The Centurion Club was founded 253 years ago and had been an Oxford institution since. It was originally a cricket club but eventually turned into an elite dining club on campus. Yearly there were twenty-five to thirty members of well-to-do families. Many of the current members were sons, grandsons, ECT of past members. Many former members were involved in politics (two Prime Ministers to name a few), finance, and law. The President and executive board picked new members every year, depending on how many have moved on. They were put through initiation rituals. The rituals normally revolved around drinking, partying, and the useless knowledge members need to know about the past of the club and Oxford.
In the past the members would compete in cricket but now it was a points game of the President’s choosing and they fought it out through out the school year. It had become common for the game to do with sexual conquests. Outside of the yearly race The Club rented out private dinning rooms every few weeks for “dinner”. The dinner was an opportunity to fuck with owners of upper-class restaurants by demolishing the rooms as well as getting drunk and having a good time. Most of those dinners ended up at clubs, sometimes on trains or planes off to a weekend in a location abroad.
The current President (or General as he likes to be referred to) was Jim Moriarty. His second in command was Sebastian Wilkes. The rest of the executive board was Joshua Anderson, Christopher Gregson, and Alistair Bradstreet. The five men not only run The Club but also their respective colleges. They were all intelligent but mostly terrible people. General Jim Moriarty was on another level. People who crossed him the wrong way tended to end up isolated, alone, and on more than one occasion fearing for their well-being.
The Club was private but there were events where outsiders were invited. They were not really outsiders though as they all fell within the same ‘type’. Rich, ambitious, from a good family. The Club and its followers had a reputation for causing havoc on campus and throughout Oxford. Thanks to the money of their collective families nothing had ever gone to far legally and they had never been dismissed from the school for their antics.
“That’s it then, the five new members. We’ll begin initiation week next Friday so those of you in charge of the new meat be sure to have your plebs up to date with necessary information. I’m rather looking forward to this year.”
Sherlock Holmes blankly stared at the oak paneled wall behind Jim while rolling his empty glass between his hands. The whole evening had been mind-rottenly boring. He didn’t care one bit about the new members (do they really need five more idiots in addition to the twenty-four that they currently have?) or any new rules or regulations. These meetings were the most boring part of being in The Club. He could have just skived off to do something more interesting but he would rather not have to deal with Jim’s whining.
“Here, Sherlock, you get to take care of him. I know you’ll treat him properly as we did for you last year.” Jim set a small binder in front of him with a sly smile. He was one of the five to draw the short straw. He had to mind this future member through the next two weeks. He was sure the man was as brainless and hopeless as the rest.
You may ask, how was it that Sherlock Holmes, the solitary man who didn’t want to attend Oxford or go into politics or give one damn about social status end up in this tedious club?
To begin with it was a Holmes family tradition, going all the way back to the establishment of The Centurion Club. Rouland Holmes was a founding member and since then every Holmes man who had passed through the gates had been a member. Sherlock’s recruitment was a must for the members of The Club and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. There was also the matter of Mycroft threatening to reveal Sherlock’s drug habits to Mummy and Father if he didn’t keep the family tradition (meaning he would lose his inheritance, which was the last thing he would want to do at the moment). The all access pass to the best cocaine on campus and the endless amounts of parties made things easier for him to say yes as well. He was still not sure if Mycroft really knew the extent of the access to drugs.
“Come back to mine?” Victor nudged Sherlock’s foot under the table. Most of the room had cleared out with the exception of Jim, Anderson, Seb, Henry, and Victor.
Sherlock glanced over the information in his binder. John Watson. Studying Medicine. Second Year. Uncle Hamish Watson former member. Boring. Boring. Boring. “Mmm, let’s go out.” Sherlock shut the binder and stood up quickly.
“Brilliant idea, let’s go to The Old Crow. Faith texted me to meet her over there when we were done. I say we all go join.”
