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“I think that’s our suspect.”

John pointed over to the dance floor. It wasn’t so much a floor, but an area in the restaurant where a few tables had been cleared and a crowd of locals were dancing under purple and red spotlights. There wasn’t any floor either; the bar had been constructed directly on the sand.

The suspect in question was a woman in her thirties, the local head of the smuggling cartel who had stolen a particularly valuable parrot back in London. They had followed the trail to the Carribean, where the woman had eluded them for a whole week by being constantly on the move, hopping from one island to the next with startling speed. Today they had finally managed to track down the yacht which she used to move, and it was moored in this small fishing village in the north coast of Martinique. After two hours of searching they had finally located the woman.

“We need to interrogate her before she gives us the slip again.”

Sherlock ignored him, observing the woman with hawk-like attention. The song had ended and the woman sauntered over to the bar where she ordered a small drink and comfortably chatted with another man. John’s eyes automatically went to two other men, looking burly, that stood a small distance on either side of her. Bodyguards. Not armed. He softly elbowed Sherlock and discreetly pointed them out.

“Stay here. Distract the guards when I give you the signal.”

“What signal?”

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves without replying to John and briskly walked over to the woman. Even from the back, John saw his body language shift slightly into a more supple and slightly swaying stance. He always enjoyed watching Sherlock do these spontaneous improvisation bits, slipping into a completely different character with seemingly no effort.

John watched from a distance as Sherlock leant over the bar and ordered himself a drink. He laughed to himself as his friend looked at his shirt briefly and opened another button. He could already guess where this act was going – tipsy flirt with the woman, dragging her away from the heavies.

Sherlock approached the woman, who looked him up and down before breaking into a smile, evidently pleased by what she saw. He smiled back and said something funny, she laughed, and accepted the drink he ordered for her. They spent the next five minutes in easy conversation, hunched over each other, presumably to hear what they were saying over the loud music. Sherlock was all seduction, softly touching her hand and forearm then shoulder. The woman seemed completely taken in, unaware she was being ensnared by the world’s greatest detective (as well as actor, apparently).

Sherlock asked her something and she apparently refused, shaking her head and pointing to the dance floor instead. She looked at Sherlock challengingly, eyebrows quirked. John wondered whether Sherlock would hesitate – but the detective didn’t pause even for a second, enthusiastically taking the woman’s hand and they placed themselves in the middle of the dance floor, dangerously close to each other.

John had never seen Sherlock dance and was seriously tempted to take out his phone to record this. He wasn’t even sure whether he could call what the locals were doing a dance – it rather looked like sex standing up, gyrating their hips against each other along the bass thumping on the massive speakers.

Sherlock seemed to go all in, though. He placed his hands on the woman’s hips, she placed hers on his shoulder. Their bodies started at a relatively respectable six inches or so apart; but after their hips started slowly moving in rhythm, the distance quickly closed to zero. In fact, as the music melded into a slightly slower and romantic beat, it looked as if they were completely fused together. Sherlock softly moved his hips in a small clockwise circle, the woman matching his every move as if they were one. John couldn’t stop staring in surprise. Where had Sherlock learnt to move like this? They slowly turned, taking a step on each beat, and he was gifted with a rather flattering view of Sherlock’s backside moving from left to right like liquid sex on legs. The circular movement travelled up to his torso, gently dipping the woman back and forth. It was very gentle and incredibly erotic. At one point he dipped the woman down in a smooth sweep, his arms encircling her and holding her firmly against his body. Sherlock’s white shirt was showing slight sweat stains – even at night it was incredibly hot, and even more so in the crowd of bodies on the dance floor.

John downed his drink in one go and signaled for another. He was sweating as well, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the heat or the drink or his supposedly asexual flatmate suddenly showing himself capable of moving in a very sexual way. He pried his eyes away from Sherlock’s back with difficulty, looking around the bar to see where the two bodyguards were doing. They were looking at the dancing couple intently. But they weren’t the only ones, John noticed. Quite a few local girls were staring envious glances at Sherlock’s swaying hips, giggling in between themselves.

How long until Sherlock would give him the signal? John wondered with a stab of jealousy whether he might actually be enjoying himself, grinding against the woman like that. Both participants certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves; he saw the woman look straight into Sherlock’s eyes and smile seductively. John nearly choked on his drink when Sherlock’s hands dropped lower, practically on the woman’s backside. Was Sherlock actually trying to get off with their suspect? Well, that would be one way of getting her away from her bodyguards. John suddenly wondered back on what Sherlock had meant, many months ago, when he said women weren’t really his area. Clearly they were, when it took his fancy. John imagined what Sherlock would have done if he’d had to dance with him for a case. Would Sherlock have pulled these moves too? Would they have grinded together on the dance floor like that, rubbing their crotches against each other-

John nearly slapped himself. The case, the bodyguards, he reminded himself. His dick chose the most inappropriate times to take over his mind. He came back to his senses just in time. Sherlock and the woman had turned and Sherlock was now facing him again. From across the dance floor John saw him lift his eyes from the woman’s shoulder and make eye contact with him. And – even though they were dozens of feet apart – for a second Sherlock’s gaze was smouldering, as if John was right there on the floor being held in his arms. John nearly lost himself in his flatmate’s intense gaze, before noticing his eyebrows frowning slightly and a slight motion from his hand (still dangerously low on the woman’s hip). That was unmistakably the signal. John gathered his wits. Back to Earth, time for action. Well, he could do some acting of his own. He staggered to the bar and ordered another rhum and lemon, and pretended to stumble as he spilt it all on one of the bodyguards. The guard was six solid feet of muscle, but he still managed to get a solid shove in before the whole thing degenerated into a fight and he was handily thrown out of the bar.

He was not in the best of moods when he reached their car in the parking lot, still wheezing slightly from a monumental punch to the diaphragm. Predictably, Sherlock was already there, leaning against the car with the woman in between his arms and flirting with her in French.

He unlocked the car and settled into the driver’s seat, not in the mood to prolong this any more than necessary. The woman looked at him then at Sherlock, startled.

“Oh hé, vous me faites quoi, là?”

“On veut seulement discuter avec vous, mon collègue et moi. Discuter de perroquets volés.”

The woman froze for a second, looked around esperately for her missing bodyguards. Sherlock grabbed her arm. She sighed angrily and made a disapproving, sucking click with her tongue.

“J’aurai du savoir. Les touristes, ils zoukent pas comme ca.”

She climbed in the back seat, Sherlock closing the door then settling down in the passenger seat.

“Didn’t think you knew how to dance like that. Or did you prepare that just in case we’d need it for catching smugglers in the Carribean?”

“Don’t be ridiculous John. I love dancing. It’s just the first time it’s come in useful for a case.” He paused and looked at John. “I could teach you if you like.”

“What was that dance anyways? It looked more like sex standing up.”

“Zouk is a fusion of Carribean folk dance and Dominican cadence-lypso. The basic moves are simple enough. It’s just a question of rhythm and partner coordination – simple but subtle.”

John snorted in derision. “Subtle. Yeah. I think I’d get a restraining order if I tried to pull moves like that in London.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and didn’t reply. After a few minutes, John coughed awkwardly. “I’d… like that though. For you. To teach me. It looks fun.”

Sherlock just smiled and pressed the radio button, soft zouk playing as they drove.