So basically, I was watching "Love Actually" for the trillionth time with my best buddy –NerdySkeleton- and we were laughing over Martin's lopsided nipples and how he plays a porn star named John, and… headcanon accepted... (And yeah. Sorry to ruin shirtless Martin for you, but if you're looking at him, his right nipple is totally higher than the left, and also, it's kind of… vertical, I suppose is the best way to put it, while the other is horizontal. So… make jokes as you may…)

This is my first Sherlock fic, so be kind! RP-ing like hell isn't the exact same as writing it… And me and Sherlock Holmes don't exactly have the best understanding. I'm a John, so the how the Holmes' mind works is generally a mystery to me. Anyway. Don't hate me.

John paused in his walk past the kitchen table in his tiny apartment, taking the second to finger through the readily growing stack of bills. He wasn't exactly sure when things had gotten so bad financially, but he did know that it had been long enough ago to have him seriously considering joining the military as to get some sort of help. He was already living in the shadiest part of London in the smallest flat he could find; he didn't exactly know where to go from here. He did know, however, that it was impossible for him to get the day job he so desperately needed while trying to study his way through medical school.

The good not-quite-yet-doctor shook himself out of his stupor and snagged his key off the table, throwing his coat and scarf about his shoulders. He had been invited out for a round of drinks with Harry at a pub by her house –his sister's treat, of course- and now that the sun was setting, he figured he'd best be on his way. He locked the door to his flat behind him, stepping out on the street and noticed that it wasn't too early for the escorts that lived about this part of town to take up their corners.

"Howya, Johnny!" a leather-bound girl hanging off the pole of a street sign called out to him. He scratched at the back of his neck before offering up a wave to his next-door neighbor.

"Good afternoon, Miss Holden," he replied, a little too uncomfortable with her occupation to refer to her with her first name. Apparently, it was "Butterfly", but John didn't believe it for a second. It's not like he looked down on prostitutes or anything –Butterfly was a nice girl, she let him borrow sugar whenever he ran out in the middle of making tea- but she was a prostitute. A female prostitute. And John was a man… A lonely man. And sometimes certain things like that just got in the way of a first name basis.

"Ready to take that blow yet? I told you, cute neighbors get it for free!" And John immediately flushed, burying his face into the collar of his coat and quickly walking away.

"No, Miss Holden, I'm not interested in anything from you still, thank you anyway," he said in a rush, still hurrying off and ignoring the giggles of Butterfly's friends behind him. He seriously had to start making some money and move away from this part of town… Especially if he wanted to continue being a man with all the right morals… Maybe he should ask Harry for some help…

John kicked angrily at the curb and wondered when his life had fallen apart. Stupid Harriet with her stupid one-too-many's, and her promises to pick up the tab, and her failures to do so … She said she could pay this time. Of course, she always said she could pay, but John had believed her this time because he needed to be able to do, and then… then Harry just had to suck and pull out an empty wallet, leaving John to pick up the check, which he really hadn't been able to do. Especially because Harry had managed to down more alcohol in a single sitting than all the men at the stripper bar down the street could consume in a week.

Which, yeah, John knew just how much liquor that was. Andrew Figgins, the owner, lived right upstairs, and they talked sometimes... Just another reason John needed Harriet's help and just another reason he was so completely frustrated with her. She had a job. And a working girlfriend living with her. If she would stop wasting money to fuel her ridiculous alcohol addiction like their father, than maybe he could afford a place not surrounded by muggers and strippers. Or, hey, maybe if his dad hadn't been an alcoholic also, than he'd have some support while he tried to get an education.

Ridiculous as that idea probably was.

He didn't realize he was listening to Butterfly's conversation until the sound of her shrieking pierced through his thoughts. He stopped glaring at the sidewalk beneath his feet just in time to catch the big man on her porch slap her across the face. He quickly rushed over. "Hey, hey, what's going on here?" he asked, heroism showing. Butterfly just glowered at the man who'd just assaulted her.

