3 boring days went – actually, dragged –by, spent with mostly relaxing on the beach and reading one of his medical journals that he hadn't had time to read at home, when something interesting happened.
John was lying under a huge umbrella and stared absent-mindedly at a group of divorcees enjoying the sun in the water, as they were sitting – more like floating around – in colourful swim rings, looking… well, hot. Drops of water ran down their long and tanned legs, their breasts looking edible in those small bikinis. God, I need to get laid, he thought while his eyes were glued to the desirable bodies – because they were only bodies for him, no more – in the water.
He was dragged back to Earth by a sudden burst of noises. Voices, to be precise; he could hear at least two people who were arguing with each other rather animatedly. He turned around to look at them and absorbed the novelty of a scene playing out in front of him, not more than 10 metres away.
"I told you, there is no need to yell at me. I understood you perfectly. I just simply couldn't be bothered to answer you."
"But you are supposed to be helping people! She was terrified and she could have drowned there."
"Oh, please, it was only a medusa." He threw his hands up in the air and simultaneously rolled his eyes. "The only thing that could have caused her death is her uncontrollable flailing and her rather over-active imagination. One sting couldn't have killed her."
"I don't know who gave this job to you, but they definitely made a terrible mistake." And with that, the stout woman dragged the shaking young girl away from the stunning man. He was dressed in the hotel's red uniform – and it hung low on his hip, hipbones moving visibly under his skin with every shift of his body. He was strikingly pale for a lifeguard who spent his summer in the sun, but his dark curls gave a beautiful contrast to his skin colour. His blue eyes followed the woman as she stumped in the sand, leaving little puffs of fine sand in the air, then rolled his eyes once again and turned to go back to his watch post. On his way, he swept his eyes over the people who watched the argument and John felt his eyes wide, when those piercing eyes locked with his. He felt embarrassed for staring at him not just for a few moments, but all his strength left him and he couldn't turn his head away.
The other man raised an eyebrow at him – God, he looked seductive! -, and stalked to his chair under a bright red umbrella. He lifted up a book or a journal, John wasn't sure from this distance, and started reading, paying absolutely no attention to what was happening around him. Well, his work ethics left much to be desired, John would give the woman that. But that was the last thing that came to John's mind when he looked at the man sitting gracefully in the ridiculous red folding chair, with one of his shapely legs bent over his other knee.
John forgot the divorcees splashing water at each other rather quickly, when the sight of this man hit him. And his voice… John couldn't help but think how it might sound when he used it to seduce people, how efficient he might be. 'Ah, Harry would say he's a chick magnet. She'd probably be right', he thought. He knew he shouldn't be thinking such thoughts about a strange man, but it was all because of his damned sexual frustration and lack of sexual partners for more than 6 months now. Though there was something refreshing about the lifeguard's rather insulting behaviour, too; not the usual fawning attitude hotel workers had when they anticipated tips from the guests.
John hoped that with the appearance of this man, the remainder of his time would be less dull.
Lestrade gave him a rather amused look when he entered the common room for their morning meeting. He told Sherlock what his schedule would be, where he should go and basically treated him like an incompetent imbecile. 'As if I had no idea what a lifeguard's job is…'
When Lestrade said everything he wanted to – "Mr Holmes, please, do your best to look like this is what you've been doing your whole life. And I mean the lifeguarding, not the undercover work." – Sherlock went back to his room to change his clothes.
He hated the uniform as soon as he put it on – well, he hated it from the moment he'd seen it. The only consolation he had was that he wasn't one for having constant fights with bodyweight and he looked acceptable in it. He put on a thick coat of sunscreen (50 SPF, thank you very much), though he did not intend to spend any time under direct sunlight. He looked at his reflection in the mirror on the bathroom door once again, twisted his lips in distaste. He put his backpack on his shoulder, grabbed his name tag, hung it around his neck and left the room.
The weather was hot and humid, though it was only around 9 o'clock ('God, the last time I got up this early…'). He went straight to the locker rooms that were situated between the sandy shore and the main building, where grass met sand. Lestrade said that he should look for the storage room, where he would find his 'float', the life saving device the lifeguards used here. The room was right next to the main door, and when he opened the door, a lifebelt that hung above a shelf next to the door almost hit him in the face. He barely had time to duck his head and after a swing, he caught it to make it stop. After that he examined the room and saw the float. It was the same red colour as the uniform, so it wasn't hard to pick out. When he picked it up, he turned it around a few times, then clutched it under his armpit and left the room, then the building. He went straight to the red umbrella on the beach, on which yellow letters formed the word 'salvavidas'.
