A/N: So I have johnsarmylady to thank for this one. I wasn't sure if I was up to writing fluff yet. It was difficult to even think about working on the fourth part of this series until she said something & I was like, "YES!" & here we are. Blame her. I do:P Oh and EE? I guess I was wrong – go figure. Never say never or at least never say it might be awhile.

Thanks guys:)

John slowly climbed the stairs. Between work at the clinic, running around all hours, worrying what new experiment was going to be sprung on him next, worrying why nothing new had been tried and just plain Sherlock, he was exhausted.

As he climbed closer, he was vaguely aware and slightly surprised to smell something appetizing coming from the kitchen. His first thought was Mrs. Hudson had made dinner. But she was away. He then wondered if it was take-away, but it didn't smell like any of the usual.

He stepped through the door and a wondrous sight met his eyes. The flat was clean. Completely, unequivocally clean.

"What the fu…?

He stopped short because a figure had stepped behind him, hand on his collar and carefully removed his coat for him. That same hand was laid upon his elbow and he was ushered to the table, which was set with china, silverware and candles. John, stunned, let his chair be pulled out for him. He sat down, mouth hung open as Sherlock proceeded to serve him an elegant gourmet meal. While eating he wondered whose flat he had accidentally wandered into. He was even asked about his day. He really couldn't have said what he thought, how he replied or what the questions were.

Plates and extra food were whisked away without any complaint and after dinner a still puzzled John was lead to a straight back chair where he was plunked down. He heard the sound of hands being rubbed together briskly and then incredible, long, magic fingers were applied with correct, precise precision and rubbed into tense and sore neck and shoulder muscles, special consideration paid to his left.

John's brain slowly, slowly, melted into a puddle of goo as the tight muscles were carefully, thoroughly kneaded and massaged into submission. The same elegant fingers wound their way into his hairline and worked at the headache that had started a few days earlier. Sherlock then leisurely but deliberately worked around so he was standing in front of John and continued to work the same talented hands on muscles in the front. John dared to crack a languid eye in Sherlock's direction and he was rewarded with the sight of the detective totally absorbed in paying the utmost attention to the muscles in John's chest.

He tried to speak and nothing came out. He cleared his throat and attempted a second time.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm, yes?"

"What's going on?"

The younger man glanced at John, "I am attempting romance to seduce you John."

There was silence.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Is it working?"

"Oh god yes!"

More silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"This would be so much better lying down."

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at John. There was a faint pink colour to his cheeks and a flash of hope in his eyes. His eyebrows rose, forming a question.

John stared at him, supplying the answer.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I'll get the gun oil, you wait on the bed."

A/N: There will be one more part to this & I will explain about the gun oil. It's not what you are thinking; get your mind out of the gutter! Or maybe it is:P