Until She Wakes

Warning: Reference to drug use.

Chapter 2

John had fallen asleep just before reaching his bed, and the first thought that crossed his mind when Arthur shook him roughly into consciousness was: Why does the floor have to be so cold?

"'Ere, get off!" John mumbled, his head buzzing with hangover. "You better not be havin' me do a job, and it better not be before midday."

"It's half past ten, you lout!" Arthur said, not unkindly. "And I have a job."

John moaned, reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Arthur obliged him by offering a lit match. Both of them blew smoke that created a heavy fog in the room. Outside, the weak morning light filtered in through ratty curtains. John knew that Arthur didn't approve of the way he kept his room when staying at their family's home base, but what did he expect?

"You ever going to clean this place?" Arthur grumbled.

John propped himself up in bed, head throbbing. "If that is the job you're after, I'll hire a maid right after I clobber you over the head for wakin' me up!"

The younger Shelby brother had expected his ears to receive a good boxing (at the very least) for his insubordination, but John was mildly shocked when Arthur only nodded his head, lost in thought, smoking.

This made John extremely interested, noting how quiet Arthur had gotten. He was ruminating on a serious subject indeed to not receive any admonishment for his outburst.

And then, another startling comment: "You seen Tommy lately?"

John tapped the end of his cigarette in an old teacup at his bedside table. He settled on a not-snarky response.

"Only yesterday before the job. Why?"

"He seem thin to you lately? Not sleeping?"

John scoffed at that. "None of us sleep much these days, Arthur." Least of all the men who went to France, he thinks.

"Is he not eating then?"

John wanted to tell Arthur that Tommy's frequent opium indulgences most likely ate his desire for food, but Thomas had always been the skinniest one in the family.

"What is it, Arthur? Come right out and say it."

Then his oldest brother relayed the previous day and night's events—the injured girl, Tommy's admission of guilt, and his refusal to leave her side. John couldn't say he was surprised at Tommy's mood—he had always been the most sensitive one in the family as well—but he was surprised that the focus of Tommy's obsession was a woman, not a racehorse. Thomas hadn't had a proper love. Not for a long time, anyway.

"He's still there," said Arthur, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette in the same teacup John had used. "Still awake."

John rolled his eyes. "You want me to mother him and put him to bed? I'm not his nursemaid."

Arthur gripped the collar of his shirt swiftly and firmly so that John couldn't move.

"I'm askin' you to talk to him. Maybe you'll get through."

John stole Tommy's pipe on the off chance that his older brother would either get angry enough to confront him about it, or tempted enough to take it to bed. Because John knew Tommy's biggest secret first, and now that Arthur and Polly knew, it wasn't as important, but at the time it had been the closest he had ever felt to Tommy; it was the only thing they had ever shared besides a family.

They both were in love with the sweet smell, warm rush, and numbed sleep of the drowsy poppy.

John held it behind his back, partially hidden, and nearly tiptoed downstairs, into the parlor. Tommy sat, at a slight angle, in front of the blonde barmaid who turned so many a man's head at The Garrison.

John turned to check that his brother was still awake, and though his chest only rose and fell slightly, his eyes were open and unblinking. It was eerie to be in Thomas Shelby's presence sometimes. Directly behind them, the men had already begun their bookmaking for the day. John could hear the crinkle of papers and the clatter of feet, muffled laughter.

"Go away."

John jumped where he stood at his brother's voice, drawing the pipe out. It was ridiculous trying to stay cool in Tommy's vicinity, but he gave a valiant effort.

"Arthur says you should come away now. 'Ave a smoke with me upstairs?"

He had anticipated anger but was plainly surprised when Tommy shook his head tiredly, voice mild, never taking his eyes off the barmaid.

"Put the pipe back and run along."

John cleared his throat, tense. "But when will you come away?"

Tommy took a shallow breath, his shoulders quaking, voice cracking. "Not until she wakes."

"But it's time to unwind. Enjoy yourself a bit. We all 'ad a hard day…"

His brother answered with silence. John felt his hands shake when he played his last card and moved closer to where his brother sat, reaching out and touching his shoulder.

At the very least, John expected his brother to turn around, perhaps even fight him. But Tommy didn't even shrug him off. He merely said, even softer, "Leave me."

John went into the kitchen where Arthur was waiting for him, listening in. The younger sibling put the opium pipe down on the dining table and turned his palms upwards helplessly. What could John say? There had been a time when he thought Tommy's only concern was loyalty to his family and building an empire. Now, it was clear that love was taking first place.

"Must be some bird," John spat and walked away.

Grace felt something warm and soft wrapped around her. She remembered when she was a little girl and would doze beside the fire, a fuzzy dog at her feet, a doll under the crook of an arm, the sound of her mother's knitting needles clacking in time to the grandfather clock in their sitting room. It was the best way to keep clear of horizontal rain and cold each winter.

