Shoulder
John
Sherlock's posture was perfect.
In fact John was sure his old drill sergeant would have fallen in love with that poker straight back and set shoulders.
The only time he had ever witnessed those shoulders slump or that spine give way was when the man was overcome with relieved laughter or restless boredom: the two extremes of Sherlock Holmes.
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Sherlock
Once; that was the number of times Sherlock had caught a glimpse of the wound that had landed John back in the civilian world.
The web of white, scar tissue that wove across his collar bone was intriguing; naturally Sherlock had stared and naturally John had instantly covered it up with something akin to a blush.
But the hardened tissue was burned into the back of his eyelids.
He felt even worse, a traitor even, knowing he was in some way thankful to the damned bullet: it had bought John Watson into his life and for that he was eternally grateful.