Two
Interpretations

It was late by the time I got home from work that evening – probably around nine thirty, maybe later. It wasn't as if I had that much work, only slightly more than the usual amount, really. But I just couldn't concentrate. I found that every now and then my mind would start wandering.

Lestrade had refused to tell me what the case was really about and my curiosity was spiking. I was seriously tempted to browse recent news articles to try to find out if there had been any unusual missing persons or newly found murders. I knew there had been a body, and that surely would have made the headlines. But every time my laptop had scrolled to the BBC news page I had stopped myself.

I didn't want to know.

I closed the front door behind me, dropped my keys on the nearby table and shrugged off my grey jacket. I rounded the corner of my tiny hallway and entered the kitchen come living area of my apartment. I automatically walked across the room and switched on the kettle.

"You're late."

I almost jumped out of my skin at the voice.

"Holy-" I shouted while spinning around to see who had spoken from inside my should-be-empty flat. My eyes widened. "What are you doing here?"

For there, sitting smack bang in the centre of my sofa, staring right at me without so much as a flinch, was the bizarre man I had met earlier today – Sherlock Holmes.

"I required your assistance."

I felt like my brain was starting to unravel. "How did you know where I live? Scratch that. How the hell did you get in?"

A small smirk crossed his features. I had no idea why he was smirking. This was most definitely classified as breaking and entering.

"I looked up all M. Hunts in the phone book and chose the one which was in the area that you obviously lived in."

"Obviously?" I was still yelling. But I felt like I had the right to be angry.

"Yes." He said plainly. I brought my hand to my forehead and started massaging my temples. This man was impossible.

"How exactly was it obvious?" I asked, starting to calm down.

He stood, as if this was the question he had been waiting for.

"Everything about you speaks of a combination of function and style. Your hair is pulled back, yet your heels are dangerously high. Your nails are short, yet highly decorative." I subconsciously shuffled my feet in their deep red heels and inspected my red patterned nails. "You would therefore live in an area close enough to the museum for easy commuting, but it would also have a… fashionable atmosphere. When you retrieved your glasses from your bag I noticed that the model of your phone is at least five years old, yet it is fairly new, meaning that not only are you not interested in modern technology, but that you also do not wish to spend more than you need. This would correspond with my estimate of your salary and therefore you would not be able to afford living in several areas of London. I expect whatever money you have spare is spent on clothing. The lack of a wedding ring means that you would most likely live in a flat and not a house and the slight sign of mud on your shoes means that it would have to be somewhere where it had rained in the last twenty four hours. All in all, it was ridiculously easy narrowing the options down to this apartment."

I just stared at him.

"That was… err… impressive." I finally managed out. "What is it you do again?"

"I'm a consulting detective." He answered while inspecting the contents of my floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

"Never heard of one of them before."

"You wouldn't have."

"And…" I said, still trying to get my head around his previous speech, "…how exactly did you get in?"

"Picked the lock."

Ok. Well. This was… weird. Actually that didn't really seem to cover it, but somehow I couldn't think of a word that did. I doubted whether one even existed. It was too odd. This man was too odd. I needed to sit down.

I practically collapsed into the rickety kitchen chair and sighed. Sherlock turned from the bookshelf and walked over to me. He held out a notebook.

"Your assistance." He said, indicating I should take the notebook. I did and opened it. I narrowed my eyes, too exhausted to get my reading glasses out.

"It's Pali." I told him.

"I realised that." He said. "Can you translate it?"

I scratched my forehead. "Yes." I flipped through the notebook, scanning the good ten pages of script. "But it would take a while."

"How long?"

"It depends. A couple of hours maybe." I looked at the first line and started working through it in my head. Something clicked. "Hang on."

Sherlock stood and watched as I dug in my bag and pulled out my laptop, glasses and a notepad and pen. While the computer was starting up I trotted over to the bookshelf. I returned holding a ratty old paperback that I had had since before my university days.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Hang on." I repeated, hoping to shut him up. In my notepad I jotted down what I thought was an accurate translation of the first sentence. I typed it into google. I instantly found what I was looking for. I followed the number on the screen and found the right page in the book. I scanned the text, every now and then checking it with the Pali Sherlock had handed me.