She shifted, eyes closed, and felt the stiffness in her body. Her head ached, and she couldn't quite recall where she was… Not home…

And then a hand brushed her shoulder, applying pressure.

"Don't move."

The voice was raspy and faint. Grace recognized its owner, but she couldn't place it. Her lids were heavy, and she almost succumbed to sleep once more, but then everything came rushing back, and her eyes snapped open.

She froze. Thomas Shelby hovered over her, cap obscuring his eyes. She was resting on a not uncomfortable sofa in a small living room. Through the walls she heard the sounds of people working, foot falls, and bustling movement.

Oh my God.

She was at the Shelbys' residence. Headquarters.

Grace attempted to sit up, but Tommy's hand pressed into her shoulder again, gentle yet firm.

"Rest," he said softly. "You hit your head."

"I remember," she said, her voice weaker than she had hoped for.

"Are you thirsty?"

Grace realized she was and nodded, although she instantly regretted the movement. It made her world tilt. Tommy put a hand on her arm to steady her.

"Stay here."

She watched him stand up and walk—a bit stiffly—to a pitcher on a nearby table. He filled a mug with liquid and brought it back. When he sat, did his figure tremble, or did Grace just imagine it?

He brought the cup to her lips, though she felt strong enough to take it, and Grace drank. The water was sweet and cool to her parched throat. Thomas took the cup away when she had finished.

"Thank you," she said.

Tommy's expression was unreadable, and it unnerved her. She felt trapped all of a sudden. Had they searched her purse and found the gun Campbell gave her? Had they discovered her true identity at last? Grace's heartbeat quickened at the thought, thudding so loudly she was afraid that Tommy would hear it.

She spoke to cover for her fear. "What time is it?"

"Afternoon."

She gasped at his response. How could she have slept so long? She had to get back to The Garrison.

"Well, I best be on my way then."

"Don't worry. I let your boss know you were 'ere. The doctor said you shouldn't work for the next few days."

Grace was grateful and actually relieved that she was expected to stay put. Her mind was still muddled, and her body felt horribly delicate. Her head was a bauble of spun glass on the verge of splitting into a million painful shards with any sudden movement. She vaguely recalled the blood cascading from her forehead, felt its ebb and flow in her temple. Grace shivered.

Almost as a reflection of her movement, Tommy shuddered too—a reflex he tried (and failed) to cover up. Although still tired, Grace studied the lines on his face and the creases under his eyes. They told a very clear tale of how Thomas Shelby had occupied himself for the past few hours.

"Have you been up all night?"

He fidgeted with a coat pocket, searching for cigarettes he had either run out of or misplaced. Even knowing him for such a short time, Grace saw smoking as another of Thomas Shelby's crutches, and a decent way to stall for time to think and respond while maintaining the coolest of facades.

"It was my mistake," he said at last, sky-blue eyes distant, voice dark. And when he looked straight at her, Grace felt pinned to the spot.

"I won't permit anything like that to happen to you again."

Grace felt as if a small, yet fiercely glowing, lamp had been set alight somewhere between her chest and her stomach, creating a warmth that spread down to her toes and towards her fingertips. And whatever it was, it was a sensation so sweet that it allowed her exhausted body to relax and sink into the truth of his words.

Without thinking, half asleep, intoxicated by the shadow of Thomas Shelby covering her body, Grace felt her hand brush his knee, a sign of forgiveness and acceptance.

And then Tommy leant forward, crystal eyes unblinking. He picked up her hand delicately and kissed it.

Grace drifted off to sleep thinking how strange it was to be falling in love with the man she was assigned to spy on and ultimately destroy.

Arthur had watched the scene through a crack in the door between the bookies and the family residence, his head spinning a bit with all he had just witnessed. If it was true that his brother was in love, then there was a piece of Arthur that felt jealous, and another part of him that exuded pride. He knew he would never be able to have a relationship after the war, but Tommy deserved it. Tommy was the one he protected because he was younger but the one he had, ironically, always looked up to because of his brains. Arthur loved his brother for many reasons, but mainly because Tommy was loyal. With his intelligence, he could have done anything with his life, but Tommy stuck by him and John and Finn. He didn't take orders.

Arthur watched Tommy stand up in front of the barmaid who was sleeping once again. He never took his eyes off her. And then Arthur watched his body sway, almost imperceptible, but it gave enough warning to Arthur.

The oldest Shelby brother dashed in, grabbing Thomas by one shoulder. Tommy looked at him in almost childlike awe, his eyes glass and sunken. Gone was his stoic expression, his unreadable mask, a mixture of concentration and apathy, melded with a sneer so cold that your face stung when you received it.

