NOTE: If you have not seen 'A Game Of Shadows' yet, this story probably won't make much sense. As a side note, I've attempted to write this little tale in the style of the stories with the information provided by the film. Enjoy! And if you enjoy, review. Thank you.
The frequent occasions which found Sherlock Holmes and I alone in our rooms on Baker Street has, more often than not, become the catalyst for many strange and fantastical adventures which I have had the pleasure of recounting to the public. But to say that every dull evening spent indoors, whether caused by foul weather or my companion's fluctuating moods, signified the beginning of a grand mystery is to exaggerate. The more prominent moments in the exciting career of Sherlock Holmes have already been put to paper. But recently I have heard rumors that, while seemingly unworthy of note, have caused the image of my friend to be somewhat misconstrued. The falsehood is as follows: that the notorious Professor James Moriarty, who met a timely end by the hand of Sherlock Holmes himself, has left the detective with an inescapable fear of the German melody, Die Forelle. For the sake of his preference, I have not written down what transpired between the professor and himself in Germany, but suffice it to say that bodily and psychological harm was attempted on his person to no avail whatsoever on the devil's part. My companion showed extraordinary resolve during a great trial. The aforementioned song played a part in the vile proceedings of the particular night I have touched upon. To say that Sherlock Holmes is, therefore, unnerved by it's tune is a natural assumption that I have heard in several circles. But this little note may set the record straight by shedding light on his own take on the subject.
We had just returned from one of the many little problems that so often find their way onto Holmes' path. Several days before he had sent a request, saying that if I was not otherwise engaged to meet him at such and such a place. But so as to hurry along the recounting of the singular event that I wish to describe, let it simply be said that the case ran its due course to a happy conclusion. The nature of the crime, however, had caused my friend some extra attention, and so, on the night in question, he returned to his rooms not in the dull, depressed state he so often did when his services were at an end. On the contrary; his spirits were high on the thrill of the process of the powers of deduction.
"Watson," he said to me as we were walking from the train station that had delivered us back to London, "come and stay in your old haunt again tonight. It will be well past three by the time you arrive home, should you start now." There was a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step that told me that I would, very likely, be awake at three in the morning nonetheless, as he would not be sufficiently cooled from the case for some hours yet. But the need to return to my practice was not an urgent one, and I decided that it would be better to leave my wife to her slumber uninterrupted. I acquiesced, and after a brisk stroll through the darkened streets we arrived at 221 B.
Holmes practically sprang up the steps to the rooms. The noise he made could have woken the dead and I was certain that poor Mrs. Hudson could not have slept through it. I attempted to make some sort of amends to the situation by taking the stairs as soundlessly as I could, which naturally took longer than the previous ascender. By the time I reached the top landing the resident detective had shed his jacket and boots and stood with arms open wide to the fire. He was the picture of declining ecstasy: in his shirt, suspenders, trousers rolled up to his knees, and stockings pulled equally as high, panting in satisfaction as the excitement of the day began to calm and the passion that drove him during his cases started its journey into remission.
I removed my coat and hat and went to the sideboard to cut a loaf of bread and cheese for the both of us, as neither he nor I had not eaten since early in the afternoon. Laying these out on the table I sat and called for him to come and get something substantial in him. My companion seemed not to hear, but after a moment he clasped his hands behind his back, rocked back on his heels, and thus pulled himself away from his fireside revery by joining me.
"What a day it's been!" he exclaimed over a mouthful of cheese. "I hope that you have enjoyed yourself."
"Well I can see you did," I replied. "Though I find it remarkable that you could find so much interest in such an insignificant case when compared to something like that of Professor Moriarty."
"How long have you known me, Watson?" he scolded while an unmistakable amusement lurked in his eyes. "It is the simplest problems that often prove to be the most interesting and bizarre."
The conversation then turned to the finer details of the day's work; all of the little particulars were recounted and details that I missed entirely he made points of. We talked all through the meal and well into a cup of tea before he was satisfied that the topic had been thoroughly discussed. At last, just as vehemently as it had begun, the conversation ended. Holmes sat thoughtfully for a long moment, his mind plainly somewhere else.
Suddenly, he pushed from the table with a grin, taking several bobbing steps away from me and then turning back sharply on his toes.
"Would you care for some music? A violin solo would suffice I suppose, but I prefer to sit and enjoy tonight rather than perform. What'll it be, Watson: French, Italian, or German?" I had barely begun to reply when he answered for me. "German it is then!"
