Thomas Shelby's P.O.V.

"Hurry up, John!"

Tommy shouted as he slammed his car door, coming to a stop on the cracked sidewalk next to his older brother, Arthur. Today was a day to keep time, no dalliances, no hesitation, no bloody waiting around for John, his younger brother, and his wife, Esme to stop fuckin' arguing for five minutes, so they could get on the road. Today was the day of expansion, to get into London, leave their little message for Sabini, perhaps celebrate for an hour or two like his brothers will wish they would, and get back to business in Birmingham. In, done, out. Simple. All's well that ends well.

"I'm bloody coming!"

Came the disembodied voice of John Shelby from the soot blackened house. Tommy smirked as he heard Esme's answering yell, something long-winded, garbled, ending with a resolute don't come back. If she ever lived through with that threat, John would have been kicked out years ago and they would only be on their second child, not fifth. Reaching into his coat pocket, Tommy pulled out a pack of smokes, flicking the lid, he flipped out one, struck a match and took a calming puff. Arthur pulled something out of his own dusty coat, a little glass bottle, printed and clean, brown liquid sloshing around inside as he popped the cork and downed a mouthful.

"Seven o'clock, twelve o'clock, ten if I'm still sober. I got it from the doctor. Keeps me nice and calm."

Tommy hummed as he stretched over, snatched the bottle and wearily eyed the label. Lifting the bottle to his nose, he took a whiff before scowling as medicinal fumes lingered in his nostrils. For a flash, he could see it, feel it, hear it. The taste of dirt in his teeth, coating him. The sound of explosions in the distance, cries of dying men ringing in his ears, cries that would never quieten. He could feel the damp coldness clinging to him, soaking into his pores, so cold. It was there and then it was gone, and Tommy pushed it all back, all away, all down. Holding up the bottle, he wiggled it at Arthur.

"Same thing they gave us in the trenches to stop us fuckin' wanking."

Yes, because, after what they, he and his brothers and his brethren in arms, had seen, done, the nightmares, all of it and none of it, the cure would be found in a little glass bottle of iodine and opium. Bloody doctors didn't understand. Most of them hadn't been there themselves, safely locked away back in England, no blood splashing on their faces. Almost bashfully, Arthur jammed his hands into his slack pockets, kicking back against the car.

"Polly says it's good for me temper. It slows me down."

Of course she bloody well did. If Polly wasn't trying to hamper them one way, she was cutting ties another. Fingering the bottle for a moment, staring at the label of a smiling man in a pressed suit cartooned onto the front, Tommy flipped the damned thing upside down, letting the liquid inside pour out and splash onto the pavement.

"Arthur, there's some things Polly doesn't understand. I need you fast, not slow, eh?"

Then he was shucking the bottle over his car, into the road, hearing the glass shatter like their own souls had back in the Somme. Arthur stared after the bottle for a long while before nodding. Tommy knew his brother, knew he hated to be sedated like a broken horse, but because Polly had said to do it, so Arthur did it. That was his brother. A good soldier, always awaiting orders, never taking the steps for himself. Just then the front door opened, and John came tumbling out, slamming it shut behind him, clothes haggard and wrinkled, fighting to button up the crotch of his trousers while trying to simultaneously shirk on his suit jacket.

"She wouldn't let go of me fuckin' leg."

Arthur chuckled as he and Tommy pulled away from the sidewalk, backing up to the car.

"I bet that's not all she wouldn't let go of."

Tommy slipped into his car, Arthur opening the other door for John to slink into before entering himself. The sooner they got this done with, the sooner Tommy could deal with the fuckin' Irish, settle down, and life could go back to the way it was. Nonetheless, always the one to push his patience, John stayed stubbornly on the side of the road, messing with his cap.

"You know she's against this Tom? She's got opinions."

Tommy sighed as he tapped against the steering wheel of the open top car. Oh, he knew Esme's opinions on their expansion plans well enough. They all did after the family meeting yesterday, where she had ranted and raved about the dangers, the boogiemen down in London, her soft dreams of wanting her, the kids and John to move away, far away, start some sort of fuckin' farm and have chickens. Bloody Chickens. Did she not know her husband a lick? John would be there for a week before, out of anger and boredom, he would snap every single one of those chickens' necks. That sort of life wasn't for them. None of them. No Shelby with any Shelby blood would end in such a way.

