The elderly Rolls-Royce Sherlock's father drove spluttered towards a rambling old Queen Anne-style house with tacked-on outside stairs. A sign by the muddy path read "Baker Palace, Apartment for Rent".

Sherlock huffed in the back seat; why did they have to move? Mummy died, yes; but why couldn't they just stay in London?

"We can't afford it, Sherlock," Mycroft glared at his younger brother from the passenger seat, pretending he could read his mind again, "We only have one income now."

"Two," Sherlock corrected.

"You know I don't get paid," Mycroft said regretfully, "But this is my chance to do great things with my life, Sherlock; and I'm not giving that up so we can live sixteen miles away. It's twenty minutes by car –"

"Then why do I have to go to some back-water, run down school?" Sherlock questioned.

"The move puts you out of your old school's district. But it is a good school, Sherlock…" Sherlock's father tried to assure.

"No."

It was late winter, the sky damp and grey; it was freezing cold. Sherlock pulled the flannel blanket tighter around his shoulders. The rest of the drive was silent as they followed the removal men.

Sherlock's eye caught a tall man performing calisthenics on the rooftop, counting in Russian - Mr Anderson. "Dras, dva, tri, chetyri. Dras, dva, tri, chetyri. Dras, dva, tri..." Sherlock's brow furrowed, Mycroft stared at the man in vague distaste, but their father seemed quite amused. As soon as Mycroft saw their father's expression he sighed in mortification and rested his cheek on the hand propped up by the window. It was rather obvious he was a teenager when he decided to sulk because of their father's 'misconduct'.

Beeping pips began as the tired, tatty moving van backed into the most convenient place, and Anderson paused. The Rolls-Royce, suitcases roped to its top, recklessly passed the truck - as was Sherlock's father's driving style - and disappeared around the side of the house. Anderson shook his fist angrily after the car and shouted, "Mer-sa-vich!" and marched away indignantly.

"We're here. Time to muscle up," One of the movers commented from inside the van.

The moving truck's rear doors were wrenched open by two men.

Irene Adler, a busty old English lady, surveyed the movers as they passed by her chair-lift with boxes and furniture. The old girl couldn't wait to tell her flat mate below about the young, strapping men.

After a few hours, the job was finished.

Sherlock stepped onto the porch in his large, woollen Belstaff coat with a satchel. He glanced furtively over his shoulder, and then hopped down the steps and away from the house. He danced and twirled down the path, happy that he could practise (sort of) without the prying eyes watching him and whispered rumours.

His eye caught a wooden shrub and he smiled. Experiment.

He leapt towards it and reached into the shrub, to break off a forked branch. He removed the stick's red leaves, aimed it and bounded into the garden. He had wanted to do experiments with dowsing rods for some time, at least this gave him the means – but he still wasn't happy.

A spy rose up, wearing a three-eyed skeleton mask on his head and skeleton gloves on his hands. A small dog with red fur bounded next to them and glanced up, before following Sherlock into the garden.

Sherlock explored the drained, crumbling pond. He found an old turtle shell in the muck and held it up. "Cool," he muttered under his breath. After tapping on it to make sure it was empty, he put the shell into his shoulder bag.

He turned back to his experiment, aiming his 'dowsing rod' once more, following it up from the pond and out the back gate.

The sky was dark with the gathering storm as Sherlock balanced like a tightrope walker along the steep hillside path. He stepped on an old railroad tie; but his foot sank into the rotted wood, stopping him.

Some stones dislodged and rolled down past him. He jerked his head up, looking for signs of the disturbance.

Ah… Someone was following him. "Hello...? Who's there?" Sherlock called, maybe they'd just own up. It seemed not.

He threw a rock over the wall of stones, hitting the unseen spy, causing a cry of pain. He couldn't even tell if it was animal or human. Freaked out, he gasped and ran up the trail.

The red dog jumped onto the stone wall.

Sherlock raced down past a rusted tractor and into an orchard. The wind began to pick up, tousling his dark navy curls. He nearly tripped on the tongue of a harvest cart as he ran past barren apple trees, contorted and dark.

He backed into a circle of toadstools in front of a tree stump. Breathing hard, he looked out for his pursuer.

The red dog shot past him in the tall grass. Sherlock couldn't see the animal but he knew something was there. Already behind him now, the dog jumped onto the stump with a loud, warning bark.

Startled, Sherlock yelled and whipped around. He was both angry and relieved when he saw it was just some mangy dog.

"You scared me to death, you stupid mutt!" He hollered. The dog just glared at him with blue eyes, making a low growl as he stood.

Sherlock huffed, "I'm just looking for an old well. Know it?" The dog blinked their eyes slowly, "Not talking, huh?" he asked sarcastically.

The wind picked up. He grasped the forks of his stick, closed his eyes, and, tracing a figure eight above him, chanted, "Magic dowser, magic dowser: show... me... the well!"