"It's a Sutta – like a narrative from Buddha. Mula Sutta, to be precise, from the Book of Threes in the Anguttara Nikaya." I continued reading the book containing the English translation. "It's a good text."

"It's religious? That's all?" Sherlock asked. I looked up at him. He seemed somewhat disappointed.

"Yep. No secret codes or anything, I'm afraid."

He didn't look completely convinced of that. "What's it about?"

"Greed." I held up the book for him. "You can borrow that if you want to have a full read of it."

He took it. "Can you translate what's written in the notebook as well?"

I shrugged, but raised my eyebrows. "I guess. Why though? You've got a translation there."

"Bring it to me tomorrow." He just said while making his way towards the door.

"What? Oh, ok," I made out surprised at his brusqueness. I heard the door shut as he left. Then I realised something. "Wait! I don't know where you live!"

I heard the door open and shut, muffled voices and footsteps making their way up the stairs. I sat and waited.

"While you may be able to go without sleep for three days, others tend to have more di-"

"Hi." I greeted the people who had walked into the room.

I watched with amusement as John stood there, blinking, and every now and then opening his mouth as if to say something. It gave me less amusement to see that Sherlock didn't appear at all surprised by my presence in their chaotic flat. He simply walked over, sat in a chair in front of a computer and started typing.

"Melanie? What are you doing here?" John finally sputtered. "How did you find us? How did you get in? Why did you get in?"

"Sherlock asked me for some help." I said while shrugging. "And as for the other questions – well, you know… a little deduction here, a little deduction there."

John paused.

"Oh good lord, there's two of them." He muttered still in shock. He plodded into the kitchen and started looking through the fridge.

Sherlock held out his hand to me, continuing to stare at the screen in front of him, but I swore I saw a smile on his face. "My wallet."

I laughed quietly and reached into my bag from which I extracted Sherlock's wallet that he had left at my flat last night. It was certainly a lucky coincidence that he had just happened to accidently drop it. Otherwise I doubt I would have ever found him.

"How's Mrs Hudson?" he asked quietly.

I pouted. It was no fun trying to surprise him if he already knew everything, including how I got into the flat. "She's fine."

"Hang on," John said sounding confused as he backtracked into the living room, a carton of orange juice in his hand. "Did you say Sherlock asked for help? Voluntarily?"

"Yeah, he wanted me to translate something." I answered.

John looked accusingly at Sherlock. "That Buddhist passage? I thought you worked that out yourself?"

"I never said that. I said I knew what it said." Sherlock told him while reading something on the screen.

"Oh, so you don't understand every language on the planet." John quipped as he went back into the kitchen to fetch a glass.

"Not Pali." Sherlock said. "It's not important. Nobody uses it nowadays."

I scoffed. Thanks for that. "Well, obviously some people do." Sherlock glanced at me, eyebrows raised. I pulled the notebook he had given me last night as well as my own out of my bag. "You were right to get me to translate the entire thing."

"It's not a straight-forward passage?" John asked as he came back into the room sipping on his glass of juice. I shook my head.

Sherlock looked at me, got up, and came to my side. "What's been changed?"

"Well," I began, opening the notebook with my translation. Sherlock peered down at it. "It's quite subtle, only a few words have been altered. Here," I pointed and the words which I had underlined in red, "undeluded is changed to deluded. And here unbound is changed to bound. And here, here, and here, 'not's have been missed out, which makes it read very oddly. And this whole sentence just doesn't make any sense. Words have been added and prefixes missed out. It's biz-"

But Sherlock apparently didn't think it that bizarre as he had already clapped his hands together, a look of glee on his face.

"Oho ho ho! The puzzle reveals itself! Time to go, John!" he shouted merrily, practically bouncing down the steps leading outside.

John didn't waste any time in following, not sparing me a look as he left.

I sat in silence for a moment, uncertain of what had just happened.

"I'll just wait here then, shall I?" I yelled at the already shut door.

Didn't that man ever say goodbye?

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