"Nothing wrong with opinions, John. Now come on."

Arthur clapped John on the back.

"Get in the fuckin' car."

"Shut up."

John cursed as he climbed in, followed by a smirking Arthur who sat on the side of the two-seater car, balanced precariously on the window ledge. Tommy took off, the engine happily grumbling beneath them before, as always, Arthur made a show. Standing up, he held his arms out wide.

"Right! The Peaky Blinders are going on fuckin' holiday!"

John yanked him down just as fast as Arthur had stood up.

"Sit down, ya mad bastard!"

The two laughed as they traded good natured blows, little smacks, and Tommy felt the ghost of a smile flutter across his mouth. That's all he had now. Ghosts and phantoms, numbed feelings, muted colours. In the bleak midwinter… As he turned down the road to head out of Birmingham, passing the old laundrette, was when he saw her. Polly, hair wild and loose, coat missing, mud caking her heeled boots, fire in her eyes as she spotted them, waving, shouting.

"Tommy, wait!"

For what felt like the hundredth time that morning, Tommy sighed. Polly had made her own opinions on their endeavour perfectly clear. Tommy didn't need to listen to them again. Not right now. So, he went to drive past her. Of course, Polly being Polly, the mad bint that she was, glared and darted out, right in front of his fuckin' car. Tommy slammed on the breaks, heart leaping as he looked up, finding the hood of his car mere inches away from colliding with a heavily breathing Polly. He didn't know how long he stayed like that before the anger came, boiling and rolling, through his blood. Storming out of the car, Tommy slammed the door shut so hard he was sure he had dented the metal.

"Are you bloody insane, Pol? What do you think you ar-"

Yet, Polly was smiling, widely, brightly, jogging towards him, grabbing him by his biceps, grip tight and unforgiving.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been from Margate over to the Marquise looking for you! Doesn't matter, come. Come!"

Looking for him? No, she wouldn't have found him. He had been down at the foundries near the cut, a place he didn't often visit, putting a bullet into that Irishman's head for the two Irish fuckers he had met down at the Black Lion yesterday. Tommy didn't like killing, especially when it was done in need of someone other than he and his family, but, then again, he liked being coerced and blackmailed even less. Those two, the Irish woman and man, would get their turn, when he found out exactly what it was, in its entirety, that they wanted from him and his family.

No. First Sabini, then the Irish. One at a time. It was the only way he was going to make it through this fuckin' day without a headache. None too gently, Tommy tugged himself free from Polly's grasp as she tried to yank him, force him to follow her. Turning around, he opened the car door from over his shoulder.

"I'm too busy for this shit today, Pol. You've said what you've had to say."

Tommy knew Polly was against the expansion, well, the timing of it, but fuckin' hell, running in front of his car to stop him? Perhaps she was the one who needed the trench medicine she had tried to get Arthur to guzzle.

"If you get in that car, Thomas Shelby, I will burn down the bookie. Do you understand me? This has nothing to do with London business!"

Her voice was unsympathetic, severe, demanding. It wasn't a tone she used often, rarely. Tommy's hand stalled on the car door handle, the cold metal biting into his palm. Slowly, Tommy glanced at Polly and found her smile still firmly in place, wedged and sealed, and bloody hell, it unsettled him.

"What has you smiling?"

Her grin only grew.

"Please, just-… You won't believe me. You have to come."

He searched her face, her eyes, saw the glint there, the barely concealed jubilation, the excitement, and for, certainly now, the hundredth time, Tommy sighed. The car door closed with a bang. Blindly, he chucked the car keys to Arthur who snatched them from the air.

"We're taking a little detour lads."

Two exasperated groans came from John and Arthur, who had slid up to the driver's seat, as they went to pull the car closer to the sidewalk to park. However, Tommy wasn't finished as he grabbed Polly's elbow and spoke loudly, clearly, looking the smaller woman, but equally as dangerous, right in the eye.

"But we are leaving for London by noon."

