Hello everyone! I present you chapter 2! I'm glad with all the positive feedback I got from the last chapter I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

I don't own any of the characters in this story, sadly.

I want to thank my wonderful beta mollymatterrs for making my work presentable.

Feel free to review! Reading what you all have to say makes me incredibly happy!

Enjoy!

Chapter 2

A loud knock at her front door was what managed to wake up poor Molly Hooper. The now old woman wrapped her blanket over her body and stared at the door as another knock was heard.

"Molly? It's Mike. Are you home?"

Molly wrapped her blanket tighter to her body, but did not move from her sofa. Stamford's anxiety was understandable; she'd left work without finishing her papers last night and given no notice about when she would be back in the morgue. After all, she had been too preoccupied with the fact she'd been turned into an eighty year old woman to even think about her stupid paperwork.

"Molly?" she heard Mike say through the door once again.

"I-I'm ill!" she shouted, following it with a series of fake coughs.

"Oh dear, you sound awful!" she heard him say through the door.

"Y-Yes! I couldn't possibly bring myself to go to work and risk getting anyone sick." Even though my only patients are corpses and barely anyone talks to me unless they need to, she thought. She coughed again for added effect.

"Alright, I understand," said Mike. "I hope you get better soon, Molls."

With that, she heard Mike Stamford's footsteps fade down the corridor. Molly relaxed and with a sigh, she got out of bed and hobbled slowly over to her mirror. She was haggard at best, with a jawline that drooped and wrinkles so deep you could stick cards in them.

"Well, this isn't so bad," she said in a vague attempt to cheer herself up. "Still in pretty good shape— and my clothes finally suit me."

She smiled at herself in the mirror, but her smile almost immediately turned into a scowl.

"Who am I kidding? I can't stay here."

On the outskirts of London, there was a place called The Wastes. Notorious for containing many witches and wizards who often tricked unsuspecting travelers; it was a place people only dared to venture into when they had no other option. Perhaps that was exactly why Molly Hooper was heading there. After all, if there was a place where she could possibly break this curse, it was The Wastes. She could make a deal with a witch or wizard—perhaps one nicer than the Irene woman. Surely there had to be at least one around?

Okay, it was a dreadful idea, but what other choice did she have? She just couldn't stay like this.

As Molly walked along the streets of London, head bowed, she would occasionally catch snatches of people's conversations. (Not that she was trying to be nosy; not at all.)

"Their Prince has gone missing."

"Prince Lestrade?"

"Yeah! Apparently they're blaming it on us. That can't be good."

"Oh dear, all this talk about war and missing Princes... You don't think they'll attack London next?"

She lowered her head further and tried to look the entire world for an innocent old lady and not a terrified young pathologist-in-training. All this talk about war scared her. She would not have termed herself a coward, and nor would she have termed herself a pacifist, but the war had raged on for so long and so many lives had been lost because of it. Politicians, soldiers, civilians; they were all the same in death. It was disheartening and heartbreaking in equal measure. When would the violence end?

Being an old woman had its advantages though. Everyone ignored her and to be honest, it was rather wonderful. Occasionally she would be asked if she needed assistance from a few younger people, but other than that Molly was doing a pretty good job of blending into the background.

"I could get used to this," she told herself, but a pain in her hip caused her to wince and let out a painful groan. Perhaps it would take her a little while to get completely used to her new situation.

It was thanks to a local farmer and his son that she was able to get a ride to the border of The Wastes, a place preceded by a steep, grass-covered hill. Hopping off the back of the tractor, she thanked the farmer and his son and made her way up the hill.

"You're crazy if you do this, Grandma," the farmer called after her. "There's nothing but witches and wizards out there!"

She rolled her eyes as she continued to walk. "Thank you! I'll keep that in mind!"

Soon though, it felt like hours since Molly had begun her journey, and yet she felt like she had gone nowhere. Perhaps it was time for a tea break. She needed one after such a stressful day of travel. Settling down, she poured herself a hot cup of tea from a thermos she had packed along with some food. She took a sip and let out a hum of approval. Molly gazed at the scenery, and she could see the city. To her annoyance, it was still fairly close.

"I'll never get anywhere with these legs," she sighed.

Molly turned to look down at her lap when she spotted a stick sticking out of the bushes near to her. Hm—maybe she could use that as a walking stick.

