Summary: Emma finds a file Graham had left behind at the Sheriff's Station; a file on a case he'd been working the year before his death. A case about the hidden wing under the hospital basement, and a certain girl locked away there.

This is a sort of semi-reunion Rumbelle oneshot, taking place sometime after Skin Deep. I'm kind of straying from the original theme of Belle gets curious in the Dark Castle, but this sticks with the initial theme of finding something. Emma finds beauty for the beast. Or, somewhat.

Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time.

Holding Out for a Hero

It had been over a month and a half since Graham's death, and if Emma had known being sheriff meant this much work, maybe she wouldn't have fought so hard for the job.

There was paperwork—lots and lots of paperwork, files and unsolved cases he had left behind. Plenty of things he hadn't thought to tell her about. Cases she didn't even know were open, much less in-progress. The blond sighed and picked up a stack of files, rifling through them, trying to sort. Most of them were pretty petty.

Break in on third, teenage shoplifters, bar fights, hospital scandal…

Emma stopped.

Hospital scandal?

That didn't sound so petty, she thought as she flipped open the manila folder. A newspaper clipping caught her attention first, taken from The Daily Mirror, something about hospital patients hearing strange noises in the middle of the night, coming from "below them". Apparently, hospital personnel had checked the basement multiple times, only to come up empty.

And then there were files, files on people who were supposedly dead, pictures and paragraphs detailing people with names like Alicia Kingsley and Peter Young. One name stood out from the rest, though, circled in bright red marker. The name was Gabriella French, twenty-six years old, certifiably insane. Committed suicide by jumping off the clock tower two years ago, is what the newspaper said.

Apparently, Graham had thought differently. Emma stared down at his handwriting, the handwriting she'd come to know so well, gracing an index card that was paper clipped to Gabriella's picture. She was quite pretty, Emma thought absently, with brown hair, matted and dull yet still beautiful, coming down her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes were blue, but sunken in and downcast, as if she'd rather be anywhere else than looking into a camera. Considering it was the picture taken when she was admitted into the psychiatric ward, Emma couldn't blame her.

The notes Graham had left were barely legible in his faded-pencil chicken scratch, but she could make out a few words; words like has hallucinations and Emergency contact: Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold.

Mr. Gold?

Gabriella French. That must've been Moe French's daughter—Emma had overheard Ruby and Ashley talking about it after Gold's initial arrest. Apparently, Gabriella had been Gold's assistant at a shop before her episodes began. And once they did, she'd been admitted to the hospital promptly. A few weeks after her admittance, she'd managed to escape and throw herself off the clock tower, in the dead of night, with nobody watching. The body had been removed by morning, so the report said, so no one saw the incident. No one—except the mayor, who'd just so happened to be driving by early the next morning on her way to the Town Hall.

Red warning lights immediately shot up in Emma's head.

She skimmed through the rest of the file, eyes darting around, looking for anything incriminating she could use against Regina. She couldn't find anything, but Graham had, and he'd written it all down for her. Proof of an underground level of the hospital, an unofficial extension of the psychiatric unit, one that wasn't on the hospital blueprints. Speculation on whether or not these so-called "dead" people were being housed there. He hadn't gotten much, it seemed, but it was enough to start an investigation, Emma was sure.

But first…

Emma picked up the phone. It was late, a quarter past midnight, but she was sure he was still up. Gold seemed like the night-owl type, anyway. She waited three rings until he picked up, his Scottish brogue rough with exhaustion as he said a greeting, coupled with a yawn. Okay, maybe he hadn't been up. "Yes, hello?"

"Gold," Emma greeted absently, her gaze still focused on Gabriella's picture. She didn't trust Gold, not one bit, but something inside her was telling her to do this. Something that sounded annoyingly like Henry. To call him, to tell him. To give him maybe-false-hope. The intent wasn't malicious, though. It was meant to be cathartic. The blond bit her lip, and decided the best way to go with this was to do what she always did—plow right through with the god-honest truth.

"I think she's alive."