Polly shrugged at him but that glint in her eye turned keen, serrated. She pulled away then, spinning on her heel, walking back the way she had come thundering down, forcing Tommy to follow her as he was eventually flanked by John and Arthur.

Thomas Shelby's P.O.V.

The first sign was the car. Crimson red, abnormally intense against the backdrop of greys that seemed to make up Birmingham's landscape, parked right outside the Shelby bookies. Offhandedly, Tommy was reminded of the days when their mother was alive, when she would teach them little verses from the bible around the hearth every Sunday morning because church was too expensive, and father had drank their food money during the week. Arthur had liked the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah, John David and Goliath, Tommy, however, preferred the book of revelation.

When the Lamb opened the second seal, I heard the second living creature say, 'Come and see!' Then another horse came out, a fiery red one. Its rider was given power to take peace from the earth and to make men slay each other. To him was given a large sword. The rider on the red horse… War. But this was no apocalypse, this was no horse or horseman and Tommy reigned in his errant thoughts. He needed another smoke and a shot of whiskey, perhaps a bit of the pipe to calm his bloody mind down.

Polly paid it no mind as she strode passed it, over to the front door, unlocking it and swiftly entering followed by Arthur, John and Tommy. When they were all inside, Polly relocked the door. People were crowding outside, getting anxious, and the bookie should have been opened for business hours ago. What exactly had Polly been up to if she, of all people, had kept the bookie closed if there was money to be made? Still, she didn't speak as she marched through the desks, around the corner, passed the winnings boards and towards the back where the family rooms were kept safely separated behind two thick wooden doors and shiny locks. Like a good little boy, or a man who was ready to get this over with so he could get back to work, Tommy followed diligently. Strangely, the family room, where they held their private meetings, were wide open, inviting, and Tommy could hear voices coming from inside. One, evidently their youngest brother, Finn's.

"How do you keep winning?"

Tommy heard Finn whine. Another voice, deep and rich, a woman's, answered back almost gravely.

"Pure, unfiltered talent, kid."

Tommy turned the corner, crossed the border between bookie and Livingroom, and saw Finn sat at the head of the small, rounded, family table, facing the door. Finn was grinning, playing cards clutched between his hands protectively, eyes darting between the stack of coins spewed across the middle of the table and his guest, eyeing her up, debating the odds. The woman threw another three guineas into the pile in the middle, daring Finn to carry on. There wasn't much to see of the woman as she sat opposite Finn, back to the double doors, but the fuckin' hair. Thick, unruly, onyx black, half of it rolled and pinned to the back of her head using a strange stick, knobbled, reedy and elongated, the rest left to fall down her back in a dense curtain. Finn scowled.

"I'm only two years younger than you. Are you cheating?"

Tommy stalked closer, still a good few feet away, but close enough to see the girl's hand. Spades, an Ace, a King, a Queen, a Jack and a ten. Royal flush. Still, Finn, having had his ego bruised by the prodding of his age, threw four guineas onto the pile that was already quite a healthy weight. No doubt, that was exactly what the woman had wanted, and Finn had walked right into her little palm.

"Me? Cheat? Never."

The young woman couldn't sound more wry and deadpanned sardonic if she had tried. Tommy took a step out of the doorway, into the light coming in from the windows by the back, Arthur, John and Polly trailing behind and Finn spotted them, beaming at their arrival.

"Tommy!"

Finn threw his cards down, a lonely and lowly pair of twos greeting them, and stood, tugging on the hem of his untucked shirt to straighten it out. Tommy nodded at him, but his eyes trailed to the girl's hand, watching as her hand clenched around the cards, nearly bending them in two, thumb stilling from running over the glossy faces, her other hand which had been lifting a cig to her mouth falling still, frozen.

"You alright there, Finn? Who's this?"

Tommy prayed it wasn't some girl Finn had knocked up, they had enough on their plates as it was, without adding a crying babe and a strange woman to the mix. Why else would Polly drag him all the way here to meet a young woman otherwise? Eventually, the girl came to herself, sighed deeply, resigned, gently folded her cards down face first on the table, and stubbed the smoke out in the ashtray next to her. Finn didn't answer him. Instead, the young woman stood, a small thing for sure, barely reaching Tommy's shoulder if they stood side by side, and ran a hand down her black skirts, smoothing it out. Her back was straight and true, tight, shoulders back and locked. Proud but nervous. Then she was speaking.

