They left from a private airport on a tiny plane bound for Georgetown, Guyana with worn seats, and a bay full of coffee beans. A car met them when they landed, and they were whisked off to a white building with stone columns surrounded by a black metal gate, and the ubiquitous palm trees. Mycroft sat in a room for hours identifying every person he had seen at the party and giving their financial, emotional, and party affiliations as well as a fair bit of gossip.

There was a nice thick envelope for the foreign minister by the time they were done. They put it in a safe before leaving the building just as the sun was going down. The overjoyed security official insisted that he treat the two of them to dinner. He took them to a large building with a thatched roof and a large wooden dance floor, where they ate food prepared by a European chef, and drank the first tea in days that Mycroft had consider acceptable.

After the plates were cleared away, they sat around drinking a bit longer as a steel band began to play. The dark skinned official smiled broadly at Mycroft and asked, "So, did you enjoy your trip to the Americas?"

"I certainly found it interesting," Mycroft said. "But I don't think that I like fieldwork very much. Too much running about. Besides, almost everything that I gave you today was something that I could have pieced together back in London with adequate intelligence, and a bit of focused thought. The people's priorities are completely predictable."

"So what do you predict for the country? Peace and prosperity, I hope."

"Unfortunately not. Venezuela has many rocky years ahead before that finally comes to pass," Mycroft said.

"Oh, that's too bad," the man said with a frown. "Even so, we are glad that your work brought you here. We don't get so many visitors from London. Certainly not many as distinguished as yourselves. For although we are a small country, we love to dance. And we would be honored if you would grace us with a tango."

Mycroft shook his head, "I don't think that I'll be dancing anymore. I suppose that this is as good a time as any to say that I am hanging up my dancing shoes."

"Oh that is indeed very sad." The man said gesturing at the people surrounding the dance floor, "The crowd has come tonight mostly because of the rumor that you might dance for us."

The band stopped, having seen the gesture from their host. A guitarist came forward then and began to play the introduction to a tango. The official waved his hand toward them, "No, no. Mr Holmes says he is no longer wearing his dancing shoes."

"But you don't need shoes to dance," Sherlock said rising to his feet and holding out his hand. Mycroft remembered dancing barefoot in the warm rain on the streets of Venezuela. He smiled and looked up at Sherlock who nodded toward the dance floor, hand held out toward him.

Mycroft was resolved that once home he would concentrate on making his place in the government. He knew now what was needed. The level of surveillance and intelligence necessary to understand what was going on around the world. The stakes if he didn't get it right: an unstable government. Public unrest. Plots against those in power. All things that he could prevent, that he would prevent by making the United Kingdom the most stable and powerful government on Earth.

Mycroft would give up his weaknesses, or at least keep them hidden, that is why he was giving up dancing. No one needed to know that Mycroft Holmes cared about things. That he had people whom he loved. Para el futuro, para destino, he was leaving his heart behind. Once home he would become the cold efficient instrument of the state.

But he was not home yet. He rose to his feet and took Sherlock's hand. The crowd around them clapped, and the band struck up the music as he and Sherlock walked out together onto the dance floor one last time.