Hip
John
I really need to take him shopping, John Watson thought to himself, his shirts are much too small.
The slip of snowy skin between the deep purple of his shirt and the black of his trousers was a common sight; the sharp edge of his hip bone pressing taunt against the fabric.
On the other hand maybe Sherlock's obsession with too-tight shirts wasn't too bad.
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Sherlock
Back straight; forehead creased and drawn over his eyes; feet exactly a foot apart; hands on hips.
Sherlock sighed and entered his flat. John was stood there-in a mood-just as he'd pictured.
This was going to be a long and unpleasant evening.