It was quiet for a long while on the other end of the phone. And then, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Swan." His voice was quiet, as if daring to be hopeful. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

"You know. She. Gabriella."

Another pause. "Gabriella?" he croaked, disbelieving, and then more silence. She heard him clear his throat. "How?"

"A file. I found a file. This is a maybe. Nothing for sure. I'm opening an investigation." And not just because I want to take Regina down, she thought as she listened to the beastly pawnbroker's shallow breathing, as she looked into the haunted blue eyes of Gabriella French. Because it was the right thing to do, and if Graham was right, and half the people locked in this place weren't certifiably crazy, then they had a court case on their hands.

Gold's voice snapped her out of it. "Thank you," he said, his voice back to normal, level and sturdy and neutral, but even over the phone Emma could sense his gratitude. Gabriella must've really meant a lot to him.

The blond blinked. A dial tone met her ears.

He'd hung up.

Gold stared at the phone in his hands, trembling, whether with fury or happiness or sorrow or hope (damned, damned hope) he didn't know.

He hadn't known who Emma had been talking about at first, but as soon as the name Gabriella had left her lips, he knew. The false memories came tumbling back, memories of a blue-eyed Gabriella—Gabbe, she liked to be called—as she dusted his wares in the afternoon, making idle chitchat as he counted money. It was a peaceful existence, not unlike their time in the Dark Castle.

He could remember days she'd bring him lunch, declaring that he cared more about the damn shop than his own well-being and he'd only be a rich sack of bones if she hadn't come along. He could remember her getting sidetracked with the dusting or the inventory, tinkering with one object or another, making the two wooden puppets in the middle of his shop have little conversations when she thought he wasn't looking or listening. He could remember the day she'd had an episode in the back room of his shop, screaming and crying, collapsing to the ground. He'd held her until she'd snapped out of it, brushed her hair back, told her she was okay.

She'd made him promise not to tell anybody.

And he hadn't, but someone was bound to notice—and oh, they had. He could remember the day her idiotic ex-boyfriend, Galen, came to break the bad news, telling him with shifting feet and downcast eyes that she'd been admitted into the hospital psychiatric ward.

He could remember reading the paper one late Sunday morning, a morning when his knee was killing him more than usual, and seeing the headline Mental Patient Jumps Off Clock Tower. He'd skimmed the article, praying to whatever deity might be listening that it wasn't her (please, please, please don't be her) only to have his precious hope smashed to bits when he saw the name Gabriella French.

He could remember Ruby and Mary Margaret (bless their brave souls) come tentatively to his shop, asking him if he was coming to the funeral, that they'd known how close he and Gabbe were. They'd all been friends, Mary, Ruby, and Gabbe, and he'd often see them idling in front of his shop, too cautious of the man inside to take a step past the threshold. He'd let Gabbe go whenever he saw them, letting her off for an early lunch at Granny's. The one day they'd been brave enough to go into his store was the worst occasion of his life—he could remember making some hurried excuse, that he had too much work and couldn't make it.

He could remember the looks they shot each other, the sad smiles and the slow nods. Okay, Mr. Gold. Whatever you say, Mr. G.

He could remember drowning himself with whatever liquor he could find that night, only to wake up with a throbbing head and a throbbing knee.

Those memories had all been false, of course, fabricated from the Queen's own sick, twisted mind, but they'd all meant the same thing. Belle was dead. His precious Belle was gone in both worlds, and he'd done nothing but seal her fate.

And now? Now, the savior come to restore the happiness, had possibly found this weary old beast's happy ending?

Gold smiled, and held onto something he hadn't bothered with in a long time—he held onto hope.

A/N: Yup. This was actually originally going to be a full-length Rumbelle reunion fic, but with the season 2 premier looming so close I can't help but feel it's kind of out of place. So this'll be a oneshot for now. Tell me if you want something full-length out of it—I'm sure I could do something with it, I'm just kind of wondering if I'd get a following or not. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!

Thanks for reading, and reviews are love!