With that he disappeared into his room, only to reemerge moments later with the gramophone, which he placed upon the sideboard next to the bread. Several bits and bobs had been attached to it since the last time I had seen it, so that when Holmes released a mechanism the thing began to play on its own accord without the listener having to hand turn it themselves. On a different day, my friend might have regaled me with pride on how he had concocted such an adjustment on the contraption, but instead he merely set the thing off and removed himself to his chair by the fire.
An operatic selection filled the room's quiet atmosphere. Holmes, looking pleased, sat with his elbows on his knees; hands clasped with his forefingers pressed together upon his bottom lip. Occasionally he would tap a foot or sway his head to the tune. I removed the remains of our dinner from the table and joined him in a chair opposite. I confess that I was battling the desire to doze off; the notes, while soothing to my companion, only served to lull me into a sleepy stupor. Add to that the warmth of the cozy fire, tea, and a comfortable air chair. It was not very long before I had fallen into that odd state of the in-between…the place where you are certainly not awake and yet definitely not asleep. I remained in a haze for what seemed like only moments, but all of the sudden the room was silent and Holmes was chuckling to himself. I jerked sharply to awareness.
"I had no idea that my company was so extremely dull to you," he was saying. " But then, I have never been known to be a very socially engaging fellow."
"Dull indeed," I retorted in sarcasm, reproaching myself for falling into his hands through slumber.
"I am not a very hospitable host, my good man," Holmes laughed. "Here my guest is falling fast asleep right under my nose and I have not had the curtesy to suggest that he retire. The most unobservant scoundrel could have noticed the dark under your eyes."
"I'm very much awake now, thank you," said I. In truth, I was very nearly exhausted, but something sentimental always awoke within me when I returned to our old rooms in Baker Street, and sitting up with my friend around the cosy flame well past a godly hour brought back so many adventures and pleasant occasions that to ruin the scene by my absence put a stopper on any thought of going to bed. These random opportunities to reminisce had already grown fewer and farther between as married life and my practice now consumed my attentions and I had little time for the mysterious and the macabre. I dared not miss any little moment.
With purpose I went to the sideboard and removed the finished musical selection from the device with Holmes' amused chuckling at my back. At random I sorted through the other works he had brought from his room and blindly chose one that seemed little used and so stood out among the others. For a moment I wasn't certain that I could use my friend's self-turning device without asking how but I was determined, for stubbornness' sake, not too do so. After only a moments hesitation I tried my hand at it and succeeded, and then I returned to my seat with a satisfied grin.
"A rudimentary contrivance to be sure," Holmes stated of his work on the machine. "But it took some pretty maneuvering to accomplish. Being nothing greater than an amateur in the realm of mechanics, I had to do a goodly amount of careful studying on its inner workings before I could really devote any time to amending the wearisome task of having to…"
My heart froze the instant Holmes' words had.
Until this time the garbled hissing and static of silence before the proper tune played was all that was to be heard, but now, in full force, a familiar, dreadfully cheery sound hit my faculties with the force of a hammer. Holmes started at the sound, his eyes wide and uncertain, his expression caught between a scowl and a grimace. The gravity of what I had quite possibly done to my friend's memory gripped me so that I could not think of what to do with myself, and for a few miserable seconds the two of us sat still as statues while the merry little song cut like a blade through the silence between us.
'In einem Bächlein helle, Da schoß in froher Eil, Die launische Forelle Vorüber wie ein Pfeil. Ich stand an dem Gestade Und san in süßer Ruh Des muntern Fischleins Bade Im klaren Bächlein zu. Des muntern Fischleins Bade Im klaren Bächlein zu.'
A horror at the senselessness in my choice pervaded my thoughts. Hastily I glanced at my companion, who still sat motionless. His expression had lost much of its severity, and yet his eyes continued to hold a certain desperate quality. He did not look at me, but continued staring into the air as if someone or something were standing between him and myself. I was on my feet in an instant, hot with embarrassment at my unknowing foolishness. Rushing at the sideboard I fumbled with the blasted contraption, my fingers slipping several times in my haste to silence the music.
'Ein Fischer mit der Rute Wohl an dem Ufer stand, Und sah's mit-'
At last the gramophone went dead.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I turned away from the foul machine, leaning back against the sideboard for support. I turned my attention to Holmes. To my surprise he had already regained his former composure. He sat with his elbows on his knees once more, staring half-lidded into the flames. My friend has never been one to announce pain or any sort of internal struggle outwardly, and so I feared that I had done more damage than he would ever bring to my knowledge. Gradually my heart calmed itself sufficiently enough for me to take a step or two in the direction of the chair.
