Thank you for the comments and messages on the last chapter - I promise these two will get it on properly but like Aunt Pol read in her tea leaves, there are a few red right hands in Rosie's future before she gets her green dress ;) I also have some one shots that are just pure smut planned in my head for once this story is done so I'll maybe post them up too if people are interested!

Chapter 27

Tommy didn't know if things had gone right or wrong for him when he opened the crates and the four bikes were nowhere to be found. Instead of the bikes, he was looking at twenty-five Lewis machine guns, ten thousand rounds of ammunition, fifty semi-automatic rifles and two hundred pistols, with shells. It seemed he was to take over all of his Uncle Charlie's stables, because he had them moved into the stall in the stables that he wasn't putting the horse into, till he made up his mind what to do with them.

Those kind of crates didn't go missing without being followed up on. Four bikes, that was an insurance job. This – this would attract attention. He had to think. He had to make up his mind – alone. He didn't need bloody Polly's opinion – he knew it without asking. "Rule one – don't punch above your weight." That was Polly's approach, stay safe. This – this would count as punching above his weight.

But he had to punch up if he wanted to punch out, and he wanted to punch out.

He'd been planning that punch out via Billy Kimber. This - this was even bigger. And so were the risks. He'd promised her he'd keep her safe. He was going to keep her and Lily safe. But he was also going to move them to that big house and sign the documents with that bloody fountain pen. And then he was going to carry her over the threshold and kiss her every damn day.

So, could he leave the opportunity that had presented itself to him? No. No, he couldn't. But he had to decide what to do and it had to be done quietly and efficiently and she had to be nowhere bloody near it. He'd deal with it alone. He'd sworn Charlie and Curly to secrecy and when he'd gathered to his contacts at the BSA he'd acted like the crates his men had picked up had been the bikes, he'd simply said the buyer was happy and wanted another four just the same as the first four. The strikes had started again – Freddie and his union had had the sense not to ask men to strike right before or after Christmas, that was when the men's wives would get involved and no matter what anyone said, they knew those women held more influence than any of the men pretended they did. It had taken another few weeks before he'd secured another four – but he got them this time, and the buyer was happy.

Whatever had passed between them that night, he took it that she was his as much as he was hers. So, he wasn't too worried anymore about whatever her knowledge of Freddie Thorne had been, and he was convinced from the way she'd looked at him when he'd held her face and warned her that she was to stay away from communists that she would heed him.

But when he walked into the Garrison that afternoon and chanced to see Freddie drinking at a table with other union men – presumably a strike day given it was the middle of the afternoon - he thought it would be a good excuse to make sure the warning was heeded on both sides. He glanced at Freddie, catching his eye before he walked up to the bar, taking his hat off. Freddie would know he wanted to talk. Freddie knew him well enough - he'd known him for long enough.

"On the house Mr Shelby," Harry said, placing a bottle of whisky and a glass before him and walking away. Tommy fished out some coins from his pocket and placed them on the counter anyway.

Freddie still hadn't approached him. Tommy tensed. He was testing him, making him wait. He glanced over again. Freddie smirked, then made a great show of standing and finishing his beer before he approached the bar. Tommy busied himself lighting a new cigarette.

Freddie smacked his empty glass down and told Harry he'd take a mild.

"Right," the barman nodded and poured the drink. He looked to Freddie for payment, but Freddie had already eyed the coins Tommy had placed by his own bottle. He took a few steps to close the distance between him, placed two fingertips on the top coin of the pile and slid it over, his eyes on Tommy – looking for a reaction he wouldn't give him.

He felt Harry's eyes go between them and gave a fraction of a nod, telling the barman to take the money, keeping his eyes focussed in front of him. He could see Freddie's reflection in the countertop and he watched as his former best friend turned and leaned lazily on the bar.

"Cheers Thomas, good health to you," Freddie said, taking a sip from his fresh beer.

Tommy didn't reply, just smoked again while he thought of the best way to approach the subject.

Freddie never had had the patience Tommy did and in response to the silence, he picked up the cap from where Tommy had lain it on the bar, obviously hoping to push him into conversation.