The spy blared down the hillside, astride some kind of motor-bike. He pressed a button on the handlebars and blasted a loud air horn.

Scared, Sherlock span around. As lightning flashed and thunder rolled, Sherlock saw him for the first time. With his turret-lensed skull mask and skeleton gloves and black military coat flapping in the wind; he looked like a psychopathic killer!

He revved his motor, popped a wheelie, and then swooped down the bluff towards Sherlock. He screamed in fear, and then tried to hit the spy with his forked stick. "Get away from me –!"

The spy snatched it from him as he passed, knocking Sherlock to the ground. He side-skidded his bike, jumped off and sprang onto the stump. Looking ten feet tall from the ground, thunder and lightning at a peak, the Spy turned his three-eyed turret lens and studied the skinny boy like a predatory alien.

All of a sudden, the thunder and lightning die down and the psychopathic killer, three-eyed spy pulled off his mask and Sherlock gasped – he was just a short kid in a costume.

Shoulders hunched, neck bent, the Spy looked only a few years older than him – about fifteen. He had cropped, sandy blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He short teenager examined Sherlock's dowsing rod, and aimed it around.

Oblivious to Sherlock's scowl, the boy started to speak, "Let me guess, you're from Texas or Utah; somewhere dried out and barren, right? I've heard about water-witching before but it doesn't make sense; I mean, it's just an ordinary branch."

Sherlock snatched it from his gloved hands. "IT'S A DOWSING ROD!" He squeaked, more than yelled, enraged, "It's an experiment!" Sherlock smacked the boy on the back of the head. He could see he was actually an inch taller, despite being only thirteen.

"Ow!" The older boy whined.

"And I don't like being stalked, not by psycho-nerds or their dogs!" Sherlock screamed.

The blonde crouched, nervous, to scratch the dog behind his ears. "He's not really my dog; he's sort of feral you know, wild? Of course, I do feed him every night and –"

"Shut up! I don't care about your stupid dog! Cats are much better anyway, they bring you little dead things…"

"Cool!" The shorter smiled, "But give me dogs anyday."

"To answer your question, if you can't already tell, I'm from London. And if I'm a 'water witch', then –" Sherlock pointed his stick and stomped his foot, "Where's the secret well?"

"If you stomp too hard and you'll fall in it!" the other boy warned.

Sherlock leapt quickly out of the springy circle. The blonde boy scraped at the ground, revealing a wooden, circular covering. He wedged a fallen branch under one side, and, using a rock for the fulcrum, pried up the covering.

"See? It's supposed to be so deep if you fell to the bottom and looked up, you'd see a sky full of stars in the middle of the day."

Sherlock softened, "Huh," he breathed. His frown relaxed and the red dog tilted his head, noticing his change in tone. The stepped off the branch, and the well cover thumped back into place.

"I'm surprised she let you move in..." The boy began, jerking his head toward the washed-out house in distance. "... My Aunt; Mrs Hudson; she owns the "Baker Palace". She won't rent to people with kids…"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, this house might just be interesting.

The blonde was suddenly worried. Curious. "Uh... I'm not supposed to talk about it…" Changing the subject, he lifted a gloved hand to shake, "I'm John, John Watson. What'd you get saddled with?"

"I wasn't saddled with anything. It's Sherlock." Sherlock huffed.

"Sheldon what?"

"Sherlock! William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

John sounded confused, not hearing the correction. "Hmmm... It's not really 'scientific', but I heard an ordinary name, like Sheldon –" Sherlock's face goes as dark as the rain clouds above, "Can lead people to have ordinary expectations about a person –"

"John!" A call carried on the wind.

"I think I heard someone calling you, John," Sherlock informed with gritted teeth.

"What? I didn't hear anything –"

"Oh, I definitely heard someone," Sherlock pouted, "And I'm not ordinary; don't make that mistake."

A distant dinner bell clanged.

"John!" The call came again.

"Auntie!" John gasped under his breath, nervous. He held up his hands in surrender, nodding with eyes closed, forcing some laughs, "Ha. Well, great to meet a London water witch." He picked up his bike, wheeled it around, and then held up his gloved hands. "But I'd wear gloves next time."

"Why?" Sherlock asked sceptically.

John pointed to his dowsing rod, and nodded.

"`Cause that dowsing rod of yours? Uh, you're allergic to it."

"Ehh!" Sherlock shrieked, dropping the stick as John zoomed away, and wiped his hands on his clothes - but a red rash had already started.

The dog barked at him, and then trotted away after John. Sherlock stuck out his tongue at him.

Sherlock looked down at the covering to the well. He found a pebble and dropped it through a small knot-hole. He pressed his ear to the hole, counting until there was a watery 'plop' far below.

Fat raindrops started to fall around him.