With a measured step, Mycroft Holmes strode out onto the stage. The pendulum-like swing of his hand, the click of his perfectly shined black brogues commanding the attention of all as he paused, staring out over the heads of the people in the crowded theater.
Though barely twenty-four years old, he already had an imposing presence. The room fell into silence as he reached into his patterned waistcoat to pull out his pocketwatch only to look up sharply at the sound of a hastily-quieted cough.
He flipped the watch open, gazed at the time, then replaced it, surreptitiously slipping a strap across the top so that it would not fly out later. He straightened his back and strode to the edge of the stage. The spotlight shimmering off of his silken black suit as he looked out into the darkness.
At the sound of a sigh from the crowd, Mycroft turned to face Sherlock who was crouched down in a lunge. His head held low, his left hand high behind his back. His dramatic slide onto stage had captured the attention of the crowd, as did his tightly-fitted black suit and slicked-back hair.
He raised his head revealing the wine-red shirt that he wore buttoned low, its color perfectly matching Mycroft's tie and pocket square. The music started, and Sherlock straightened to gaze at Mycroft, who stared back, hands in pockets. Then Mycroft held out his hand and Sherlock rushed toward him, flinging himself into his arms, the momentum spinning them around three times before Mycroft lowered him into a dramatic dip just as the trumpets began to blare. The tango had begun.
Mycroft Holmes had been an exceptionally talented youth. Top of his class at Public School. A certified genius, but with social skills and wit. He could play Piano and Cello. Speak languages fluently after the briefest of studies. And in ballroom dance, he had been a champion.
But once he had entered University, which had happened earlier for him than most, he had put aside childish pursuits and focused on his future career in the British Civil Service. So it was an anomaly, a rare favor for his only brother that had led him to be on the stage today.
The waltz was his true speciality. He had the posture for it. The stiff back, the arrogance, the grace that allowed him to sail around the floor as if he were standing still and the world was turning around him. He was weaker at the Latin dances. His hips didn't naturally shake with the beat, but his exquisite timing and the showiness of his partners usually made up for the loss.
Today, he let his back stay stiff. It was Sherlock who bent like a willow, taking the ladies part and showing how he could dance it so much better than they could. Mycroft strode forward, and Sherlock walked backward matching him step for step. He flicked his legs through and around Mycroft's knee, and then kicked his foot back arching his back in an swooping curve. They strode across the stage, and he kicked forward, so high that his foot rose above both of their heads. When Mycroft grabbed his waist to spin him, Sherlock held his foot in his hand in a showy twirl that made him look like an ice dancer. When Mycroft lifted him over his head, Sherlock spread his wings like a swan in flight.
Sherlock was at that perfect age where his height gave him presence while his youth made him limber. He lifted his leg, and Mycroft pressed it up into a standing split. Then he braced his foot against the one that Sherlock was standing on and leaned back as they clasped hands, so that between them they made the shape of a bow, Sherlock's foot the arrow pointing at the sky. Then they came back together, and continued their progress across the stage.
Mycroft looked down at his brother, and wondered at the change in the boy who had transformed in only a few years from an awkward victim of puberty to this graceful and talented teen, too good for the others in his small dance school. Despite years away from the dance, Mycroft had made an exception and become his partner so that others could see his brother as he was: A wonder, a jewel, a diamond that must be polished to show its beauty. Now everyone could see his gracefulness, as they spun in a circle, Sherlock shifting in his arms, first in an arabesque, then a backbend, then tracing a ring across the floor with his toe. Mycroft lifted him, wrapping him around his shoulders and swinging him over his chest before setting him down on the floor and making a run of rapid footwork that Sherlock matched in speed and complexity, seemingly without effort.
Mycroft lifted him again, one handed before dropping him down, head inverted and toes held high. He felt a stab of pride when the usually reserved British crowd applauded. He rotated him like a wheel to land on his feet and they were off striding toward the other end of the stage.
The move had been Sherlock's idea, first practiced at the tailor shop as they rushed to get costumes fitted for the performance. The tailor had assured them that his suit could take any dance step, and then Sherlock had done that, resulting in a stitched seam and two discreetly hidden strips of velcro.
Mycroft kicked up a leg and then flourished his foot around his brother's leg proving that he still had the skill. He smirked at the young girl in the blue dress who stood in the wings mouth open wide.