"The crown of a prince," he commented, his fingers pulling at the material, exposing the blades that were sewn in, "Soon to be king I'd bet,"

"You don't bet," Tommy replied.

"No, but these past few days I've been speculating," Freddie returned.

That was interesting. Maybe there was something Freddie wanted to discuss with him, as much as there was anything he wanted to discuss with Freddie. Freddie loved the idea that he might have information Thomas didn't, and the great thing about an arrogance that delighted in itself like Freddie's was that it couldn't resist the chance to tumble out what it held. Tommy had learned, even as a child, not to tell Freddie too much because the boy couldn't resist rubbing people's noses it in if he knew what they didn't.

"About what?"

"One of my union comrades has a sister who works in the telegraph office at the BSA factory. She says over the past week they've had messages coming up from London to the brass from Winston Churchill himself," Freddie paused then, waiting for a reaction.

Tommy pretended to be disinterested, staring at his cigarette as far as anyone knew, when in reality his eyes were still tracking Freddie in the counter. Winston Churchill sending messages to the BSA factory. Well, he'd known those crates wouldn't go missing without repercussions. And now he knew who had commissioned that order.

The only issue was – why did Freddie think these messages were coming? Did he know why? And if he knew why – why was he telling him? Was his old friend trying to warn him of something?

He didn't know if it was the feigned disinterest, or the subject of what Freddie said next that made the communist close the distance between them to continue, his face close to Tommy's, close enough he could talk quietly whilst the exchange looked friendly enough to any observers.

"Something about a robbery. A robbery of national significance, it said. She found a list of names, left on the telegraph machine. And on that list was your name and my name together – what kind of list would have the name of a communist and the name of a bookmaker side by side?"

Well, there it was. That was why Freddie was telling him.

That was the thing, he knew he'd be implicated. Nothing criminal happened in Birmingham that the Peaky Blinders weren't considered as being potentially at the root of, he knew that. But this – this was exactly why he needed to ensure no communist safe houses started appearing in Watery Lane. This was why he needed his family well away from it all. Because they were looking for a reason to take down Freddie – and any other known communists. Being communist? Not technically a crime. Even being a communist union convener like Freddie? Still not technically a crime. But did that mean the government weren't looking to hang them for it? No. No it didn't mean that.

The truth was, the government wanted rid of the communists - but they couldn't hang them for existing, for having their views. But they didn't want them acting on their views and they'd take any opportunity they could to hang them before then.

They wanted an excuse. And the communists were known to be looking for weapons to equip themselves with for the revolution they were convinced they were going to spearhead. It all would fit quite well if they could prove Freddie, or some other communist in the area, had organised the robbery. It meant that, whilst his name might be on that list, the police didn't want it to be him. Hell - fuck the police - Winston fucking Churchill didn't want it to be him. Eyes that might have been on him would be on Freddie and his comrades. Looking for evidence where they wouldn't find, but where they might make it.

He knew that. And so did Freddie.

So, what was Freddie really saying? Was he unconcerned about the implications of Winston Churchill sending messages? Was he so far gone he didn't care about what that would mean – would he hang willingly for his cause?

Tommy imagined so. Freddie didn't do moderation, never had done. He was all in, all of the time. Head first and thinking later. That was why he'd done what he did in France – he saw that bullet and he saved Tommy's life, even though the distance between them had already started then, because he hadn't thought about how much easier things might be for him if he wasn't dealing with being against the Peaky Blinders, against him. He had just acted.

Freddie would probably hang for his cause. And he'd be willing to risk it to get those guns.

If he had been telling Freddie what Freddie was telling him, it would have been a warning. A warning that their names were both on that list and that he'd see Freddie go down before he'd go himself.

But no, his old friend wasn't warning Tommy. This was no warning. This was a declaration of interest. Freddie had figured a robbery of national significance included weapons – and good ones. Freddie wanted them for his cause.

Well, Tommy hadn't decided what he was doing with the damn things yet. But one thing was certain – he wasn't putting them into the hands of fucking communists for their lost cause to get dragged out any further, not from the streets of fucking Small Heath.

"Perhaps it's a list of men who give false hope to the poor," he said, giving nothing away about whether he had participated in the robbery or not, "The only difference between you and me, Freddie, is that sometimes my horses stand a chance of winning."

