John hadn't expected this escort lark to actually work. He'd figured he'd lose his nerve after two appointments and move into Harry's spare with his tail tucked behind his limping leg. He was a washed out healer gone soldier without any prospects. He wasn't tall, dark, or especially handsome; and, his fashion sense had surpassed 'dire' to become 'terminal' sometime after he'd donned his first set of desert camo. Or earlier, if Harry was to be believed. By all accounts, John was not what typical women were searching for when they talked about Prince Charming. Nor men. He was just a doctor that had been a soldier, who didn't feel much like either anymore. But somehow, for some reason, people wanted him anyway.

Months in, he remained baffled as to how his schedule managed to stay booked. It wasn't that John doubted his skill. He was an exceptional lover and he had scores of exes who kept his number on hand for that reason alone. But getting that far wasn't something that came easily to John, nor had it ever.

John knew he wasn't what most would consider conventionally attractive: His nose stuck out that bit too far, his eyes had their own baggage to check on flights, and his hair was the embodiment of 'nothing special'—and wasn't that him wrapped in a bow? He was easily forgotten and unmanageable to boot; the metaphor practically tortured itself. More so than being effectively invisible, John was what some had, in the past, charitably described as 'petite'. He was below average height for British men and he was slight, if a great deal solider than those physically confronting him seemed to expect.

Escort work had given him a crash course in getting comfortable with his sexuality. The market for male escorts was dog eat dog. Most takers were men, because the stigma for women purchasing sex was heaven high. John had learned to deal: he was cheap and courteous, made an art of being solicitous. Amateurs took what was offered and learned quickly the risk of attaching strings. John had lost a number of sure bets—clients, not horses—doing that very thing. Hunger made him malleable, stretching the adaptability Afghanistan had loaned him to permanence. John rolled with the punches the way he rolled with bodies soft and hard.

He got an email from an old friend in the interim:

To: Idiot Boy (John Watson)

Subject: Cheers from the Front

I'm sending you a care package from the lads with a message: stay clean, stay safe, stay alive. Helmand is still a blistering desert paradise, but not the same without your wretched mug to ruin the view. The 5th needs her sharpshooting port-a-medic. The drop-in we got now can't shoot for shit. It's terrifying, but we'll do what we always have: we'll pick up the slack.

I'll be in London for leave in a few months. Don't get dead before I get my chance to ride you 'round the goalpost. Last I heard, Murray and Leveaux were jockeying for first rights to your maidenhead. Bless. Expect arsehole messages from them soon; they get net privileges after me. They and the rest send their mildly homoerotic love.

Ta,

Sahar