"Holmes…" I began, fearful of what was going on inside that brilliant mind of his, "I can't…I had no idea…I would never dream of-"
Holmes' eyes left the fire and slowly met my own. The haze from before, I noticed, had not left his usually keen gaze. I stopped, swallowing my trepidation at the emptiness that had possessed those two orbs staring back at my own. And then, as if a sudden change in thought had struck him, it left. He stared off to the left to for just a second, seemed to nod his head as if deciding something, and when he had turned back the evil fog had gone. There was Holmes again, looking at me in silence.
"Sit, Watson; you look as if you've seen a ghost." I stared blankly at his sudden transformation, apparently for longer than I thought, for he got to his feet and led me back to my seat.
"Holmes," I repeated, searching his face for any sign of what he might be thinking, and half wondering if I had been the catalyst for some unknown bought of misery within him. But my worries eased when he broke into a knowing smile, and in a rare show of humanitarian concern, put his hand on my shoulder.
"Think nothing of it," said he with a wink, and so I knew that I was not held in any unhappy regard. With that he disappeared behind me, where, I assumed, he would fill us both a glass of brandy. Imagine my surprise when again came the hissing and spluttering of the gramophone, and the German melody I had so hastily attempted to silence sprang back to life.
"What on earth?" I said, starting from my seat once more. Holmes was grinning wildly…the closest resemblance I can describe was something akin to an impish school boy who has repeated a crime in full knowledge, directly in the sight of his teacher. He walked casually back to his seat, a contentedness apparent in every ounce of his being.
"Do you recall," he said, sitting on the floor in front of me in what he had termed a 'red Indian fashion', "that I had mentioned to you the clever nicknames which Moriarty had bestowed upon himself and, consequently, myself?"
I thought it over. "He had been calling himself the fisherman, and you the fish."
"The Trout, to be more exact," Holmes corrected. He had gone into the singular tone that he used when explaining his methods. "Now, I know you well enough to know that while you are a capable man in many areas, German is not your forte. It is then, fair for me to deduce that you were unable to understand what exactly is being said in this particular tune…and why it was of some importance that Moriarty should choose it."
The music began to play, and I became unsure as to what my friend what attempting to enlighten me to.
"Holmes…" I began, but was cut off with pointed nod.
"Allow me to translate."
The song began, and he interpreted. As he did, my eyes slowly opened to the meaning of the words, and just how conniving the Professor had been to select it for his purposes. I admit it brought me little comfort to know the meaning, but it did, as Holmes had predicted, bring better understanding.
'In a bright little brook there shot in merry haste a capricious trout : past it shot like an arrow. I stood upon the shore and watched in sweet peace the cheery fish's bath in the clear little brook. A fisher with his rod stood at the water-side, and watched with cold blood as the fish swam about. So long as the clearness of the water remained intact, I thought, he would not be able to capture the trout with his fishing rod. But finally the thief grew weary of waiting. He stirred up the brook and made it muddy, and before I realized it, his fishing rod was twitching: the fish was squirming there,' -here I must have scowled for he waved it off and finished-'and with raging blood I gazed at the betrayed fish.'
That knowing smile returned to his lips as the device crackled to a halt. I let my mind turn the words over.
"I must admit that this is the first time I have heard Die Forelle since our little escapade in Germany," Holmes said, "and I was surprised at the turn it gave me upon first hearing it. The unease vanished quickly enough, but I continued to be so dumbfounded at my own weakness that you must have thought me quite upset over the song."
"I thought I had brought something up that should not have been," I replied.
"On the contrary," he said. He thought for a moment, still smiling, now chuckling, now laughing to himself, a fire lit in his eyes. "On the contrary, my good man! This song is to me the nearest thing to a trophy for my work on that problem that I have received…and to think, it was given to me by none other than Professor James Moriarty himself. Just think of it: what greater satisfaction have I than to be the Trout who toppled the Fisherman and lived to tell the tale? What a token of victory!" Holmes, laughed aloud.
I marveled at his view of such an unhappy business, and yet I was fascinated that he would choose to see it in such a light.
"Do you know something, my dear Watson," he said, scrambling to his feet and heading for the sideboard with renewed vigor, "I believe I shall hear it again!"
Since that time, whenever chance or Providence's design places that particular song in the path of Sherlock Holmes, he never fails to take the opportunity to stop and listen with that same knowing smile gracing his so often unreadable face. Not a drop of the anxiety or terror that some associate with Die Forelle and my friend have ever shown themselves after that night, and, to be honest, I believe that such rumors may be the work of those who, while their master has long been dead, are still caught in the dreadful web spun by that clever spider, Professor Moriarty.