"Who is that with Sherlock?" She had asked when he had showed up to practice that afternoon. A girl in a pink dress had responded with, "You don't know? That's Mycroft Holmes, two time youth national champion." She hadn't seemed very impressed then, but now she leaned out past the curtain, risking getting caught in the edge of the spotlight as she strained to see Sherlock leap over his knee as he lunged dramatically on the edge of the stage.
They dropped down into parallel lunges, their feet sliding away from each other silently across the wooden stage floor. Then he jerked them back to standing before slowly tugging Sherlock's arms up to shoulder height. Sherlock resisted, the push and pull of their muscles adding a bit of tension to the dance. And tension was needed, a tango was a seduction after all, of the audience if not always the dancers.
In a good tango, the audience is drawn into the drama of the dance waiting for one of the partners to surrender. Mycroft smiled with his eyes knowing that it would not be he. Sherlock surrender to him then, slackening his arms and bending backwards. Mycroft lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock's waist to stop his fall before his head hit the floor. He had fallen back, eyes closed, trusting his brother to catch him. He had surrendered totally, and yet his surrender was not due to weakness. It was proof instead that he also lead, for when he fell, Mycroft was compelled to catch him. His backward steps demanded that Mycroft follow even as he bent in his arms.
Sherlock stood on his toes, and Mycroft lunged forward, encircling him with his arms. As the music rose in pitch, Mycroft lifted him above his head, dropping him down into a spin that went on and on ending with a toss that had Sherlock sliding across the floor in a split as the music wailed. Sherlock put his arms out to his side and arched his back so far that the top of his head almost touched his leg. Mycroft was frozen in a deep lunge, arms outstretched as he tried to hide his labored breathing. He wasn't as young as he used to be. The music ended, and there was a moment of silence. Then the crowd exploded with applause, and they were on their feet clapping and crying out.
Mycroft went to Sherlock and lifted him from the floor. They walked together to take their bows. He could see his old dance teacher, Mrs Paloma, in the crowd. She lived for the dance and never understood how anyone could leave it for something as boring and unimportant as Government Service. How could he explain to her that politics was as elaborate a dance as any other, requiring expert footwork and a flair for the dramatic. She bowed her head in approval and he bowed back respectfully before heading off into the wings. As he passed, a young woman in a red dress frowned saying to her partner, "They expect us to go out after that?" He smiled and walked by.
Later, at the reception following the performance, One person after another came forward to complement them and ask them if they had any plans to compete.
"No plans," he said for the tenth time that evening. "This was a one time event."
Sherlock let him do the talking, looking distractedly over his shoulder at a group of unsavory looking young gentlemen who stood in a group behind them. They must be the students that he had hoped to impress. Sherlock walked toward them eliciting a sigh from Mycroft. It never paid to appease bullies.
There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned, preparing to make his excuses again when he found himself face to face with the Permanent Undersecretary of the Foreign Office!
"Sir!" he exclaimed suddenly embarrassed at the gaudiness of his dress.
"Mycroft Holmes, isn't it? Little did I know when I was roped into attending my granddaughter's dance recital that I would see you on the stage. That was an impressive display. You are an excellent dancer."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Not the sort of thing one learns from one's official file."
"Yes sir, It is, however in the file, Sir."
"Is it? Well, witnessing it first hand is much more impressive than just reading about it. Good Show, young man!"
"Thank you, Sir."
"In fact, it put me in mind of a problem that I think that you might be able to help me solve."
"Sir?"
"Yes, you," he said waving a finger toward Mycroft's chest. "I believe that you will be just the man for the job. Certainly. To think that one of our own up and comers has such a skill." He handed a card to Mycroft. "Be at my office at ten o'clock sharp Monday morning and we'll talk."
"Yes, Mr. Secretary. I shall be there."
"Then good evening, Mr Holmes."
"Good Evening, Sir."
Mycroft stood even straighter, if that were possible and stared at the card in his hand before placing it carefully into his breast pocket.
Sherlock came up beside him and asked in a low voice. "What was that? Was that man trying to pull you?"
"Pull me? That was the Permanent Undersecretary of Foreign Affairs. He was NOT trying to pull me."
"Who?" Sherlock asked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Don't tell me you don't know your cabinet offices. What does that overpaid school teach you?"
"Politics is boring."
Mycroft's mouth fell open in shock, and he was just about to launch into a tirade when Mother arrived and pinched their cheeks saying, "Oh, I am so very proud of my boys!" In a loud voice, that mortified them both.
.