Sherlock did all he could to not tell the other men to piss off. Some nights, like tonight, he wanted to spend time with only Victor, the least brainless of the bunch. Returning back to campus was difficult (thankfully he had his own flat this year so he was spared from suffering through student housing again) even after spending a summer with his family. The endless routine of his classes and labs and lectures he was facing again made his skin crawl. At least The Club did offer distractions and break from routine but he still hated most of the members.
“Fantastic, I need to drop my books back at my flat. Good thing it’s on the way, you bastards could have scheduled the time closer to my class getting out. You lads can leave what you want there.” Victor said, following Sherlock out of the room.
After leaving their things in Victor and Henry’s flat they went down to The Old Crow, “I’ve got an idea.” Jim interrupted a discussion between Seb and Anderson about what the night would entail. Sherlock couldn’t care less, he just wanted to get very high and very drunk and feel the music thump through his body, then go back to Victor’s or someone else’s flat, have a good shag and then pass out. “Pick up the most middle class person in the club.”
“Why?” Anderson snared, as if it was completely revolting to sleep with someone who had less money than him.
“It’s something a bit different.” Jim offered, checking his phone. “You need to shag out of your class sometimes. First to do it gets that bottle of champagne I mentioned earlier.”
“I’ll be taking that, boys.” Seb spoke as they walked passed the line into the club. One of the many perks of being a Centurion Man.
Sherlock immediately beelined to the bathroom with Victor for a line or two before making his way to the bar. Sherlock was sure he needed the help of chemicals survive any amount of time with these men.
Of course, Irene and the girls from The Dames Club, basically the all female version of The Centurion Club, were sitting at the booth.
“Hello, darling.” Irene looked at Sherlock as if she wanted to devour him. She was in her typical tight black dress and heels that could kill a man if used correctly.
He took a seat in the empty spot next to her. He made a mistake, one night. It had been completely experimental, really. He should have gone with another woman but Irene had been the only woman Sherlock was able to stand for extended periods of time. “Not tonight, Adler.”
“One night you’ll say yes again.” She assured him.
“Highly doubtful, unless you drug me.”
“Don’t put it past me.” He would never.
He pressed his lips together and looked over at another table not to far away surrounded by five people who looked a bit uncomfortable and out of place in the club. 20 year old man. Blue eyes. Build of a Rugby player. Shoulder injury. Old, worn trainers. Plaid button-down with a grey cardigan. Drinking the cheapest beer. Not terrible looking. No, quite good looking actually. Perfect. He was going to win Jim’s stupid little game.
“Target acquired, Holmes?” Jim wiggled his brows.
Jim said something else to him but it didn’t register as he had more important things on his mind.
”Ugh, there’s those posh bastards. Who would want to join a thing called The Century Club?” Greg tilted his head to the group of well-dressed men who had recently sat in a booth by where their friends were.
“Centurion.” John corrected Greg as they headed back to Molly, Sarah, and Mike who had found a table earlier and refused to move from it.
“What, you joining?”
“God no. My Uncle used to be in it, is all.”
“Don’t they normally go after blokes with family ties?”
John took a pull from his pint, “I didn’t get called on last year, think I’m out of the woods.”
“John’s joining The Centurion Men.” Greg announced when they finally arrived at the table.
“I am not.”
“Why are we here? We don’t fit in here.” Molly pouted. “It’s bloody expensive, too. We’re going to blow our months rent here.”
“I thought we’d go somewhere special to finish our first week back with a nice night out. Plus John has this round.” Greg said. “Oi! John, stop staring at those bastards.”
John didn’t realise he was staring at the handful of members of the Centurion Club and the girls who trailed them like puppy dogs. “No, I’m-” It was not because he longed to be a member but because he couldn’t picture his uncle as one of those blokes. Sure Uncle Hamish was well off. He hadn’t realised how well off until John received his estate when he passed away. The day he read those numbers he nearly fainted. Uncle Hamish never flaunted his money or dressed in suits, at least not in front of John.
“Probably that Irene Adler, good lookin’ bird.” Mike nodded with an appreciative look.
“Yeah, one John has no chance in hell with.” Sarah threw back her head with a deep laugh.