"My name's Harrietta Shelby."

And she was turning, and he sees her. Sees her. He sees the dreams of her he's had over the years, hazy and vivid and torturous to remember when awake, dreams he equally treasured and loathed, and it's hard to put them together. She isn't as tall as Lizzie, not like he thought she would be. She doesn't have his widows peak, not like her dream counterpart. She doesn't have his soft waves, but Lizzies wild curl, but somehow, someway, through it all, dream and here, it's more.

She had her grandmothers' eyes, extraordinarily clear and vivacious. She had Lizzie's willowy figure, though, from what he could see through thick jumper and long skirt brushing flat boot, she was wiry, strong, like Arthur. She had John's broad shoulders, Polly's short stature, Ada's impenetrable air of pride, but there, staring back at him was his own face, softened, just slightly, barely, by femininity. Right there, standing in front of him, was a little piece of himself, a shard of his soul, that he thought he had lost forever.

He sees her as a babe, just after Lizzie had given birth, so innocent, so small, so delicate and fragile, cradled in his arms, still smeared with blood as he smiled down at her and she blinked up at him. He felt her right then, felt the weight, the warmth, of her in his slack arms as if he was back there, in that old dusty room, still holding her, rocking her, saying his first hello. He felt and saw it all and for once in his fuckin' life, Tommy was left speechless. There was movement behind him, noise not registering, not fully, but he was stuck, grounded, solid… Lost. There were no words.

"Bloody 'ell, you look just like your Pa!"

Arthur exclaimed abruptly as he walked forward. All Tommy could do was watch, tongue-less and mindless, as Harrietta gave a hesitant smile, offering out her hand to an advancing Arthur.

"Nice to meet you-"

Arthur cut her off by brushing her hand away and pulling her into a hug, squeezing tightly before pulling back slightly to look down at her, hands braced on her shoulders.

"None of that now! Family don't shake hands! Don't suppose you remember me? I'm your uncle Arthur. You used to giggle up a storm when I threw you in the air and caught you. Eh, here, this is-"

Arthur slid an arm around her shoulders, tugging her into his side as he waved over at John, who too, was skidding forward, smiling and still, Tommy was there, feet planted to the floor, blinking, adrift in memories and dreams and hopes and fears and every god-damned thing in-between.

"Your uncle John. You pissed on me once. It's good to see you again, pip-squeak."

John joked as he unabashedly ruffled her hair. She chuckled and jerked her head away but the noise haunted Tommy. It was the same chuckle, not an octave changed, that she would make when Arthur bounced her in the air, when Polly would wiggle her nose, when fifteen year old Tommy would make faces, or run a finger along the sole of her foot, or blow hot air into her face or bounce her on his hip when she couldn't sleep or-

Too much. Was he breathing? He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He could barely feel himself standing upright. Then she was looking at him, the dimpled smile on her face, one so much like his own at that age, so alive, was cracking and crumbling and the laughter and joy of the room died viciously as they all, one by one, twisted to look at him too. He tried to say something, anything, but there was nothing he could find, no words, none.

She pulled away from Arthur and John carefully, slowly, inching towards him until she came an arms breadth away and still, Tommy couldn't speak. She reached into her pocket in her skirts and pulled out a yellow piece of paper, aged, wrinkled and creased and gradually, held it out for him to take. His hand trembled as he took it, but he didn't open it. He knew what it was, the only thing it could be. The letter they had left with Harrietta the day she was taken. The paper crinkled in his hand as fist clenched. Her eyes darted between his own and the scrunched letter.

"Is it good?"

She asked in an emotionless voice, dead and raspy and horridly reconciled. The question was hefty, robust, tired. She looked ready for rejection, to be grabbed by the scruff of her jumpers' collar and chucked out onto the streets like a dead rat and finally, seeing the resignation, seeing her hand drop and her chin lift as she readied to leave herself, Tommy came hurtling back to his own body. She had the letter. This wasn't another dream. She really was here. Right here. In front of him. There were no words. No words.

