The Age of Bronze

"Touch it."

"Are you insane? I'm not going to touch it."

"It's said to have healing powers."

"Are you listening to yourself?"

"I—"

"No, I'll answer that: You're in love. You're insane, you're in love, and you are not listening to yourself."

"I—"

"And you're not touching it. I'm not touching it, and you're not touching it either. It's frightening and it's radioactive. Did you hear that part Sherlock? About the unstable atomic nuclei that are emitting ionizing particles like positrons and gamma rays? I mean, you know, spooky science fiction-y gamma rays?"

"Oh my god John."

"What?"

"You know the technical definition of radioactive."

"Yeah, so?"

"That's sexy."

"Well then."

John grabbed Sherlock's arm and tugged him away from the radioactive mummy. Why the Victoria and Albert Museum wanted to add a radioactive mummy to their exhibits and why Sherlock wanted to be in the same room with it much less touch the damn thing John couldn't say, but he was and he did and he was so dragging his feet right now.

"Why are you dragging your feet right now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scuffed his size tens along the slick museum tiles and looked behind him. "Because I want to touch it. I want to look at it. I think I may be in love with it." The detective maybe did or did not giggle.

"I knew you were. And I also know that you're the only person in London—possibly the world—who can get drunk on weird. Completely rat-arsed."

Sherlock giggled again, swayed then tripped, just like a real live drunk would. Then, also like a real live drunk, he spun out of John's grip, started marching back toward that mummy and so help him John was pretty sure the detective was throwing kisses out ahead of him, like a little bride's maid tossing rose petals.

"I have to touch it John, I have to touch it."

John jogged after Sherlock and debated: Fling himself onto his lover's back, or tackle him around the legs? It was going to hurt either way, so might as well—

Sherlock spun around drunkenly.

"And I'm not lisping so I'm not drunk John! That's technically impressionable!" Sherlock frowned. "Immobile!" More frowning. "Impossible!" Sherlock waggled a long digit. "Ha! Woops!"

That last bit was because John had grabbed Sherlock's free hand while Sherlock fascinated himself with the other, and tugged him out of the room.

"Why can't I touch it Joooooohn, why why why why why why?"

"Because I like it when you don't glow green and have two heads."

Sherlock tripped over his own feet again and thought hard about what John said. "But I do have two heads, technically all men do if you count—"

A small, parchmenty old man—sort of a precursor to the mummy, actually—appeared suddenly in the doorway to the Really Old Things Room (the good doctor could never remember the correct name) and stared at them.

John quite possibly squeaked, blushed, then mumbled, "Good morning, sir," to the curator of the radioactive monstrosity behind them.

"She's beautiful!" Sherlock said loudly, eyes wide and glowy. "However my boyfriend won't let me examine her because he's nervous and thinks the radioactivity—which I told him is almost nonexistent—is going to affect my head, but he didn't say which one."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock frowned at John. "What?"

The little old man nodded as if every day he talked to giant six-year-olds who made innuendos about penises and got drunk on weird.

John does not know, on days like today, how he survives past breakfast. Which he has not actually had. Because they'd needed to get here before the museum opened. As a matter of fact it was still dark o'clock outside.

"I'm sorry sir, but I'm a doctor and I really don't think it's safe for my colleague—" and here John gestured to the empty space beside him—

"Sherlock!"

The man so named was a couple dozen feet distant, hunched over the tiny sarcophagus so deeply his arms and head appeared to be missing.

Radioactive fallout already, John thought, marching back into the room.

"Sherlock Holmes I am going to drag you from this room if you don't stand up right now and get out under your own steam."

"She has perfect teeth, John, and freckles!"

Despite himself John leaned over, peered. "I thought she was black."

"She is. She was. But her skin tone overall was lighter than her freckles. I'm amazed such detail was retained, it's quite extraordinary."

"However, she is still radioactive. I can honestly feel my skin crawling."

Sherlock huffed. "You can feel no such thing. It takes at least six hours for even mild symptoms of radiation poisoning to make themselves felt, and even then it'd likely just be a bit of nausea and vomiting."

