This is definitely an AU. Just wanted to establish that first. It takes place at the end of season 3 of Sherlock, and at some point before Regina cast the Dark Curse, since Rumple is in the scaly, giggly form we all know and love, and is here of his own volition. And I know this messes with the space-time continuum a little bit, but let's just say that the world of Sherlock is like Cruella's, and part of a different realm from ours. Any questions?
"Got a moment, dearie?"
Mycroft Holmes was not used to being addressed in such a familiar tone. Ever. He immediately glanced up from his desk (where he had been sitting for several hours, attempting to forget his troubles by working) with an affronted stare, to figure out who dared speak to him that way, and did so when he was supposed to be in the privacy of his office, no less. And to his surprise, there was a strange man, dressed in a bizarre costume that seemed to be part-leather, part-medieval garb, sitting on the windowsill, grinning at him impudently. So, after a second of staring, Mycroft took the most logical route, and snaked a hand under his desk to press the secret button calling for armed backup.
"I wouldn't if I were you," the man cautioned, giggling. "It won't do you any good."
Mycroft pressed the button anyway. But as the man said, nothing happened. He tried again a few times, and then started to (astonishingly) get up from his desk. Much to his shock, the arms of his chair defied the laws of physics by suddenly moving, and wrapped themselves around his (nowhere near as large as his brother had always claimed it to be-good grief, he was already thinking of him in the past tense) stomach, pinning him in place. He glared at the little man, who had slid off the windowsill and walked up to the desk, perching himself on the edge of it. Mycroft didn't know how, since it seemed impossible, but he knew that his visitor was responsible for his imprisonment.
"Who are you?" he demanded, refusing to show fear.
The other man sighed, as if very accustomed to hearing this question.
"Most people know me as the Dark One." He did a little mocking bow. "Or, if you prefer, Rumpelstiltskin."
Single father at one time, much older than he looks, wealthy, but grew up malnourished, hands worn from some kind of craft-spinning? That's awfully archaic...There's something else odd about him. Something, dare I say it, otherworldly. Rumpelstiltskin-that's familiar...where have I heard that name before...
Soon enough, Mycroft remembered.
"The children's fairy tale?" He raised a credulous eyebrow, trying to pretend he was still in control of the situation, and that he had not been tied to his chair by some as-yet undiscovered means.
"Very much like that, yes." Rumpelstiltskin giggled again, and folded his hands over his stomach. "I want to make a deal with you about something."
"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft gave him his most scathing stare, attempting to frighten him into submission. "If you want me to somehow send you back to wherever you came from, or something like that, then I'm sorry, but I can't help you."
"No, no, I can go back as soon as our conversation is finished," the Dark One reassured him. "That's not what I want to make a deal about."
"Oh, I see. You want me to do something for you. You possess, for want of a better word, magic, which allowed you to appear in my office like this and imprison me in my chair. Despite your power, however, you are incapable of doing said task yourself, otherwise you would have done it already, and given my wealth and status, you find me capable of accomplishing it." He hardly believed that he was conceding the existence of magic; however, the facts were staring him in the face.
Rumpelstiltskin's reptilian eyes widened, and then he grinned impishly. "Very good, Mr. Holmes. I do, in fact, want you to find this."
He waved his hand, and a picture appeared on the desk in front of Mycroft. An old, hand-drawn picture of what looked like an Egyptian staff with the head of a jackal.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Why on earth do you need that? And where is it?"
"It contains something I want, and it's being kept in a, what do you call them, pyramid. I need to bring it over to my realm. But I can't stay here for as long as I'd need to retrieve it myself, and the traps surrounding it are specifically set up to work against people like me. Ordinary humans, however, can reach it just fine."
The politician gave him a cold look. "You referred to this as a deal; however, I can't think of any reason why I would require your services in return. You have nothing that I could possibly want." And he tried, ineffectively, to free himself from the chair.
"Not even the ability to save your brother?"
After a long pause, in which Mycroft recontained his emotions, he stared back up at the Dark One, and asked softly, "What?"
Rumpelstiltskin grinned like a shark; he knew he had the other man right where he wanted him. "I can make sure that he doesn't go off to another country where he will probably die within six months. He can stay right here, and continue his little mystery games with his friend the doctor and his family. You won't have to send him away, and know you may never see him again."
"...How?" Mycroft finally demanded, not bothering to ask how he knew about all this.
"Don't worry about it," he replied airily. "Just trust me; I'll give your country a reason to let him stay. If you retrieve the staff for me. Just use your influence to get someone who can get into the tomb," he cut off Mycroft's potential question about what he wanted him to do, "and use the other side of the picture's instructions to get it. Once the staff's in your possession, touch the picture, and it will contact me. Do we have a deal?"
What could Mycroft say to that but, "Deal."
"Excellent!" the little man laughed, before vanishing, leaving only the drawing as evidence that the politician had not been dreaming. At least he'd also untied the arms of the chair.
The next day was the day that Sherlock was going to be sent off to die. Mycroft watched, and waited to see if Rumpelstiltskin would hold up his end of the deal. When nothing happened, and his brother got on the plane anyway, he was sure it was all some elaborate hoax. Until, that is, the images of Moriarty started popping up everywhere, along with the phrase, "Did you miss me?"
And so it was with a deeply hidden sigh of relief that he was able to call Sherlock and bring him home. As soon as that was done, he also began to make some calls, both to people who would deal with the potential threat of Moriarty being back in existence, and with those who had experience in Egyptology and archaeology, and then he set about making arrangements with the Egyptian government to let his people explore the pyramid in question. He knew he had a deal to uphold.
Was this confusing at all? Cliche? Weird? The tiniest bit good? If you wish, please let me know. Sorry, I know you probably hate other writers nagging you to comment, but I like feedback as much as the next person. And the next person, as far as I can tell, likes it very much.