Freddie seethed at that, closing the small distance that had been between them, making it so that their exchange no longer would have looked friendly to an onlooker and spat, "You know there are days when I hear about the cuttings and beatings that I really wish I'd let you take that bullet in France."

Tommy smiled and shook his head. Freddie was trying to remind him what he owed him. Trying to hold it over him, the way he had seen Tommy hold things over people when they were younger. Tommy had come naturally to intimidation. Freddie – Freddie couldn't hold things over people convincingly. He was too impatient, too hot headed, too desperate for action. He didn't have the patience to hold out for results and people had a sixth sense for these things – if you wanted to intimidate someone by holding something over them, and showing you'd hold it over them until you decided to act on it – if you decided to act on it – you had to be willing to do it, willing to – able to – hold it. People could tell if you'd tire of holding it before the time for action would come. And they could tell if you'd act anyway, with no strength to hold.

"Believe me," he told Freddie, "There are nights I wish you had."

He had been going to pause, to let it sink in to Freddie that what he thought he held over Tommy was something Tommy considered worthless. Not that he did, of course. That baby loved him. That girl would wait for him. And Arthur, well, he was playing the waiting game with Arthur, waiting for his brother to just give over and let Tommy take the lead. No, Tommy didn't consider what Freddie had done for him, what Freddie had saved for him, to be worthless. But Freddie didn't know that. So, he was going to pause, to let it sink in and then to warn Freddie to stay the fuck away from the redhead.

But Danny had other ideas.

Danny was having another episode.

He crashed through the doors, turning over tables and smashing glasses.

"They're going to get me!" he was shouting above the rabble that had broken out as people jumped to their feet, scurrying out of his way.

Tommy – and Freddie – went towards him though.

"Hey," Tommy said, holding up his hands, hoping seeing the raised palms would calm the frenzied man.

Freddie got in there first, his arms going around Danny, "I've got him, I've got him," Freddie called to Tommy, who got close and got his own arms around the other side of their fellow soldier.

"They're going to get me!" Danny continued to repeat, thrashing between them.

"On three," Freddie said – Tommy nodded at him and Freddie counted out, "One, two, three – down!"

They worked together, pushing Danny to the ground and holding him there.

"Breathe Danny, breathe," Freddie coaxed.

Danny didn't breathe – his chorus continued, seemingly without breath at all, "They're going to get me, they're going to get me!"

"Danny – Danny!" Tommy said, trying to call the man back to his surroundings, "Danny - you're home. We're all home in England. You're not in France."

The shouting had stopped, and now Danny did seem to be breathing, loudly and raggedly, but it was an improvement, so he continued.

"You're not an artillery shell Danny, you're a man, eh? You're not a whizzbang. You're a human being Danny. You're alright."

The man had gone quiet and Tommy soothed him further, keeping his voice low, repeating, "You're alright. You're alright."

Danny seemed to have awoken from inside his fit, his eyes were facing Freddie and Freddie nodded over at Tommy, saying, "Up, up!"

His voice was harsh and staccato against the tones Tommy had been using, and Tommy saw the pain and humiliation on Danny's face once they had him standing, once he could see his face.

"It's alright," he breathed at the man, not taking his hand from his shoulder, though Freddie had stepped back and abandoned him, "It's alright."

Still, Freddie had helped him, he'd give him it – grudgingly.

Danny looked between the two, then focussed on Tommy – maybe because of his hand on his shoulder, maybe because he had been Sergeant Major, Tommy didn't know. But the man's attention was on him and it was his task to calm him, to reassure him. Christ, he knew too well what was happening in Danny's head.

That was when he realised how long it had been since his own last dream. It had been around the same time as Danny's last episode. The night before he had gone home to Rosie.

"Oh hell. Did I do it again?" Danny asked him, his eyes desperate as he turned his body to him, whilst Freddie stood back.

Tommy wished he could tell him otherwise but, as gently as he could, he confirmed, "You did it again Danny."

The man started to cry and bowed his head. The pain of it – of seeing a big man like Danny reduced to crying in a pub, having just come back to a reality he didn't remember blacking out of in the first place - stabbed Tommy in the heart.