“Thanks, Sarah.” John glanced back to the group of men to see one staring him down. Great, probably pissed him off. Probably thought he was gawking at Irene, who was whispering something in his ear. Fantastic.
“Why’s that guy smirking at you?”
“That’s Sherlock Holmes.” Mike informed them all. “Took a Bio with him, brilliant man. Mad as a hatter but a genius. Surprised he’s in that club, doesn’t seem like the type.”
“He’s quite fit.” Molly commented. She was right, at least from what John could see in this lighting. He was all long legs, high cheekbones, and perfectly tousled dark brown.
“Still out of John’s league. The guy looks aristocratic, probably in line for the throne.”
John shrugged off the whole thing and proceeded on trying to have a good night.
Later in the bathroom he was washing his hands and the posh bastard that Mike knew from The Centurion Club sauntered in. He crowded him against the sink after John turned around. “Uh hi.”
“Hello.” The other man’s lips curled up into a devious smile. He looked like he was up to no good.
“Earlier- I wasn’t… I wasn’t looking at your girlfriend.” John was not sure why he said that because he hadn’t been confronted about it.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, not really my area, so I don’t care who you were staring at.” His voice sounded like rich velvet and John had the sudden urge to push his fingers through those silky curls. Even better yet, pushing them into that mouth, god those lips. That was a nice thought. “You however-”
“Oh. Oh. OH.” John opened his eyes wide. “You’re trying to pull me, not beat me up.”
“You’re not punching me and you’re also showing all the signs of arousal, so I’m going to deduce that you don’t care.”
He licked his lips and Sherlock Holmes chased his tongue with his lips. God damnit. Bloody buggering fuck. John had never been the guy who slept with random men or women that he picked up at nightclubs but why not, right? You only live once and all that. It’s college, you’re supposed to do that type of thing. Right...
“You live close.” It was not a question but John answered with a yes anyway. “Care for company on your walk home?”
John tried to keep cool but Sherlock’s hand was now cupping him through his jeans and “hell yes” came out a bit too desperately.
The taller man smirked, “Lead the way…”
“John, John Wah-”
“John.” Sherlock said like he had heard the name before, which was odd because of course he had. Unless if these toffs only knew people who had names like Sherlock and Archibald.
“Don’t want to know my last name?” John questioned before he reached the door.
“Don’t see why I need it. You can call me Sherlock.”
All right then, just sex it was.
On the way out of the club he saw Greg on the dance floor with some girl, he’d just have to text him later that he left. The girls and Mike had already gone to head back to the house, saying that had to work in the morning but it was mostly because they weren’t having a very good time. As a group they weren't into going out to clubs.
Without another word they made it out of the club and were two minutes away from John’s flat when Sherlock finally spoke again, “You play rugby but not this year.”
“No, had surgery over the summer. Do you stalk me or something?” Fantastic, he was bringing back a stalker to shag.
“No, I deduced.”
“Yes. Everyone has a story and most of it is written all over them if you look hard enough. The way you carried your drinks back from the bar to your table. You did so with your right hand but you carry your wallet and your phone in your left pockets. When you reached into your pockets you winced. Why don’t you just use your right-hand side for that stuff? Too stubborn to break your habit? Trying to be manly? You can’t be that stupid to keep bothering your shoulder over and over.”
“I’m stubborn.” John frowned. His doctors told him he had to be mindful but sometimes those can be a difficult thing to do.
“I’ll keep the shoulder in mind.” Sherlock said. “Unless you want it to hurt.”
“You rather be on the giving end.” He announced loudly and John was very happy that no one was around to hear.
“I-yeah-ah.” If he didn’t have that last pint maybe he would be able to form better and more coherent sentences.
“That’s fine with me.” Sherlock crossed the street a half second after John. “I have no STIs but we’ll be using protection, obviously.”
“Yeah, ah, of course. I don’t have any either.”
They finally arrived at the old house John shared with the others. Luckily only the front light was on when they opened the door. He didn't feel like having a chat with Molly or Sarah at the moment because they would just look at him disapprovingly.
