Florence turned in early that night, the stress of the day exhausting her beyond explanation. She wouldn't admit it to her dad, but even though she had only been there for one day Small Heath had already drained her. It didn't take her long to settle into the small room above the pub; although it hadn't been lived in for a while it was enough for her. It was furnished simply but it was enough, with there being a bathtub and a small stove. Florence expected she could live here comfortably for a while. She placed her bags down, and finding a pan in one of the cupboards she started boiling some water for a bath. Unpacking could wait until tomorrow.

Downstairs, the pub was bustling with activity, the men coming in to drown after a long day's work. It was busy, but nothing Harry couldn't handle on his own. He took comfort in the pouring, mopping, talking that came with the job; he'd always been good with words, and although he was a laidback, mellow man, he knew he could talk his way out of anything. He was aware that was one of the main things his only daughter had learned from him. Florence was the spitting image of her mother, a woman whose face he hadn't seen in over fifteen years, and who it still pained him to think of. His childhood sweetheart who he would have gone to the ends of the earth for, and who he couldn't protect from the disease and squalor that surrounded them in Small Heath. It would take his breath away sometimes when Flo would throw her head back in fits of laughter, and he would see his late wife sitting before him. He took comfort in the fact that she lived on through her.

Harry was dragged from his moment of reminiscing ironically by a sneering voice. "Oi, Harry. I was looking forward to seeing that pretty little girl of yours – well, from what I've been hearing today, she's not a little girl anymore." The man smirked at him, earning a few chuckles from the other men surrounding him.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. "Look, if you've got anything to say about my girl, you're not welcome here anymore." The man scoffed and looked him up and down. "I'm a paying customer, aren-".

The crude man was interrupted before he could go any further. "This man bothering you, Harry?" Tommy's low voice echoed across the bar, staring daggers at the man from under his flat cap. He hadn't noticed Tommy slip through the doors, but the pub grew quiet as Tommy stood up and moved towards the man. "How about you go and have a drink somewhere else from now on, eh?" Although Tommy spoke calmly, the man looked around frantically at his friends, but they all turned a blind eye.

"Look, I don't-"

Tommy grabbed him by the throat, the razor blade in the peak of his hat glinting visibly. "Wasn't a question. Get the fuck out."

Once Tommy let him go, the man scurried away quickly, not looking back. As he passed through the doors, Arthur and John staggered through, joining Tommy at the bar as he waited for his usual whiskey. "What the fuck was that?" Arthur questioned Tommy, but received no answer to his question.

"You two go and sit down. I'll be joining you soon." The two protested but did as they were told, swaggering over to a table in the back where they recognised some of the other Blinders. John's eyes swept the pub as if he was looking for something, but he was quickly dragged into the conversation.

Tommy turned his attention to Harry, who had set down the glass of whiskey in front of him. "Speaking of your little girl, do you know where she might be?" He took a sip of his whiskey, removing the cap from his head and placing it on the bar.

"I've let her off early for the night, she's had a long day. She's kipping upstairs till she finds a place of her own." Harry nodded to the door behind the bar.

Tommy's eyebrows furrowed slightly but his gaze on Harry was unwavering. "Upstairs?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, she told me she sorted it with you earlier and you said it was fine."

"Well, Harry, I don't recall having that conversation." He tilted his head to one side, before downing the glass of whiskey in one gulp. Fixing his cap atop his head, he made his way around the bar and towards the door leading to the upstairs flat. Harry made no move to stop him, knowing that there was nothing he could do. Florence knew the Shelby's and he trusted her to defend herself; she wouldn't appreciate him stepping in.

Tommy didn't bother knocking, irritated that Florence had gone ahead and settled in without asking him. The room upstairs was a space to be used as a safe house for the Peaky Blinders - if there was merchandise (or people) that needed to be hidden, he would send them here. He was annoyed that she had to be so difficult when he knew full well that she had a warm bed with her father and stepmother.

As soon as the door was ajar, he opened his mouth to speak but stopped quickly. Florence was fast asleep already, with a lamp still burning next to the bed. The bath was still full, one of her bags open on the floor with her belongings strewn around it. She was lying in the single bed, her long, damp, auburn hair spread on the pillow next to her, the blankets pulled up around her waist with her breasts exposed. It looked as though she had crawled straight out of her bath into bed.

Seeing her so exposed, Tommy turned around quickly. It felt odd seeing a girl he had watched grow up in that state and he worried that she was still awake; he wasn't like that, Tommy. He was known for his coldness and violence but never had he overstepped the mark with a woman. Florence stirred at the disturbance of the door opening but only turned onto her side, settling back into her slumber.

Tommy took a deep breath and turned his head to gaze at her. God, she really had changed. She had grown into her looks. Her strong jaw and cheekbones meant that she was often mistaken for a boy when she was a child, but he couldn't imagine that happening now – she was a pretty woman, a very pretty woman indeed, and a far cry from how he remembered her when she was just fifteen. She had a scattering of freckles across her nose and a scar under her left eye that was barely noticeable now. Tommy remembered how when she was a child there had been an accident with a cricket ball that had left her with this injury and having to stop a young John from showing the perpetrator who was boss. He let his eyes wander. She had a slim frame, narrow shoulders with protruding collarbones that made her look as if she could do with a meal or two. She wasn't the most voluptuous woman he had seen, but she was something. Something about seeing her there, naked and vulnerable, made him tick. He moved across the room towards the bed, eyes on her face, wary that if she woke now it would make this a very difficult situation for him. He slowly grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to her chin, covering her exposed body, not before taking note of the birthmark on her left breast that caught his eye. Reaching over her he turned off the lamp, then made his way back to the open door. Tommy took one last look at the sleeping girl before making his way back to the pub downstairs. Their conversation could wait until tomorrow.

