Ankle
John
A flash of rounded bone; cold, white skin stretched tightly over like a canvas greeted John's eyes as his friend knelt down to examine the body.
It looked so fragile, the ankle of a victorian lady: how had it ever managed to hold the man up as he raced around the capital?
Like almost everything about Sherlock Holmes it was stronger than it looked.
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Sherlock
John's feet were pressed against his leg as he sat watching crap TV. His jeans had crept up a little and exposed his ankle to the warm air of the flat; that little slice of tanned skin, those wispy golden-brown hairs, they were far more interesting than the flashing pictures playing out on the screen.