Sherlock stood, straddled the small casket, peered carefully at the mummy with his pocket magnifier. "Diarrhea, headache, fever, dizziness, hair loss, and low blood pressure might occur but only after moderate exposure. And it takes severe or very severe radiation poisoning to lead to bloody stool and—"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

The detective closed his magnifier with a snap. "John, you're cranky."

"It is five in the morning. I haven't eaten. I'm sleepy. And also possibly radioactive." John scratched his arms, extended both, then stared at them. As if looking for…

"What are you looking for John?"

"Bugs. Radioactive bugs. Like in the movies."

Sherlock shook his head, stood up. "Fine. Fine. I'll come back later. By myself. Are you happy now?"

John sighed. With long suffering. Because his suffering? For this man? It was long. "Fine, Sherlock. Fine. You be all detective-y and brilliant and deductive and I'll just sit here until you need me. If you need me. I don't even know why I'm here. Sometimes I think you just take me along like a security blanket."

John settled into a chair, crossed his arms grumpily, closed his eyes.

"Which is more likely to spread a cold John, shaking hands or kissing?"

The doctor made a disrespectful noise. "Pshhft! Shaking hands of course."

"You're a very smart security blanket John," Sherlock whispered against his mouth. "That's why I take you along."

John smiled through the kiss, but didn't open his eyes. "You're still sleeping on the couch until you're not radioactive."

Sherlock's scowl was wasted on the good doctor. "You know perfectly well—"

John giggled.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, continued his research.

...

Over the next hour the good doctor answered three medical questions for Sherlock and was just waking from his second catnap to find his lover sliding on leather gloves.

"Perfect timing, John. I've just been to see Mr. Kisawa. All done."

John stretched, actually a bit refreshed. "Great. Breakfast?"

Sherlock tucked his hands behind his back, dressed his face in a bright, innocent expression.

John narrowed his eyes. He loved that expression. Very boyish. Very sweet. He hated that expression. He had exactly no willpower against it.

John looked intently at the ceiling. "What? What now? We're not leaving are we?"

Sherlock said nothing. This, John new, was Sherlock's bid to get him to look at him.

"I'm not looking."

"Look at me John."

"I'm not looking, not looking, not looking. You want to take home the radioactive lady and do things to her, don't you? You want to put her on the kitchen table—where I eat my food, which already jumps quite enough hurdles before it gets to my plate, what with the heads that ooze and the leaky takeaway containers with stomach acid in—"

"—that was just once and I didn't realize how fast the acid would burn through the—"

"—and the crickets that chirped quite nicely but also pooped—"

"—I told you to cover that salad when you put it—"

"—so no, you don't get to bring the radioactive lady home, no matter how adorable the face—"

"—and beside—adorable?"

Both men stopped talking. John stopped staring at the ceiling, frowned ferociously. "Damn it."

Sherlock grinned, made The Face. "Is this it? Is this the expression?"

John scowled at the ceiling again. "No. No."

Sherlock slid way, way into the doctor's personal space. "I don't want to bring radioactive ladies home." He kissed one side of the doctor's exposed neck. "I just want to look at a little bit of art." He kissed the other side of the doctor's neck. "Mr. Kisawa told me about a bronze I might like." Sherlock let his teeth gently scrape over John's skin. Smiled when a regiment of goosebumps marshaled along John's jaw. "Five minutes?" The very tip of Sherlock's tongue trailed along those goosebumps. "Please?"

John Watson sighed at the ceiling. "Damn it, Sherlock."

...

"There are fifty or more statues in here," the good doctor groused.

Sherlock scanned the cavernous basement, started walking. "I'll know this one."

"It better be gorgeous. Better yet does it cook? Will it make me toast?"

"I'll make you toast."

Sherlock was a good dozen feet distant before he realized John wasn't following. He turned.

John shook the daze out of his eyes, started toward Sherlock. "Sorry, it was as if you said 'I love you John' in an entirely new language."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, continued on, glancing briefly at each sculpture. Suddenly he stopped. "Well, hello gorgeous."

John ambled up. "This it?"