"You're all right, Tommy," Arthur assured him, patting Tommy on the back.

His younger brother blinked. "Arthur?"

"Yes?" Arthur held Tommy still, a tremor running through his body.

"You're here," he said dreamily.

Understatement of the century, Arthur thought to himself. But, truly, Tommy was beginning to scare him.

"Going to escort you upstairs so you can get some rest. By order of the Peaky Blinders." Arthur threw in a wink for good measure. Play it off like a game instead of this frightening sibling role reversal.

Thomas Shelby shook his head very slowly, as if the air was thick around them. "Can't do that."

Arthur huffed out, growing impatient. "And why not?"

"When I sleep, I'm underground," Tommy said. As he spoke, his head tilted back eerily at an angle, and his voice sounded far away, echoing across time and buried deep. "I hear voices. We're diggin', and they've coming for us, and—"

"No thoughts of that now," Arthur said, his throat suddenly dry. "Come on."

"I can't," Tommy said, but his voice was softer now, realizing he had lost this fight, even as another one continued in his nightmares.

Tommy was unsteady on his feet, so Arthur helped him shuffle along until they reached the bottom of the staircase. All of a sudden, Tommy stiffened. The sounds of men at work continued behind the double doors they were walking away from.

"Wait," Thomas said, his voice stronger. He shrugged Arthur off with newfound energy.

Arthur watched with fascination as Tommy straightened almost magically, self-possessed, and seemingly summoned all of his strength back to show his face to the men before retiring. It was a terrifying transformation to witness; Tommy even put a hand in his pocket to make it appear like he had just checked his watch before opening the doors to the bookies. Arthur smirked and chuckled to himself. Thomas (The King) Shelby: Master of Disguise and Nonchalance.

Tommy sauntered his way past the bookmakers' stations, where men filed in and out. They generally avoided his gaze, but if they did happen to look up, his face held an imperceptible annoyance. He lingered for a time over the proceedings and then headed back to the family's parlor. Arthur closed the doors and then had to scramble as his brother faltered, his knees buckling and head lolling forward in complete exhaustion.

"John!" Arthur called, holding Tommy up by his waist and shoulders.

His younger brother ran down the stairs and immediately slung one of Tommy's arms over his shoulder.

"What the—" John began, but Arthur silenced him with a grunt, placing a palm in front of Tommy's mouth, content with the steady warm breath.

"Upstairs," Arthur muttered, and the Shelby boys carried the head of their empire upstairs. He was a middle child who had taken the eldest's place, the one who always fit in and yet somehow stuck out. They all knew why, including Tommy, but none of them spoke it out loud for fear it would embarrass him.

Tommy moaned slightly as they gently carried him, one step at a time. It was testament to his own exhaustion that Tommy didn't wake, and Arthur felt protectiveness rise up in him again, that blinding drive that would make him kill for his brothers. Despite his cunning, Tommy was the most fragile of them all.

As they half-dragged, half carried him to his bedroom, Tommy's head rolled back and forth from John's to Arthur's shoulder. At last Arthur opened the door to his brother's bedroom, and the three awkwardly stepped inside.

"Slowly now," Arthur whispered, and they sat Tommy on his bed, propped upright against Arthur's chest while John unlaced his boots.

Thomas' eyes fluttered open abruptly, unfocused. "John," he said thickly, then when he noticed whose hands were around his waist: "Arthur."

"Go to sleep, brother," Arthur soothed, feeling.

"But the…accounts…" It took Tommy a supreme effort to get the words out. His right hand braced against Arthur's shoulder, as if he was going to push himself up.

"God, he's a horse," John spat.

Arthur shot him a venomous look. "We can 'andle the books for one day," he reassured Tommy.

Tommy's lips pursed, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to remember how he got there. Lazily, his eyes swiveled to John, and he smiled a rare smile. "Must've been… some party…"

John grinned back at him, standing up and putting a hand on Tommy's shoulder. "The wildest I've ever seen. Now sleep."

Tommy did as he was told, for once, and his eyes slid close. Arthur supported his neck as they lay him on the bed and covered him with a wool blanket.

A huge burden lifted off Arthur's shoulders, and he sighed, looking down at Thomas with John. For some reason, he could really use a cup of tea. Nothing like Tommy stepping down for a day that made him want to take the reins of responsibility.

"Strange, isn't it?" John said. "How much he looks like mum."

Arthur gazed upon Tommy's face—the jet black hair and fine cheekbones were markers enough, but it was the eyes that pierced his heart every time. The same eyes that once belonged to their mother.

"Yes," he replied, a shiver running down his spine, and the two of them went back downstairs to check on the woman their brother loved and to make a strong pot of tea.

Fin

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who reads and reviews this little fic! Let me know what you think.