He was dressed much more conservatively in a dark grey three-piece when he stepped into the Secretary's office at precisely ten Monday morning. He looked around at the maple-wood desk, the golden pen case, and the antique globe which was sure to hold a bottle of scotch or two before sitting in an upholstered leather chair facing the man who was considered to be one of the few people really running the country.
"I've been hearing good things about you, Mr. Holmes," the Undersecretary said.
"You have?"
"Indeed I have. A wonderkind, I.Q. points through the roof, but unlike many, you are personable and able to carry yourself with dignity in social situations. Oh yes, do not doubt that your future is being discussed at the very highest levels."
"I am very pleased to hear it," Mycroft said pointedly not smiling.
"We, in the service, reward merit. It doesn't always appear so, but it is important to us that positions of power are managed by competent men."
"Yes sir."
"And so I ask you, Mycroft Holmes. Where do you see yourself in ten years?"
"Well, If I may be frank sir, in ten years I would like to hold a position that is much more central than my current position to the workings of the government. I find, inefficiencies in our policies that are worrying, and I believe that we would benefit from having someone looking at the big picture, so to speak. A kind of analyst, or consultant for the whole government who gets information from multiple sources and is able to coordinate it and offer measured advice in a timely manner. I don't know if such a position exists, but if not, I would like to create it. And I believe that I have certain skills that would make me ideal for the job."
"An analyst?"
"Yes."
"For the entire government?"
"Yes. A resource for the ministry who can speak in an informed way on all projects."
"Well, I must say that I am surprised. I had thought that you would say that you wanted my job. I didn't think that you would mention something even more ambitious. Even so, I might be in a position to help you reach your aim."
"Truly?"
"Yes, but I would need something from you in return."
"Of course you would. How may I help you, Mr. Secretary?"
Tell me, Mycroft, what do you know about Venezuela?"
"Venezuela? Not much I'm afraid. It is a Latin American country. Capital Caracas. Tropical climate. Located in Northern South America. Developing Nation status. Poverty level 50%. 96% Roman Catholic. Industries include petroleum, forestry and mining of precious metals including gold and diamonds. I believe you hold some interest in Venezuelan oil futures. Do you not? It must be causing you some distress considering the country has very recently transitioned from a capitalist to a socialist economy. This has also greatly worried our North American allies. The new president there is, I believe, Hugo Chávez?"
"Indeed, If that is something that you know little about, I'd like to hear you speak on a subject that you do know. Impressive!"
"The new government is apparently committed to reducing poverty. From what I hear, the people are enthusiastic about the change."
"They are now, but new regimes are fraught with danger. There is no telling what might happen."
"Then, if I might ask. What do you want of me?"
"I'd like you to go there. Get an idea of the place. Its stability. Listen to the elite and see if they are behind this new populist government."
"The elite? And how am I to meet the Venezuelan elite"
"There is a party. A social event for the rich and richer in the area. Everyone will be there. It is hosted by a man called Juan Baptiste Carillo, very rich, very influential. I want you to get invited to his party and use your talents at gathering and condensing information to give us an accurate picture of what is happening and what is likely to happen to the country."
"So how does my dancing come into the picture? You said that I was just the man."
"Excellent deduction, Mr Holmes. There is a contest in Latin Dance held every year in Caracas. It has been postponed, due to recent conflicts, but word is that it will be held next month. The winners of the competition are always invited to perform."
"You want me to enter a dance competition and win it? I am afraid that I can't guarantee that. It has been several years since I have competed."
"No, you don't need to win. There is a British couple who have been invited to perform some demonstration dances at the event. I am sure that they can be persuaded to let you go in their place."
"So you wish me to...what? Perform and be so good that he will invite me to his party?"
"Don't underestimate your talents, Mycroft. From what I have seen, your skill is such that he couldn't help but want to have you perform. So, are you ready to advance in the ministry, or not?"
Mycroft sat up straighter, puffing out his chest. "Yes. I am ready. I will go, but I will need some time to find a dance partner."
"Who did you dance with at the performance?"
"Oh, that was my little brother, Sherlock."
"He was excellent. Take him."
"But sir, he's a minor. I don't believe that my parents would want me to take him into a country that was so recently in conflict."
"Then I rely on your skills at persuasion to convince them."
"But sir..."
"Good Day, Mycroft," The minister said standing.
Mycroft leaped to his feet. He considered objecting again, but one look at the minister convinced him that the argument was over. He nodded his head.
"Good day, Mr Secretary," he said, and left without another word.