Sherlock slid his arm around John's waist, tugged him close until his back was to Sherlock's front. Whispering in his sweetheart's ear the detective said, "Use that clever brain of yours my love, and tell me what you see."

John's getting better at this, he knows he is, but it still feels like a test each time Sherlock asks. He always hated failing tests.

Okay then. The statue stood on a plinth about ten centimeters high. It was made of a dark bronze. As a matter of fact it was called The Age of Bronze. So far so obvious. What else? Well the statue was naked, male, a bit petite. It had a nice build, short hair, a rather pert nose, and—

"Oh."

Sherlock laughed softly against John's ear.

"You think he looks like me, don't you?"

"Yes I do. Mr. Kisawa thought so as well."

Sherlock rubbed his face in John's short hair. "Do you know what else I think? I think you deserve a thank you for your patience today."

John leaned against his lover, felt the other man's arms tighten around his waist. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"If you're thinking maybe I should get on my knees, John…go down on that delectable piece of art while you watch then yes, I am."

John blinked noisily a few times. It must have been a sort of Morse code because Sherlock said, "Then again maybe I'm thinking something else entirely. What might I be thinking, John?"

It took a moment for John to think through what he was thinking. Yes, okay, what he was thinking was really almost exactly the same thing except, um, a little different.

"Well, I was sort of visualizing you, over there, behind him. Doing him. You know. From behind."

Sherlock mouthed at John's hair, softly sighed. "Oh, that sounds…shameless."

John is sometimes amazed at how quickly they can get each other to this place. This riled up and breathing hard place. It really was a rather magnificent skill.

Sherlock slid his hand down John's belly and between his jeans-clad legs. He cupped the half-hard bulge there, squeezed and tugged and moaned in John's ear until "half" was no longer applicable. For either of them.

"What…" John's throat was very dry. "…what about Mr. Kisawa?"

Sherlock started a slow thrust against the high curve of John's arse. "Busy. So busy."

John's reply was two-fold and silent. He nodded. Then he pressed his bum hard against Sherlock. For a moment he thought very hard about getting on his hands and knees and—

—Sherlock stepped away, stepped around, stood in front of him. With a slow smile he shucked coat, gloves, and scarf, dropped them on the floor at John's feet. He tugged his shirt from his trousers, unbuttoned it, was about to drop it to the floor too when John took gentle hold of Sherlock's wrists, spread his arms. "No, leave it on. The trousers too."

Sherlock smiled, pretended to struggle in John's grasp, but they both knew he didn't want to break free. Groaning, he rutted up against John's belly then spun away as if more than a little drunk.

A moment later he was standing on that plinth face to face with the sculpture. "Hello gorgeous," he said, pressing his forehead to the cool metal, sliding one hand down until it cupped the effigy's arse.

He smiled as if he were alone. Alone with John. Then he opened his mouth as if to speak, but instead swiped his tongue across the bronze's lips. The sharp sound of the doctor's groan surprised them both.

"Oh…John…" Sherlock breathed, lips brushing hot against cool. "John…oh John…." A slow pump of the hips punctuated each sigh.

A slow slide of his hand down between his own legs punctuated John's.

"I want…to…" Sherlock spread his legs either side of the bronze's thighs, slid low so his trousered cock pressed against that of the sculpture. "…fuck you John." Sherlock tipped his head back, neck arching, back curving into a beautiful bow, slid back up with a moan…"Oh yes,"…down again…up…each thrust punctuated by sound, a breathy sigh, a groan, his lover's name.

For just a moment, maybe two, John closed his eyes and listened. Sherlock can talk a mile a minute, say a dozen obscure things the good doctor doesn't understand, but he does understand this: The word John is precious to this man. It's as vital as clues and sex and sleep and mysteries. It feeds a place in Sherlock that before was starving.

A smile flickering fast over his face, John opened his eyes. And somehow this? This craziness we do? It feeds me.

Then all rational thought faded as Sherlock moved slow round the figure, trailing fingers over its dark bronze chest, belly, its thrust out hip, then around to the small of its back…and here he stopped.

Sherlock gazed at that pert bum, dropped a pale hand down, ran long fingers up the cleft of that very John-like arse. "John…" it was the barest whisper now, "Oh…John."

