Chest
John
Two weeks. They'd been on a case for two weeks and in all that time John hadn't seen anything bigger than a biscuit pass his friend's lips.
It was therefore really no surprise that he could count every rib as Sherlock pressed him into the safe shadows of the alley, like bony hills beneath his palm.
He was going to get the other man to eat even if he had to force the food down Sherlock's damned throat, he sighed, if only it would be that easy.
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Sherlock
John was in surprisingly good shape for an ex-soldier.
Granted he had put on a few pounds, probably Mrs Hudson's fault for buying all those bloody biscuits, since arriving at Baker Street but the remnants of toned muscle from military service was still very visible and very solid.
Not that Sherlock had any interest other than that of mere observation.