The prince and the soldier

Chapter one

John sprawls exhausted among the bedclothes, the air of the bedchamber icy against his damp skin, and watches the firelight flicker on the stone and tapestry walls. It cuts shadowed wells into the ceiling and glitters in the snow piling up outside the casement window, and turns the man stretched like a cat against John's flank into a beautiful demon sculpted from fire and darkness.

Maybe it only reveals him for what he is. Devil. Man. Prince. Temptation taken mortal form. Self-recrimination is a constant, almost comfortable companion for John now.

Sherlock's touch is hot, and soothes the chilled ache from John's back. Is it worse that a man's intimate touch melts him with pleasure? Or that he's a serf, polluting the royal flesh and soul of a prince? Compline passed hours ago in the fog of Sherlock's amorousness, and right now John is too tired to care. He lets the self-loathing squirm as it likes inside him, and nestles into the Heaven-sent warmth of feather mattress and bed companion.

Sherlock's hand continues to stroke possessively over John's back. When at last it sweeps lower to cup his buttocks, John shivers and twists a hand into the sheets. "Nnnn, no more." His arse smarts from the night's bouts of coupling, and his wrung out muscles threaten to turn to rock in the cold. He's already doomed to live out the day with the ghost of Sherlock's cock throbbing inside him.

The prince's quiet laugh vibrates through John's rib cage, but he relents, reaching instead to gently untangle John's fingers from the linens. "Careful, John. The bedclothes cost more than you do."

John allows it, and allows Sherlock to twine their fingers together, and lets himself be snugged close as though they were real lovers seeking tenderness and comfort. Sherlock tugs a few blankets loose from the snarl of brocades and woolens and tucks them up around them both.

Wrapped in luxury and warm velvet skin, John wonders again whether he's risen high or fallen low.

***