He found himself moving, pulling her towards him or him towards her, it was hard to tell, enfolding her into his arms, kissing her forehead before resting his cheek on head, hand in her hair, entangling, rooting itself there, eyes sliding closed as something wet trickled down his cheek. She still smelled of sweet-pea and honey.

"Took you long enough."

He croaked and he's crying, he knows he is, his voice is harsh and guttural and it's the first time in years, years, before the war, before Harrietta's abduction, before it all, that he had allowed himself to cry. She hugged him back and her own voice is just as broken as his, just as wet.

"I took the scenic route."

Thomas Shelby's P.O.V.

Harrietta was in the back of the bookie's, in Tommy's office, making a phone call to a friend she had waiting for her back in the Grand Hotel, letting the friend know that she was alive and well but wouldn't be back anytime soon. Hermione, Tommy thought Harry had said her name was, when she excused herself after pulling away from him eventually. Tommy thought she just needed some air and time to collect herself.

Since Harrietta's departure, the room had fallen to silence, unsure and unsteady. Polly had been quick to send Finn away, out to Esme and the rest, away from the important conversation. He had left after a bit of huffing and puffing hot air. John and Arthur had taken seats at the far wall, on the sofa, reclining, still close due to the cramped room. Tommy sat near the unlit hearth, in one of the high back chairs, trying to gather his own nerves with a smoke. Polly was standing by the windows, staring off and away into whatever grim thoughts that were piercing her lips and narrowing her eyes.

"She hasn't said much about, well, about before."

Tommy took another deep drag as his eyes settled on Polly's backlit profile.

"I can hear a but in there, Pol."

Polly detached herself from the windows and light, slinking over to the shaded chair near him, near the last highbacked leather in front of him, as she conspiratorially peeped through the open doors to the bookie, checking to see if the rooms were clear. Arthur and John, knowing something was coming, leant forward to hear better as Polly licked her lips.

"She's littered in scars, Tommy."

Tommy blinked once, twice, before he threw his cig into the dead hearth. Of course, he had seen the one on her forehead, that one was hard to miss. It was an ugly thing, thick, still pink even though it was knotted and old, jagged as it dogged down her forehead in a zigzag, touching base at the tip of the arch of her eyebrow. In full honesty, it looked like she had been shot in the head, barely moving her face in time for the bullet to skim rather than lodge. His voice turned bottomless, stony, treacherous.

"What do you mean, littered?"

Polly lifted her glass of gin, one she had been winding her hands around since Harrietta had left the room and downed the whole thing. Tommy's jaw clenched. That was never a good sign.

"Look at her left hand when she reaches for something. I caught sight of it last night when she finally took her gloves off and had a whiskey. Branded onto her hand are words Tommy. Words. I must not tell lies. I swear on the mother Mary, that's what it fuckin' says."

Polly stood up, gave one last look through the open doors to make sure they were alone before she wandered over to the table, picked up a half empty bottle of gin and poured herself another three fingers.

"That's not all. She had her sleeves rolled up when she washed her hands earlier and on her forearm is a nasty one. Round, thick. It looks as if a rail-road spike has been hammered through her arm. There's another on her neck, just where tendon meets shoulder, that looks as if someone tried to slit her throat. Her fingers are covered in them, little ones that look as if she's gone fifteen rounds in the ring with someone like Arthur until her knuckles split open. Of course, there's the one on her forehead, but there's also one, the lord knows how big, on her foot, discoloured, peeking out from the top of her boot, looking as if she's been burnt. And that's only from what I could see with her thick clothing."

Tommy tried to swallow down the bile.

"What are you trying to say, Polly?"

Polly placed her glass down and braced herself against the table and took in a deep breath.

"I'm saying, just because those wounds have scarred doesn't mean she isn't hurt. She's sixteen and she looks as if she's come straight off a battlefield over in France. She has the same look in her eye, that horrid little shadow, that you and the boys had when you finally came home. Someone must have done that hurting. They could still be out there. She's a Shelby, Tommy. She's one of us and we are the Peaky Blinders… And nobody fucks with the Peaky Blinders."