He put the float and his name tag down, sat on the ugly folding chair, and stretched his legs out – careful not to reach further than the shade of the umbrella. From his bag he pulled out a medical journal to finish reading an article about a new way to detect intentional contradictions between facial expressions and verbal statements.
He was captivated by the possible use of this new technique, when suddenly a fat woman appeared in front of him, splashing and spitting water everywhere while her face grew purple. She was talking about a medusa, her daughter, Sherlock's obvious lack of interest in other's well-being and some kind of lawsuit and an intention to make Sherlock's life a living hell.
Sherlock handled the situation as he always did, and told the woman that he wasn't the one being impossible and that he'd handled the situation perfectly. The woman left him with angry shouts and accusations – because they were accusations, weren't they? – so he could turn back to his reading.
When he looked over the astonished faces, he stopped his scanning and stared directly into the eyes of a man. He was in his mid-thirties, travelled alone – possibly in hope of finding women with rather loose morals to share his bed with – and was bored out of his mind. He flushed a little as Sherlock's eyes rested on him. Why was he feeling embarrassed? Because he was staring at him and got caught or because he felt ashamed for staring at him, a man, when there were 6 women in scarce clothing playing in the water? Interesting. At least there was something – someone – who was a tiny bit interesting. As Sherlock continued to watch the blond man's every move, he felt a steady growth of the well-known sensation – boredom. Not even this man was interesting to him.
At least for a couple of hours, until he bumped into his boss on his way back to his room – his actual boss, not Lestrade, but the man who coordinated the work of the hotel's staff – who told him that he was about to help out that evening at a dancing event. Sherlock thought he would have to set tables and watch doors, but he was surprised when the boss asked him about his dancing abilities.
A little taken aback, he told him that yes, he knew how to dance, and yes, he participated in ballroom dance courses – one of the darkest times of his teen years, when Mummy wanted him to be a good party for socially acceptable girls throughout England. He was then shoved into a locker-room full of Spanish machos, who were changing from their standard uniforms into tight black shirts and black trousers that were a bit too tight for Sherlock's taste.
He was cataloguing the people around him, trying to deduce why the hell was he of all people needed, but the only thing he could observe was the obvious – the hotel was almost full and the staff was not enough for the party. Sherlock would have put his life on it that Mycroft will know about him dancing with the guests in about 10 minutes after it happened.
But he had no more than a few minutes to stew in his own juice when Molly jogged to his side and threw him a scornful look.
"Why are you still wearing your clothes?" She looked like she needed all her restraint not to tap her foot.
"I'm rather sure this is neither the time nor the place to be nude, Molly," Sherlock didn't even spare a glance at her, just idly scanned the room, occasionally admiring a round form of a male behind when one of the soon-to-be dancers bent over.
"Of course I don't want you to be nude, Sherlock," Molly squeaked. "You should be getting changed." And with that she threw clothes at him and pushed a pair of shining black shoes in his hands, while he was staring at her. "When you finish, follow the others and they'll tell you what to do and where to go." She turned on her heels and left Sherlock there to silently curse all the gods and higher powers that allowed this shame to be brought on him.
When he came out of his reverie, he looked around and went to sit down on a bench to change is clothes. Not surprisingly, they all fitted him perfectly; Sherlock was sure that his dear brother was more than happy to provide the organizers with any information needed. It altered Sherlock's hypothesis about Mycroft only knowing after the programme started – it was obvious that his overeager brother already knew that this dreadful event - probably delightful for Mycroft - would also involve Sherlock as a dancer, who'd have to entertain the guests.
Sherlock smoothed his clothing as he stood up and left the locker-room with the other men. They passed the dining area on their way and entered a dimly lit hall that was framed by two rows of tables and chairs all around the walls. The dancers walked to the tables at the far end of the hall where the tables were a bit further away from the wall and several chairs and small desks were situated for the entertainers in one corner. Some of them grabbed a bottle of water from the tables and drank mouthfuls of it, others sat down and chatted. Women joined the men, who looked mesmerizing in their dark burgundy dresses that hugged their figures like a second skin. Their hair was pulled back to a soft chignon, and their slender ankles led the onlooker's eyes to muscular calves and a few inches wide area of smooth skin on their thighs.
After a couple of minutes the guests started emerging through the door from the dining area and the room filled with noises while the band, that was next to the dancers' resting place, started playing a soft tune.