Sherlock slid his other hand along the bronze's waist, then up to its chest, so close now that his body pressed the length of it. He nestled his face into the curve of its neck and seemed to softly kiss.

"Want…to…want…to…" he murmured, thrusting against the bronze, holding tight to it with one hand, undoing his trousers with the other. "…fuck…you…John."

Seconds later trousers and pants went south and Sherlock's cock? Definitely due north, now lubed with the detective's own saliva and nestled between the firm slit of the statue's arse. About then Sherlock settled down to the unambiguous work of lustily fucking the inanimate.

Head thrown back once more, legs spread, Sherlock drove his cock hard against a thing that would not yield, moaning for all the world as if he were deeply inside warm flesh.

The sight should not have been sexy, which is maybe why it was. It was so unSherlock. Trousers and pants pooled at his ankles, bare ass (bite it John) peeking from beneath his crisp white shirt, he looked for all the world like some pervert having a public wank—a ridiculously good-looking, well-dressed pervert, yes, but still a pervert.

Which so-help-him was so stupidly hot John had an erection that actually hurt.

And then, as always, now and forever, there was the sound. Sodomizing that thing as if he could not get enough, Sherlock was moaning so lavishly John almost wanted to make him stop.

You are going to kill me. With that beautiful voice you are going to kill me. And as I draw my last breath I'll probably be shouting, "Louder, Sherlock, oh my god louder!"

Instead of making Sherlock stop, John got up there on that plinth, stood on the opposite side of the statue and got those detectivey hips pumping harder when he did something he'd never done before: He imitated Sherlock.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," he sighed low, dramatic. "Oh Sherlock…Sherlock." The detective whimpered. As precious as John's name is, so too is Sherlock's own coming from his lover's mouth.

Sherlock slid one hand from the sculpture's waist and onto John's, tugging him hard against the unyielding bronze. Breathing heavy from an open mouth he stilled, waited, then sighed raggedly when he felt John's hips start to thrust.

"Oh god yes," Sherlock breathed, cock thrusting up slick and hard in the cleft of the sculpture's ass, "oh dear god yes."

Some vague, distant part of John's brain realized that it should have felt weird, humping up against a statue while fully dressed. A statue they agreed looked like him. While his lover sort of fucked its arse. Yeah, it should have felt very, very weird.

Jean-clad cock rubbing against one of bronze, John was only aware that it felt very, very good.

The good doctor reached over the statue's shoulder, fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair, pulled him into a kiss, tongues frantically taking turns mimicking in mouths what they were each doing with hips—pushing, pumping, thrusting, hard, harder, fast oh god yes faster.

With a deep-throated growl Sherlock warned now, now, come now and so John spread his legs for more leverage, slid his hand down between his cock and, well, his cock and kneaded and massaged and pulled at hard flesh through trousers and pants. The nails of both of Sherlock's hands dug into his waist, Sherlock's tongue probed his mouth, and maybe it would still have taken John another minute to get the friction just right but then, exactly then, Sherlock's own orgasm tore unexpectedly through him and Sherlock's sharp desperate cry was really, really quite enough to be going on with. John came hard in his pants thank you, a few seconds after his lover rammed home and came not-quite in the arse of a completely innocent bronze that really had no clue what the hell was going on.

This fourth chapter (that yes, went on forever don't ask me why) was supposed to be the last, but…

There once was a fic named "Four Shame"

That really should have stopped when they came,

But some readers yelled, "Don't!"

Atlin said, "I won't!

…and then…um…yeah, limerick floundering. So anyway, "Four Shame"—which was supposed to be only four chapters—will have a fifth 'bout Mycroft's brolly because crocodile_eat_u's brain is glorious and she went there. Hard. P.S. If you'd like to see the statue that's at the center of this shameless little escapade, Google The Age of Bronze or visit my Tumblr at AtlinMerrick dot Tumbler dot com and search for "age of bronze."

In the meantime, since I'll probably continue this theme of sex-with-the-inanimate in future stand-alone fics, tell me please—what should the boys *lady-like cough* fuck next?