"Stefan's just punishing me when I did nothing wrong," she spat angrily, swiping her hair away from her glitter-covered cheeks. Stefan –apparently that was his name- bristled.

"Except you diddo something wrong, you little sh-"

"Okay, relax," John ordered, catching the man's hand as he attempted to smack Butterfly again. "What did she do?" The fighting parties crossed their arms.

"She scared away my best blonde actor for this porno I signed her up for," Stefan answered blatantly, and John seriously debated walking away right then and there. It wasn't his job to sort out the problems of a prostitute and her pimp; however, John was seriously trying to uphold all of his principles while living in this part of town, no matter how hard it was, and saving damsels in distress was definitely his kind of thing. He looked to Butterfly for conformation. She shrugged.

"I got syphilis," she answered freely, and John –for all his medical training- blanched. "Now he won't shoot with me. But it's all cleared up now," she tagged on. And that was when John decided that some damsels are just too hard and complicated to save, and he ducked his head in defeat.

"Right, okay, never mind. See you later Butterfly," he adjourned, turning on his heel and speed walking away before Stefan's voice stopped him.

"Actually, kid. Are you looking to come into any money?" the rather large man asked him, and John couldn't help but turn back to face him. Yes. Yes, he needed money, and it would be really awesome to have it soon. Stefan smirked. "Cause it would seem that I have an open spot for a blonde in a little movie I'm making. You know. If you're interested," he offered, and John bit his lip. He did have standards after all… But then Stefan wrote a figure on a slip of paper from his suit pockets and slipped it to him, and John was basically signed on, what with a salary like that.

"For the both of us or just me?" he asked, gesturing to Butterfly and paling at the thought of coming into that much money either way. Stefan's Grinch-like grin grew.

"Just you, kid. I'm not making a cheap, college film project, here. This is business." John sighed, not really wanting to be convinced by just money, but… "Aw, come on. It doesn't have to be your life. Just a couple nights of posing for a camera, and you're into some cash. I suggest you take it. It's not like you'll be stuck doing it all the time."

And John caved.

"The name's Joh-errr… Jack. Call me Jack. Sign me on as Jack," he told the director's assistant on his first day of work. The scrawny guy with a clipboard just nodded, pushing up his glasses. He didn't know why he lied… Actually, he did. He didn't want people to Google "John Watson" and find the DVD copy of Naked Ninjas. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he cursed the fact that his first experience doing all… this wasn't at least slightly normal. "Jack Reel," he specified, his mind going from porn to movie to film to film reel… The assistant scribbled down his fake last name and passed him a thin black mask and a samurai sword with its holster.

"Here's your costume," the other kid said, and John frowned, taking it from him.

"Am I supposed to just wear my clothes with these then?" he asked, and the shrimpy guy in front of him actually had the nerve to laugh, making John feel incredibly self-conscious, before he walked away, leaving him with his question unanswered. He looked around the expensive hotel sauna they were using as a set and out the door to see a bathroom just outside. He was just making his way over when Butterfly caught his arm.

"Might as well strip out here, sweetie. We're all about to see anyway," she told him with a wink. John must have pulled a face at the idea of exposing himself before all the creepy looking camera guys because Butterfly leaned in to whisper in his ear. "Don't worry, honey. I'll get hot enough to relieve your performance anxiety, hmm?" she offered, and if anything, it just made John want to shrivel up and die that much more. He took his shirt of and immediately there was an uproar.

"We can't just show them like that."

"Stefan, you're supposed to make sure they're not disfigured."

"Maybe if we only film him from the back and the side, no one will notice…?"

"We're gonna have to pump a lot of steam in here to try to cover it up…"

"What's wrong?" John asked, turning to Butterfly and completely confused. She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder and frowned, glancing up at him like he was stupid for even asking. He subconsciously crossed his arms over his chest, embarrassed.

"Sweetheart, your nipples are completely off."