Tommy stood from his chair.

"Then, we'll just have to make sure that she isn't hurt again. They'll get their due. Isn't that right?"

Arthur leant back in his chair.

"Damn fuckin' straight."

John nodded along, rolling a matchstick around his tongue. Tommy, however, tried to settle his own heart as he placed a palm on Polly's shoulder, forcing her to look at him, right in the eye, and for once, bared himself open.

"She's home Pol. Home. I've just got her home and I don't want-"

Tommy couldn't bring himself to say it. Once you said it, it was there, alive, a real, tangible possibility. I don't want to lose her. Polly nodded in understanding, the only one in the entire family who could read him sometimes, when he let his guards fall, which was becoming less and less each passing day. Silently, he could see in her eyes, that she agreed with him, that whatever happened before, was before. Harrietta would come to them with her story when she was ready. If they pushed, she could bolt. No matter how much they wanted answers, Tommy was ready to cut for them, they had to be patient.

"Everything alright?"

Tommy's hand fell away from Polly's shoulder as he took a step back, gaze flickering over to the door to find Harrietta waiting in the entryway, eyeing them all and obviously taking caution at the thick atmosphere. Polly answered her with a big smile and a of course as Tommy nodded, falling back to sit at the table. Something glinted in her eye but it was gone in a flash as she smiled and entered the room, taking the seat opposite him.

"While I remember, I believe these are yours."

Harrietta said as she pulled out two photos from her pockets, pushing them along the table towards Tommy. He caught a glimpse of her scar, scrawled, pointy, I must not tell lies, and his stomach roiled. He picked up the smaller one, the one of him, Lizzie and Harrietta just a week old. They all looked so young, so untroubled, so content and innocent. But here they were. Lizzie was plying her trade up and down the cut, likely in a backend house down in the slums by now earning her coin. Tommy couldn't remember the last time he had truly smiled or laughed, not since this photo. And Harrietta, his own daughter, was scarred and bruised. He wanted to reach into that photo and shake his younger self, hit him, cut him, anything to get him to realise, to just enjoy that happiness for the short few months it lasted.

"Aye, Pol, look how young you look In this one. No crows feet or-"

Arthur joked as he picked up the last photo, flipping it to show Polly as she laughed and hit him up the side of the head.

"Less of the old, you."

The three, Arthur, John and Polly started talking amongst themselves, pointing out people, cousins, reliving better times, happy times, memories and all Tommy could do was look at that younger version of himself and be jealous. Words kept failing him today, it would seem.

"Is that-… Is that my mother? Lizzie Stark?"

Tommy forced his gaze away from the photo, over to Harrietta, whose voice had turned soft, gentle.

"Yeah, that's your mother."

Harrietta frowned.

"Is she still alive?"

Tommy smiled and placed the photo down on the table. They were happy in that photo, him, Lizzie and Harrietta, and really, they could be so again. Harrietta was here. Perhaps they could never get back to that photo, Tommy was too broken to ever be that boy again, him and Lizzie were… Complicatedly censorious at best, but there was a chance now, a hope of something better than what was.

"Very much alive. She lives just down the road from here. When we come back from London, I'll take you straight to meet her."

The conversation between Polly, Arthur and John broke cleanly off as Polly rounded on him. Of course she would pick that up.

"London? London? Tommy, what-… You can't take her to London! Not when-"

His eyes became hard, voice deceivingly calm.

"She'll come to London with me, John and Arthur. We'll take her to meet her Aunt Ada and little Karl, they can spend some time together while I finish the property business I have up there. Then, we'll all spend some time together before driving back. She's just got here Polly, business can't wait but I'm not going to leave her behind again."

The last time he had left Harrietta behind, going to sort his father's drinking bill he had racked up from the Lee's, Tommy had gotten back to find Lizzie had already handed Harrietta over to the services, no conversation, no waiting, not listening to a thing he said, without even letting him say goodbye. Polly, for a moment, looked like she was going to argue violently but Harrietta beat her to the punch line.

"Little Karl?"

John grinned at Harrietta.

"Ada's little boy."

Harry looked down at the photo still on the table.

"I have a nephew?"