In spite of anxieties surrounding her in Small Heath, Florence slept surprisingly well, and awoke in a good mood for once, but late. After getting ready with a quick cup of tea and a breakfast of bread and jam, she headed downstairs to see her father. Harry had already opened the pub for the day but there were only a couple of customers, none she really recognised. Giving her father a quick peck on the cheek, she told him she would be with him in a moment as she went and sat by the window of the pub, and began plaiting her long hair. Too long, Harry had commented the day before, Time for it to go, don't you think. She was aware that times were changing and that it was no longer the fashion for women to sport long locks like hers, but her hair was her pride and joy. She remembered her mum loving her hair; she'd taught her how to French plait it by herself by the time she was five.

Once she was finished, she put on her apron and began taking stock for the day. It was a tedious job but she didn't mind; anything to help her dad. It took Florence a while as she wasn't the best with numbers, and while she counted aloud under her breath, she would often lose her place, quickly becoming frustrated with herself.

"For fuck's sake, Dad, I can't do this anymore." She exhaled, pushing the book into his hands. "What's the point in me doing it if you have to check it's all right afterwards?"

Harry shook his head at his daughter's crude language. "You've got to learn these things, Flo..." He trailed off as he noticed who was standing at the bar. "Afternoon, Tommy. What can I get for you?" Florence turned to the three men, it was the first time she had seen them all together since she'd returned, and they made an intimidating group, to say the least. People kept commenting on how she had changed; the war had recreated these men. She could tell from the way they walked around like they owned the place, and how no one dared to look twice at them. They terrified people, and it bothered her. She remembered them as three gentle boys who had been so devoted to her. She and John used to be best friends when they were young, and she remembered Arthur as a beacon of comfort, sneaking her treats and making sure she was okay whenever she cried. And Tommy. He was just Tommy to her. He was always there.

"Whiskey. Bring the bottle." Tommy replied, his eyes on Florence. He turned quickly, heading to the snug next to the bar with Arthur trailing behind him. John remained, and she could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she turned to grab the bottle of whiskey and three glasses. "Flo, I..." He started but was interrupted by Arthur calling him over to the snug. Florence wasn't far behind him.

She placed the bottle and glasses down on the table and turned to leave before Tommy's voice stopped her. "Sit down, Florence. I've been wanting to have a little chat with you."

Florence looked around at the three of them, and huffing, took a seat, with John on her left and Tommy and Arthur opposite her. "What is it, then? Wanted to continue your little interrogation, did you?" She goaded him, remembering how much their conversation yesterday had wound her up.

"You know what I really don't like, Florence? I really don't like liars. And you've been telling some lies recently, haven't you?" Florence stayed silent, but kept her eyes on him, unwavering. She refused to be intimidated, she wouldn't back down that easily.

"You've been telling lies, concerning me. To your own dad." This time Tommy waited for a response.

"I told him that for his own peace of mind. I don't need your permission to stay on my dad's property. So why don't you all just mind your own business, yeah?" She nodded, flashing them a sarcastic smile before standing up to leave. As she opened the door, a hand over her shoulder pushed it shut. When she turned Tommy was close to her, in her face, grabbing her face, forcing her to look him in the eyes. John stood up at the violent movement of his brother, but with one look from Arthur, he sat back down again.

"Now, are you listening to me? Hmm? Things have changed. The Garrison is now run by the Peaky Blinders, which means what I say goes. You will not be staying here. You-"

"Do you really think I'm scared of you? What are you going to do if I misbehave? Cut me? I know for a fact that none of you would dare lay a finger on me. So, don't even try to intimidate me. If I leave here, I'll leave of my own accord." Florence roughly pulled his hand from her face and slipped out of the door before anyone could stop her.

Florence was leaning against a barrel, trying to get her breath back from the confrontation with Tommy when she heard the door to the back room open behind her and John slipped in and approached her.

"Flo. I just want to talk to you." She didn't reply, so he went on. "I'm sorry about Tommy, he's-"

"You don't need to apologise for him." Her voice shocked him; it was strong, and steady, and cut through the overbearing silence of the room, through his own voice. "Don't. He can apologise himself. Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

Florence had come to terms with bumping into John the previous day. It had been a shock, being confronted with the face that had haunted her for all those years, it almost didn't feel real. Her initial reaction was to lash out – that was what she had learned to do, spending years in London as a single woman. As she looked at him now, she felt calm. This was John. Her John.

She watched as his eyes turned dark in frustration. "What was that yesterday? I don't hear from you for years and then that- that was bang out of order, that was."

Her face softened, and she took a step towards him. "John, I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to just bump into you in the street. I was shocked", she reached out and placed a hand on his arm, "I was shocked."

"Well, I think we've got some catching up to do, don't you?" A small smile broke his expression as he stepped forwards quickly, collecting her into an embrace. He was more solid than she remembered, feeling the bulk of muscle as she held him, but his touch was still soft when he held her, one arm wrapped around her waist and a hand in her hair. He held her for longer than necessary, he couldn't believe that she was here. He had convinced himself that Florence had gone for good after she didn't even come back to visit her father, but now she was here, in his arms, and he didn't want to let go.

But she pulled away, shrugging him off and heading for the door. "I have to work to do, but I'll come and find you later." With that, she was gone.

Hi, thank you so much for reading! This is my first time writing something like this, so I would appreciate any and all constructive criticism or feedback if anyone has time to give it! Hope you're enjoying so far - there's lots more to come x