"Jack Reel? Right through here, sir," said the mousey director's assistant upon his arrival. Why are they always so awkward and scrawny…? John thought as he climbed out of the limo that had been sent to fetch him. He was definitely getting more well-known in his industry, which half sickened him and half elated him. Sickened because John had never set out to be a porn star, and elated because more acknowledgement meant more jobs, and more jobs meant more money. Plus, it meant that he could put all of that "Astro-naughties 13" and "On-Coming Rockets" crap behind him.

All that, and it was kind of nice walking down the street and seeing his viewers' faces whiten as he went by.

Even if catching middle-aged women doing it was a little creepy.

"You know about the nipple situation, right?" he checked, not knowing what else to say as he walked down the unfortunately long hallway of the hotel he was working at. It felt too quiet and empty to be walking in silence. The boney assistant –Eric, his name tag read- nodded his head immediately and quite violently at that.

"Of course, Mr. Reel! Everyone in the business knows!" When John crossed his arms over his chest awkwardly, Eric quickly tried to remedy the situation. "But, of course, that's not to say everyone knows. Just the people who, you know, see. It's not like they're all out there, like, gossiping about your nipples, or how high which one is or isn't, or how one is vertical and the other horizontal or anything…" he tried to assured him, but failed miserably. John just sighed, stepping through the door of the hotel pent house suite and hesitating before stripping his shirt off. Just this last one…

John didn't want to be a porn star anymore. It was kind of getting old… Jack Reel was maybe a bit too famous, and he was still a bit too uncomfortable, and the people he was surrounding himself were a bit too not legit. Apparently, despite the general class of most of the people he had been recently been working with between classes, there were a lot of bad dealings and bad air around his business. Not that John didn't enjoy a bit of adventure, but sometimes you just wanted to feel safe in your own home…

And that was how John officially decided to go off to war. Because even if it was more dangerous than London, at least it wasn't home. He wouldn't expect to be safe there, and somehow that relieved him.

John came back from Afghanistan only to remember he was poor. And being poor sucked. And having a limp sucked. And being so alone sucked. And John really didn't want to stay in his same old, grungy flat from his student days just thinking about the sand and the heat and the blood anymore. He wanted to get out and do.

And maybe he still had a phonebook of pornographers in his drawer.

And maybe his limp seemed to disappear whenever he was filming.

And maybe he liked the chance to remember that there were people alive out there, despite all those who had died in his hands, and maybe having sex with a bunch of nice girls he knew from before helped him do that, and maybe hanging out occasionally will all the people from his past actually helped out too, even if now they had to worry about masking his nipples and his scars and they all cracked jokes when he walked around the set with a cane. And sure, that made him feel a bit washed up, and sure, his jobs weren't as completely tactful as they were before, but that didn't matter for long because eventually he found Sherlock, and he could sloppily kiss everyone goodbye.

John walked into 221B to hear some incredibly familiar breathy noises emanating from the television. Oh, God, no. He hesitantly walked in, only to find Sherlock staring intently at the TV screen as Jack Reel thrust himself deep into… into Butterfly? Oh, no… No, no, no… He couldn't have found- "You make a great naked ninja, John. You can't even tell how lopsided you are…" John dropped the bag of groceries he was carting off on the kitchen table and rubbed his temples.

"I was going to tell you," he said as means of reply, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed him a rather full box of DVDs. His DVDs.

"No you weren't," he corrected him. "But you can pick the next one, anyway."

My dad kept popping in while I was writing this. Eeeek. Awkward. Inwardly, I was praying on repeat, "Don't look at what I'm writing, don't look at what I'm writing!" Of course, that's kind of a prayer I don't think God would want to answer…

Also, I don't watch porn. So sorry if some of this was… wrong? I don't know. I'd like to think that the porn watchers reading this would be classy enough to not call me out on it though, cause I don't really wanna know what you watch when you're home alone. ;D Also, I hope you like my crazy porn titles. I worked pretty hard on Astro-naughties.

And lastly, I felt too guilty to properly edit this, so sorry for mistakes!