Arthur came over to the table, shoving his hands in his pockets as he propped a hip against the edge, grinning down at Harrietta.

"Seven in total, four nephews and three nieces if you count John's brood. Still climbing too with the way he and Esme carry on. Fuckin' rabbits that they are."

Tommy stretched over the short distance separating them and placed his own hand over her limp one laying flat against the polished wood. He could feel the scars there. Her hand jerked away, swiftly, instinctually and Tommy bit harshly into his cheek to keep the smile in place. Patience. He needed to be patient. Clocking on to her behaviour, her dip in control, Harrietta shot him a smile, but it was small, weak and a little bit broken.

"You can meet them all once we get back from London. I promise."

Her smile blossomed into something real and bright at the promise, as Tommy stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. They really did need to leave if they were going to get to London before nightfall. John piped up as he came to a stand too, flicking his half-chewed matchstick into the cold hearth.

"Not everyone is going to fit in your car."

Shite. He hadn't thought of that. Neither had he thought of the dead body he currently had wrapped in tarp folded and crammed into the back of his car, three shovels next to it. However, Harry was coming to a stand too, answering.

"I'll take mine as well. Someone can ride with me."

Sorted. When they stopped around Oxford to fill up the tanks with gas, he would have a quite word with Arthur and John, tell 'em to take the body out to the countryside, near Sabini's boarders and to dig a pit and toss the body as he and Harry carried on to London, where they'd meet up at Ada's. The boys would be none to happy at the extra leg work, but it wasn't nothing a pint of Guinness wouldn't iron out. Dead body or not, Tommy wasn't about to leave Harrietta behind again. Mentally checked through, Tommy placed a hand at the back of Harrietta, leading her out of the bookies with John and Arthur bringing up the rear.

"You already have my keys Arthur. I'll ride with Harrietta, you take John."

As they stepped out of the bookie's, for once, Birmingham was graced with sunshine, bright and warm and cheerily yellow. John and Arthur smiled at Harrietta as they passed and headed down the road to Tommy's car, which she returned before holding her own keys out to Tommy, smiling almost shyly.

"I don't know the way to London."

Tommy chuckled as he took them, getting into the car as Harrietta slipped into the passenger seat up front. Nevertheless, before either the car could set off or Tommy could answer, the back door of Harry's car opened, Polly stuck her head in, moved Harrietta's small suitcase down to the floor of the cab, clambered in before she sat down, shutting the door loudly behind her. Propping his elbow on the back of the seat, Tommy turned around slowly and cocked a brow at a sarcastically grinning Polly.

"If Harry's going, I'm going. While you conduct business, I can keep an eye out for her. Plus, I too wish to see Ada and Karl. If the boys get a fuckin' holiday, we girls do too."

Tommy scrubbed at his eyes before he gave in and turned back around to the steering wheel, igniting the engine. Polly, unlike Ada, knew what to look out for encase things went south in London. She would know where to go, what to do and where the money was kept. Additionally, with Harrietta there, sitting right next to him, there was no way to argue with Polly without slipping about their… Nefarious business ambitions being undertook. Polly bloody well knew all this. So, pulling the car out into the road, just as he passed John and Arthur on their way to his car down the way, Tommy shouted at them.

"Head to Esme's, tell her she's in charge at the bookies until Sunday. I'll meet you on the road through Evesham."

"On it!"

And then they were weaving through Small Heath, on their way out of Birmingham with the sun smiling down upon them. Reservedly, carefully, Tommy reached over and grasped onto Harrietta's hand that was sitting on her thigh closest to him. She flinched, there was no doubt in that, but she didn't jerk the limb free this time. She didn't look at him, he could see a stuttering in her breath, but just as he went to pull the hand away, she turned her own one around and threaded her fingers through his. He squeezed gently but unashamedly firmly. There were no words. None. This time, Tommy realizes, here and now, there didn't need to be.

Do we like it so far? Or have I gone and absolutely murdered Tommy's character? I'll be honest, Tommy Shelby is a bastard to right for. This chapter was so hard to get out. However, I'm hoping it came out alright, or at least, partially enjoyable and that, within time, I can get him down right lol.

Whose P.O.V do you want to see next?

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