Slowly, she sat up and let out a groan. It felt as if every joint in her body had popped. Why did one's body have to become so frail when it got old? She hobbled over to the bush and grasped the stick and pulled.

"It's stuck," she muttered.

She continued to pull, occasionally muttering and cursing under her breath. Finally, she managed to pull it out, almost falling back in the process. Letting out a gasp, she toppled back and found that she had happened to pull out a whole scarecrow, which wore torn clothing with a withering turnip for a head.

"What the—it's just a scarecrow!" she said in an almost amused tone. Her smile fell away as she noticed it standing on its own, without any kind of visible support. She raised a brow. "How are you standing on your own like that?"

The scarecrow stared blankly at her. Molly grimaced. She didn't know why she thought it would reply back to her. Maybe her old mind was making her senile too? The old woman let out another sigh and wrapped her shawl closer to her body.

"Your head's a turnip. I never liked turnips."

She turned to leave.

"At least you're not upside down anymore," she said before she left the scarecrow behind.

x

The wind was picking up, the sun was setting, and Molly Hooper could still see the town. At this point she would never make it anywhere.

"I've barely moved," she sighed.

Molly spotted the scarecrow from earlier hopping its way up to her. Although part of her wished to scream in surprise and jump back, she was far too tired to do such a thing. Instead, she made a face and shook her head.

"Go away!" she told it. "You don't owe me a thing."

The scarecrow stopped a few feet from her. This only served to raise her ire.

"I'm sure you have some type of spell on you and I'm more than tired of spells, so just go find some field and stand in it!"

The scarecrow stood still and Molly almost thought she'd convinced it but soon enough, it began hopping towards her again. A gust of wind blew, taking her shawl with it.

"My shawl!" she yelled.

It flew past the scarecrow, but where other scarecrows would've let it float past, this particular scarecrow quickly turned around to go catch it. Molly blinked and watched as the scarecrow disappeared. She turned and shivered—sure, she might be a little cold now, but at least she didn't have a cursed scarecrow following her.

She spoke too soon, for the scarecrow returned. Only this time, it had her shawl, draped around its stick of an arm.

"How did you pick that up?" she asked curiously.

It continued to stare blankly at her and Molly rolled her eyes before she took her shawl and wrapped it snugly around her frail body. "Thank you. If you would like to do me one more favor, could you go find me a place to stay?"

The scarecrow stood there for a second before it turned and hopped down the path that Molly had just gone. She watched it for a bit before she smirked and gave herself an imaginary pat in the back.

"That'll be the last time I see that stupid turnip head," she said, quite happy with the fact. Scarecrows were quite gullible, as it turned out.

After a time of pacing back and forth against the grassy hill, Molly began to shiver. The cold somehow always managed to get right through her.

"Why is it that when you're old, you're always cold?" she groaned to herself.

Molly plopped onto the soft grass and buried her face against her shawl for warmth. She hoped to at least get a little warmed up with the small amount of body heat her stupid old body could provide her. Maybe she could start a fire... if she knew how to. How hard could it be though? Wasn't it one of the more basic survival instincts, to be able to build and light a fire? Molly looked around for anything she could use, but the smell of smoke hit her.

"Someone has a fire going..." she muttered as she sniffed the air again, inhaling the rich scent of fire burning. It made her think of home, sitting next to the fire with a warm cup of tea and a good book. Maybe there was a cabin nearby; maybe they'd let her in, just for one night. They wouldn't let an old woman stay out in the cold. No-one was that mean.

Molly stood up and let out a small huff of air as she began walking up the hill. Maybe the cabin was just up the hill. Yet before she even made it up, a huge mental contraption appeared out of nowhere, blowing out puffs of smoke and creaking with each movement. Molly stared at it with wide eyes as it came fully into view. The ground below her shook and she spotted that scarecrow—perhaps she could call it Turnip Head, considering how stupid it was—hopping into view and it settled beside her.

"Turnip Head!" she yelled impatiently. "That's Sherlock's castle! That is not what I meant when I asked for a place to stay!"

The castle stopped moving as soon as it was above her. Why had it stopped moving? Molly gazed up at the castle in awe.

"Will you look at that," she said to no one in particular. "This thing does look like a piece of rubbish."

