Work Text:
It wasn't the breasts that bothered John, or the vagina. Those were rather lovely body parts to have, when all was said and done, and he wasn't really interested in the pain and scarring and general fuss which would be required to remove and reshape them.
No, it was the looks. It was the other men eyeing him speculatively when he wore a comfortable shirt with a wide collar, when he flashed a bit of shaved leg. It was the women who looked at him oddly when he told them his profession, or announced that maybe all he needed was 'a nice husband' to straighten him out and get him to give up his foolish dreams of being a surgeon, of handling blood and death and bodies.
So he proved them wrong. He stopped shaving his legs and started testosterone patches, shaved his face and bound his chest. It wasn't that he hated the shape of his body- it was that he hated what the shape of his body caused people to do.
Lumpy jumpers, loose jeans became his calling card. When the army accepted him- and joy of joys, his examining surgeon listed him as male on his file- and fatigues became his expected form of dress, he stopped caring about the curve of his hips and the cut of his waist.
Getting shot hurt, and there was bugger-all he could do about the surgery to repair it- he'd stopped wearing the binder months ago, and what with the loss of fatty tissue and the loose fatigues, he hadn't needed it.
Still, it was embarrassing to have to explain that no, he hadn't been lying about his gender, he just had a different body shape. And as a soldier who had been shot for his country, he received an honorable discharge and was allowed to keep his rank of Captain.
And that was fine. No one doubted him or his gender in London, because no one was close enough to matter. And honestly, that was the best side effect of being shot that he could think of.