This chapter, and indeed this entire story is based on this tango - Tango bajo la lluvia (youtu. be /-irzqZ5DiPQ).

Mycroft and Sherlock sat in a restaurant, the kind with umbrella covered tables out front, and a door that stayed open even in the rain. It was raining now. A light, warm rain that was completely unlike the ones in London. Mycroft ordered a scotch and nursed it, swirling the glass with one hand, as he glared outside at the people passing by. Sherlock tried to order whisky for himself, but Mycroft intercepted it and ordered him a Coca cola instead. If he was annoyed, he recovered quickly, enjoying the spectacle of seeing so many new and different people.

"This is a disaster," Mycroft said. "My first important assignment, and it's a total disaster."

"Oh come now, Mycroft. We've only just arrived. You'll think of something." Sherlock said before downing most of his drink in one go.

Mycroft swirled the glass again. "Do you suppose that they serve tea in this place? It says that it's a restaurant. How pathetic, to be homesick the first day in a new country. It's hopeless."

Sherlock stared intensely at a family sitting in the corner of the restaurant. "That woman's child was not fathered by her husband."

Mycroft turned and looked at them. "Obviously not with that prominent widow's peak." He looked around the place. "The bartender, he's the father."

Sherlock turned and stared at him. "You think so? Oh. Now I see. It's not just the widow's peak which is a dominant trait. It's also the eyes, and the red pigment in his hair. It's obvious. Then again, for all we know, they could have been married to each other before?"

"Married? Of course not, Sherlock. Just look at his hair! He's a serial philanderer. Frequent sexual intercourse raises dihydrotesterone levels and increases onset of male-pattered baldness." Mycroft stared at the man who smiled back at him. "And he's bisexual." Mycroft said pointedly turning away to look out the window. Then he visibly jumped. "My God!"

"What is it?"

"That's Emilia Isabella Carillo, daughter of Juan Carillo. She's one of the people on my list."

"Where?"

"She's on that balcony overlooking the street. If only I could get up there… but it's hopeless. That's not a restaurant. She must be at a private residence. We could never reach her. Besides, how would we introduce ourselves. 'Hello, we came from Britain to pole you on your political views.' This is worse than if I had never seen her."

"But if she's right there, maybe she can see us."

"See us? See us do what?"

"Dance."

"Dance? Where?"

"In the street, like we did before. If we dance in front of the restaurant, she's sure to see us and ask us to the party."

"But, we can't just dance in the street. It's raining. We'll ruin our shoes."

"Then take them off!"

"There's no music."

"There's a stereo behind the bar."

" Sherlock, you can't possibly be serious."

"Do you want to succeed in this mission of yours and go back victorious so that you can begin your megalomaniac bid to take over the British Government, or do you want to end your days in a little office doing nothing but reflecting on what a failure your life has become because you didn't listen to your little brother when he was right? Take off your shoes! I'm going to talk to the barman."

Sherlock rose to his feet, and left.

Mycroft stared up at the woman on the balcony again. She was sitting with another woman. Both of them blond with a plethora of jewelry at their wrists and neck. An overhanging roof protected their table from the rain where they seemed to be enjoying a red wine. He slowly, carefully, slipped off his shoes and socks, placing them against the wall.

Then the music changed suddenly to a tango beat. Sherlock came by and tossed his own shoes under the table before pulling Mycroft to the door. He felt self-conscious as he walked outside, pointedly not looking up. It was now or never.

Mycroft put a hand on Sherlock's waist and began to dance barefoot through the wet streets. He didn't bother to hold back, launching into his footwork and a few high kicks on the first pass. He wanted to be noticed after all.

The people in the street turned toward them and stared. They began crying out and clapping which must surely draw her attention. Now they had to dazzle her. Sherlock lifted his knee, swirling his foot in a figure eight across the ground. Then Mycroft gestured for a lift. Sherlock stepped into position and Mycroft lifted him. He lay on his back, toes pointed, his head and shoulders arched, one knee lifted for balance. Mycroft took a moment to secure his footing on the wet pavement before walking in a circle with Sherlock held on one arm over his head. The spectators screamed.

He lowered Sherlock onto his shoulder and began a spin. Sherlock pointed his toe out in front of them as they whirled around, before turning his body and wrapping a knee around Mycroft's hips. His back leg pointed as Mycroft lowered him to the pavement before kicking his own feet around in a flourish.

Sherlock was drenched, his chest was streaked with water droplets, his hair, plastered to his face. Their clothes were becoming increasingly more heavy, and Mycroft had to consciously ignore his ingrained desire to get out of the rain.

The shower did nothing to alleviate the heat. Mycroft found himself sweating, but as the crowd began to cheer again his natural showmanship flared and he whirled Sherlock around him, like a bullfighter flourishes his cape.

It was not their best show. Not with their hair plastered to their heads, feet slipping on the wet pavement, and the tinny sound of accordion music piping through the rain drenched street, but as he lifted Sherlock again in the air to the sound of cheers, he could see Isabella Carillo recording them with her phone. He swung Sherlock around him a few times before flinging him into a dramatic dip. The leg lift. The lunge, Another dip, leg held high leading to another bout of footwork. He would NOT miss this chance. As overly dramatic as Sherlock's speech had been, it had been effective. He could all too easily see himself wasting away in obscurity in a dingy little London office.

They kicked their legs together striding across the ground, before he lowered Sherlock into a slow dip. They teased the audience with slow, sensual movements while he whispered to Sherlock what they would do next. They strode chest to chest down the street. Sherlock's toe kicking up water as they pranced. The audience was with them now, so when he lifted Sherlock into another spin, they immediately began to cheer. The spin went on and on with Sherlock first holding back one leg, then bending himself around Mycroft's waist, before turning and wrapping his bent knee around Mycroft's legs to land gracefully on his feet. Then Mycroft showily flourished his leg, leading the dance again as they tangoed across the ground in long, coordinated strides that splashed water as they went.

Then Sherlock jumped into his arms. He flung him over his shoulder in a showstopper move that had the crowd screaming as Sherlock wrapped around him like a snake, only to land gently on his feet flourishing his legs playfully in a bout of flawless footwork. Mycroft swung him around left and then right before lowering him into a split. The cheers rose again, and people came out of the restaurant to clap. He pulled Sherlock up, and they bowed to the crowd. Mycroft couldn't help smiling as he glanced Isabella Carillo on her feet animatedly talking to her friend.

Sherlock turned to him then and said, "My crotch is wet." Mycroft stifled a laugh.

They returned to their seats in the restaurant completely soaked, but people patted them on the back as they passed, and the manager brought them out a plate of chicken without their ordering it. Mycroft was simply glad that no one had stolen their bags.

After their meal which was a bit spicy for Mycroft's tastes, he pointedly asked the bartender the location of a good hotel. They took a taxi there and changed out of their wet clothes.

It was the following morning when the summons came. They met Srta. Carillo in the lobby. She was wearing a white jacket over a patterned dress and gold Gucci shoes. She went on and on about how much she had loved their dancing before handing them an invitation on which she had written their required arrival date and time. They would be paid to perform, and they were invited to stay the night afterward.

A man was waiting for her at the door. Her driver, bodyguard, lover, or all three? That didn't matter now. What did matter was that they were in, and it was only a matter of time before this mission was completed and he could go back to the real work of becoming absolutely indispensable to the British Government.