As if it had heard her and as if it was insulted by what it had heard, the castle creaked and began to move again. Molly let out a surprised squeak and scrambled out of the way as quickly as she could. Turnip Head hopped past her and stopped near a door. It motioned, tilting with the wind as if it were telling her that she needed to go there. It had to be the way in. Molly gave a determined nod and quickly walked towards the door, even though the castle continued to move.

"Slow down!" she yelled at the castle, even though she knew it could not hear her. She managed to grab onto one of the handles and held on for dear life. "Christ! Are you going to let me in or not!?"

The castle bounced once, and she felt herself being thrust forward, as if scooped up from the floor. She hauled herself onto her feet and grasped at the door knob. She took one last look at Turnip Head as she held on.

"Thank you for your help!" (Okay, so she wasn't exactly thankful, but she was polite.) "And I'm sure Sherlock won't steal the heart of a shriveled up old lady like me," she said with a slight laugh before she went inside. Well, she wasn't entirely sure but she did hope. She would very much have liked to keep her heart; she'd already lost her youth.

It was nice and warm inside, thankfully. Molly slowly made her way up the steps where everything was dark, except for a glowing red light of a fire in the fireplace. Molly gazed around the rest of it. The place was a mess! There were random books and beakers on the table and the floor; spider webs sat on the corners of the walls—wait!? Was that an eyeball?! Molly rolled her eyes as she continued to look around. She spotted the wallpaper; a yellow smiley face stared back at her—she could have also sworn she noticed bullet holes on the wall. Molly let out a sigh and shook her head. This place was well and truly an utter pigsty.

Once she knew she was safe, she walked over to one of the seats, a red chair that looked extremely comfortable, and exactly like what Molly needed at that moment. Sitting down, she settled against the chair and heaved a gentle sigh. After today she had needed this. She rubbed her hands together and extended them a little over to the small fire, burning low but bright.

"When I think castle, this isn't what comes to mind," she said to herself.

Molly let out a yawn and wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She wasn't afraid of who might come, if it be Sherlock or someone else. That was one good thing about being old; she didn't get scared so easily anymore.

x

As Molly stared at the glowing fire, her eye lids grew heavier and heavier with sleep. Maybe it was just her mind playing tricks on her, but she could have sworn she saw a pair of eyes in the fire. Molly let out a yawn and closed her eyes.

"I wouldn't want to be you right now, lady. That is one bad curse. You're going to have a really hard time getting rid of that one," said a voice suddenly.

Molly blinked awake and looked around until her eyes landed on the fire. It had… spoken?! She stuttered in her surprise. "Y-you—"

"Let me guess," said the fire. "You're not allowed to talk about the curse?"

Molly stared at the fire open mouthed.

"What are you?" she asked, breathless.

"I am an extremely powerful fire demon! John! John Watson."

Molly giggled and the fire scowled at her.

"What? Why are you giggling?"

"What kind of a name is John Watson?"

"Hey! I'm an extremely powerful fire demon!" he whined.

Molly stopped giggling and smiled, an idea alighting in her mind. "You're a demon! You should be able to break my curse!"

John looked at her and blinked. "Maybe, maybe not. If you can help me break my curse, then perhaps I can break the spell that's on you."

Molly frowned. Trusting too easily and being gullible was what had got her into this mess. "Wait a minute. You're a demon. How do I know I can trust you?" she asked him suddenly. "If I help you, do you promise to help me?"

John frowned slightly. "I don't really know... Demons don't really make promises."

Molly leaned against the chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "Then go find someone else to break your curse."

John let out a sigh. "Come on! You should feel bad for me! This stupid curse keeps me locked in this castle! I can't go anywhere, and Sherlock treats me like a slave! I hate it!" he spat.

As John complained, Molly once again felt her eyes getting heavy with sleep. She tuned out the voice of John and yawned.

"Are you listening to me?" he said.

Molly nodded her head tiredly. "Yes—yes, I'm listening," she muttered tiredly.

"Look, if you can figure out how to break this thing I'm in with Sherlock, then you can break the spell. After that, I can easily break your spell."

Molly nodded. Sleep was slowly consuming her.

"Alright," she said softly. "It's a deal."

That was the last thing she managed to mumble before sleep overtook her.