"Sherlock. Take of your shoes and socks."
"Whatever for, John?"
"Do you trust me?"
"Typically."
John gives him the look. The 'are-we-really-going-to-argue-over-this' look.
Sherlock glares back with his 'I'm-going-to-deduce-whatever-you-are-trying-to-do-to-me' look for three seconds, then appears to throw caution to the wind and does as requested.
"What do you feel?"
"Damp tendrils of organic plant matter."
John rolls his eyes. And sighs.
"Really, Sherlock? That's all you feel…? Close your eyes."
"John, I really don't understand the purpose of…"
"Just do it."
Sherlock takes another sideways glance at his friend, sees the resolute soldier not willing to have his order disobeyed.
He drops his eyelids. "It feels… ah… well…"
"Wiggle your toes around."
"Oh! I see. Hmmmm. It's rather… soft. Pleasant. Slightly tickling."
"Good. And how does that make you feel?"
Sherlock contemplates for a barely a moment.
"It makes me feel young."
"Good. And what else."
"It makes me wonder how this grass would feel under the rest of me."
Sherlock grabs John around the waist and yanks him sideways, as he twists around to sink them both to their knees, then over on their sides. Sherlock rolls, pulling John on top to lie pressed together, both a bit breathless and laughing.
"You are quite clever, John."
"I guess you are rubbing off on me."
"Would you like that?"
"A bit."