He cupped the back of Danny's head as he would Finn's, and placed his forehead against the man's, "You gotta stop doing this man, eh?" He patted his head, trying to offer some comfort along with his words.

He didn't know how to help Danny – at least his problems came in the night, when he was in bed. They didn't come to him in the day, when he wasn't expecting them. It was all very well for him to tell Danny he had to stop it, but he didn't really know how to make him stop it. He could only hope something in Danny's mind might one day retain that his commanding officer had told him to stop it, could only hope that when Danny's mind was taking him back to France that maybe his face, his voice, would come into the man's head and order him to stop it.

He saw the man about to well up again and tried to calm him before he started, "It's alright," he repeated to him again, keeping his voice low and gentle as he removed his hand and stood back.

"Oh God! Mr Shelby, I'm sorry!" Danny pleaded.

"It's alright," Tommy told him again.

He didn't know what else to say.

"You go home to your wife now Danny," he told him, thinking of the redhead at home who calmed him, "Try and get all that smoke and mud out of your head, eh?"

Danny walked obediently to the door with him but he wouldn't stop apologising, "Yes Mr Shelby - I'm sorry."

Tommy nodded and put his arm gently on Danny's elbow steering him out, "Go on," he said, pushing him out the door.

He wanted the man out before anyone realised the storm had passed and decided to get involved. Freddie, to his credit, had stayed with them and closed the door behind Danny. They exchanged an honest look and Tommy rubbed at his face with his hand in frustration, his own vulnerability pushing through for a minute.

"Mr Shelby, you have to do something about him," Harry said as Tommy returned to the bar.

Harry's words broke whatever had been joining Freddie and him for that moment and Freddie replied, "Damn right Harry. You pay the Peaky Blinders a lot of money for protection."

Tommy wasn't in the mood now to be provoked. He was too heart-sore over Danny, over what had become of a man who had been great and strong and bold once. He downed the rest of his glass, not looking at Freddie.

Freddie continued anyway, "You're the law round here now Tommy, aren't you?"

He walked right up to where Tommy stood and Tommy picked up his hat, shoving it in his pocket and started to walk away.

"Maybe you should put a bullet in Danny Whiz-Bang's head like they do with mad horses," Freddie continued.

Tommy let out a loud exhale. He was half tempted to punch Freddie in the mouth. How was it Freddie could think people were all equal, think of his fucking glorious communist cause and think that a man who was still affected by what they had gone through – what they had all gone through together – should have nothing in his life anymore, that he should be put down like a mad horse? How could Freddie see a future for the communist cause and see no future for Danny? But then Freddie had always known Tommy – had always known just exactly what to do and what to say to rile him.

"Maybe you'll have to put a bullet in my head someday too," Freddie continued.

Tommy couldn't see his face. Was Freddie trying to rile him now – or was that what Freddie wanted? Was Freddie also mad like Danny, was Freddie just hiding it better? Hiding it like he was? Did Freddie want a bullet – want an end – want peace? Was that what was behind Freddie's dedication to the cause? Did Freddie want to die, but just didn't have the will to blow his own brains out?

Tommy closed his eyes for a minute then put his hat on his head and walked out, ignoring Freddie but turning to Harry and saying, "Bring the bill to the Peaky Blinders - we'll take care of it."

As soon as he was outside he stood against the wall and took his time smoking a fresh cigarette. Fucking Danny. Fucking war. He wanted to go home and fold Rosie in his arms and feel grounded to the earth again. But it was only two o'clock – she was still in school.

He walked home and stuck his head in the shop, telling Polly he'd do the school run, that he had business near the schools.

She just nodded, not looking up from her book, but Arthur had to dig in, "What business?"

"Just business."

"New business?"

"Maybe."

"It's February Tom."

"It is indeed Arthur."

His brother grunted in response to that, then went into his office and slammed the door. Tommy felt Polly's eyes on him then, but he didn't look to her, he just left.

He'd do the school run, but first he'd go find Sergeant Moss and figure out what a robbery of national significance from the BSA factory meant as far as the Birmingham Police Department was concerned.