead of her head appearing, she threw a black mass of fabric out the window. A second before he caught it, Sherlock realized it was his coat. Shrugging it on, Sherlock buttoned it over his bare skin.

"You're really not going to let me in?"

In answer, Molly threw his scarf down to him, and slammed the window shut.


Barefoot, Sherlock was able to hail a cab, thankful that he made a habit of keeping a few pounds in an inside pocket of his coat, for situations such as these. Well, maybe not exactly like this; how often was one thrown out of their girlfriends apartment after they blurted out something unfortunate while she'd been performing fellatio?

No matter how high his IQ, or how in control of his senses he was normally, Sherlock was just as susceptible to his beautiful girlfriend wrapping her beautiful lips around his rather beautiful (if he did say so himself) penis as any other man.

Not that he would ever, ever admit it to another living soul. He barely acknowledged the fact himself.

Sherlock paid the cabbie, who didn't even raise a brow at the state of his customer, and rang the doorbell at 221b, his keys being in the pocket of his trousers still lying on the floor of Molly's bedroom. Though if he knew Molly, and he did, she'd of picked them up by now, folded them over a hanger and put them in her closet with the small amount of clothes he kept there. Molly was not one who could stand a mess.


John Watson had grown used to seeing his friend without pants. It was a regular, almost weekly, occurrence. However, the last thing he'd been expecting when he answered the bell on that particular Saturday night was Sherlock standing on the other side, hands in the pockets of his out-of-season coat and a scowl on his face.

Now the coat, and the scowl, were normal fixtures as well. But when his eyes were drawn to the bare feet curling uncomfortably against the pavement, he couldn't help but ask, "What in the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock brushed passed him and up the stairs to their flat. He unabashedly discarded the coat by the door, hanging it up, taking time to remove his scarf and put it in the right place. John's face flushed red as he mounted the stairs and found himself staring at his flatmates bare arse. Granted it was far from the first time, but John didn't think he'd ever grow used to the pasty, surprisingly well-shaped, sight. What Molly saw in him, John would never know.

Much to John's relief Sherlock immediately left for his bedroom and came out a few minutes later wearing a t-shirt and pajama trousers.

"Are you going to tell me why you were nude in public? Again?"

Sherlock dropped in his chair across from John with a huff. "Molly Hooper is the most irrational, hormonal, hot headed person I've ever encountered."

Now John knew better; while he may not have the same... relationship with Molly that Sherlock had, he'd still been friends with the woman for some time. He did, however, pick up on one key word.

"Please don't tell me that you called your girlfriend hormonal."

Sherlock's pale face flushed red. "I may have."

"What else did you say?"



"All I did was point out a simple fact about the effect that domestic bliss was having on her body."

"For the love of God. Tell me that you didn't comment on her weight during sex."

"Of course not. We hadn't quite gotten to the sex. We were still in the before-hand stage."

As much as John shuddered at the thought of Sherlock's sex life, he was still a man who hadn't gotten any touch in longer than he'd like to admit and was, by default, required to ask, "Which stage? Light, hard? Hands on, or... dear lord. Not oral?"

The look on Sherlock's face was answer enough. "You, or her?"

Sherlock coughed a little. "Her."

"So what you're telling me is that you called your girlfriend fat while she was giving you a blow-job?"

"I did no such thing! I merely pointed out the obvious fact that she'd gained approximately seven and a half pounds since we... oh."

"Glad to see you've caught up."



All his years of dealing with lowlifes, scum, criminals and the insane of London and abroad hadn't nearly prepared Sherlock for the pitfalls and obstacles that having a girlfriend presented. He'd discarded John's advice on getting back into Molly's good books; she wasn't a flowers and chocolate type of woman.

Sherlock knew that he would have to atone for what he'd said, even if he still didn't really quite understand why what he'd done was so wrong. Molly should have been used to Sherlock's blunt honesty by this point in their relationship, though he supposed that he could have possibly found a more appropriate time for such a comment.

And so he found himself outside Molly's cupboard-sized office deep in the pits of St. Bart's with his best shame-face on, steeling himself for what he knew he must do. He simply cared too much for Molly to have something like this to cause tension between them.

Metal handle was cold against his palm as he pushed the door open and found his pathologist hunched over her cheap faux-wood desk, marking names off her list and completing her official notes.


She didn't look up at the sound of his voice but her eyes narrowed and her grip on the ink pen tightened minutely. Still angry, then.

Sherlock shut the door behind him and circled her desk to stand behind her. She'd worn her hair pulled up and off her neck as she almost always did while working. He brushed her heavy ponytail over one shoulder and, hands on either side braced against the desk, leaned so close that his lips brushed the small patch of skin just below her ear, and uttered three little used words that he knew would make her forgive him.

"I am sorry."

She shivered, and he smirked. Her tense shoulders melted and his smirk grew into a smile.

"You're an idiot," she grumbled, turning her face toward him.

"On this particular, very rare, occasion I couldn't agree more."

Molly kissed his mouth. "And you love me, seven and a half extra pounds an all."

"Yes, I do. I actually find the extra weight to be an improvement, and-"

"Sherlock?" Molly cut him off.


"Shut up and kiss me."

And he did.