John led them up to his room on the top floor where he had the only room there. No sooner did he close the door Sherlock Holmes was right on him, kissing him and driving him back towards the bed.
When he hit the edge of his mattress he collapsed on top, bringing Sherlock with him. The kissing and rutting didn't last too long, just long enough for them to both be hard and ready, and John was a bit surprised, “You move fast.” John said was the other man is undoing his button and flies.
“I’m sorry, shall we slow down and have a chat?” He punctuated his question by ripping down John’s trousers and pants then he tossed them to the side. “You don’t do this often-ever.”
“Nope.” John struggled getting out of his shirt.
Sherlock just hummed a response as he rid himself of his clothes. “Condoms and lube? Tell me you have some.”
He hopped off the bed with grace, “Should have assumed.” Sherlock dug around before moving back to John, straddling his hips this time. “Don’t worry, you’re still fucking me. I just rather like this angle. I’m going to prepare myself. It’ll be faster. Would you like to watch?”
John’s mouth didn’t seem to work but Sherlock cocked his head and grinned down at him like he could read all the thoughts running through his head. The other man moved so John had a view of Sherlock Holmes’ perfect arse and back.
“Fuck.” He breathed as Sherlock slowly pressed a finger into himself.
“Enjoying the view?” Sherlock made a nice show of it but John felt like anything this mad man did looked like a show. He rolled his head and arched his back when he found that beautiful little bundle of nerves… well John assumed because of the noise he made combined with his body’s reaction.
The lines of Sherlock’s back and shoulders were amazing and outside of a couple of freckles and one mole in the middle of his back he was unblemished. John grabbed Sherlock’s slim hips just so he could touch something as another finger joined up to the knuckle.
“Put this on.” Sherlock tossed the condom and lube over his shoulder with a free hand. It landed next to John’s right hand.
John did as he was told and soon enough Sherlock was sinking down onto him, still facing away from him. “Fuck, you feel fantastic.” His fingers dug into those pale hips again.
“Thank you.” He said once he was seated on John’s lap.
“Thank you?” John repeated with a laugh but his train of thought was lost when Sherlock rose up then slammed down again.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Sherlock repeated the action one more time before John’s brain could catch up to tell him to meet Sherlock’s thrusts.
The bed was squeaking and Sherlock was not exactly being quiet, surely they had woken up the house. John finally understood the terms ‘fucked into the mattress’ and ‘topping from the bottom’ properly. He was also positive he’d never had sex feel so great before.
“You better be close.” Sherlock moaned the last word.
“Yes- yeah - oh fucking hell.” John scraped his nails down Sherlock’s spine.
Sherlock was the first one to come with a guttural noise. He tensed around John and produced some pretty amazing noises, driving John to follow not very far behind.
“That was-that was-fucking fantastic.” John tried to get himself back together when Sherlock finally climbed off of him and wiped himself off with John’s shirt.
“You need to get out more.” He got back into bed.
“I’m going to clean up. If you need water or anything it’s just downstairs.” Sherlock nodded with his eyes closed.
When he came back to his room Sherlock was out cold and snoring slightly. John crawled into bed, trying not to disturb him. It didn'ttake too long for him to fall asleep with the mix of liquor and sex making him tired.
The next morning Sherlock was gone before John woke up, which was no surprise. He wasn’t exactly expecting cuddles and a lie-in with the man.
“So, you slept with that bastard from the club? Could have been a bit quieter last night according to Mike and Molly.” Greg grinned at John when he entered the kitchen. John could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks.
“Well, I guess he wasn’t out of your league then, cheers.” Sarah raised her coffee mug at him. “Bit of an arse isn’t he though.”
“He’s- ah - I guess.”
“Didn’t talk much? John, you slag!” Sarah teased. “I asked him if he wanted coffee this morning and he told me to piss off.”
“You won’t be seeing him again so I guess that doesn’t matter.” Greg shrugged and patted John on the back. “It was a one night thing, right?”
“Yeah.” As Sherlock said last night, obviously.