𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗𝐕.
in my father's arms, i'll be
❝ I'M COMING HOME, ADELINE ❞

BIRMINGHAM,
ENGLAND 1921

♜ ━━━━━ MY NAME IS THOMAS SHELBY. And today, I'm gonna kill a man.

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Despite what the king said, the war wasn't over by Christmas, or by the next Christmas after that. Or even the one after that. Birthdays passed, other holidays did too.

Rations were scarce. Food was never distributed fairly. Waiting in queues for what used to be readily available items was now near useless. Beer and cigarettes were hard to come by, and meat was even worse. Rumors that there'd been sausage at the butchers always fell flat, and Ada and Della had to walk home with nothing to show for their efforts.

Adeline shot up like a weed during those years, legs growing longer, hair touching her mid—back. A troublemaker with a good head on her shoulders, with a silver tongue and a raised eyebrow. Legs made for running and a spirit just like a Rom, always moving, always something to say.

Polly took Finn and Del with her near everywhere, mostly to keep them out of mischief. The pair of them were the kind of trouble she did not need on top of everything else going on. But kids didn't stop being kids just 'cause there was a war on. Having been kicked out of the first aid class, it was down to Ada to help out. As much as she whined, Ada was not far enough out of the age of dolls and dress up to truly mind letting Del hang off her hip. Treated poor little Del like a doll, with enough bows and dresses to make her fit for tea with the queen.

News came from the Front in waves, short intervals of panicked transmissions and messages from across the channel and even longer periods of absolutely nothing at all.

The letters followed those longer intervals, and they were always something that brought some form of static electricity into the house. All nearly trembling with energy, Polly'd gather the kids round; Ada leaning over her shoulder, Finn sitting on the armrest, Della on her lap while she read the latest news aloud.

It was Arthur who wrote the most, Arthur with his foul language and terrible scrawl that Polly could only decipher when squinting. John had written less, but it was enough to assuage at least some of his first wife Martha's fears. It was Tommy who hadn't written at all, not once in the years that'd gone by.

Arthur shared what he could of his younger brother; Tommy was alive, Tommy was well, Tommy had volunteered to be a tunneler, Tommy was a hero in the Battle of Mons, Tommy was up for a medal, Tommy's company had been involved in a tunnel collapse, Tommy was still alive.

But even this ceased when Arthur was shipped off to Turkey for the Gallipoli Campaign.

Polly tried to understand, tried to swallow her anger. Seeing the light fade a little more from his little girl's eyes each time a letter came that wasn't from her father was enough to make a woman bitter but.

So, the night before Della's third birthday, she made it up, Polly did.

It hadn't been easy to make them fall asleep that night, Della had been near bouncing off the walls with excitement, and that, of course, meant Finn had to be too. But Polly waited 'til she was certain the children'd gone to bed, even Ada who'd a habit of sneaking out her bedroom window at all hours. Then, by lamp light, Pol put a pencil to paper and she wrote a letter.

My Del,

It couldn't be long, that wouldn't be like Thomas at all, but it was made up of birthday well—wishes and sweet things with promises of stories and a ride on a horse and to pick her up and hold her close no matter how much time had passed.

It felt so right and so wrong all at once when Polly signed it,

All my love, your da,

Tommy Shelby

But the lie was worth it.

Presents were hard to come by when Polly could barely pinch two coins together, but the look on Del's face showed such a letter was gift enough. Getting a letter from her very own da all the way in France; it was almost magical to Del, like getting a letter from Santa.

Poor little Del, who only knew her father through stories and the picture frame at her bedside. Her da was a mythical figure in her mind. There'd been too many times Polly had overheard Della playing with one of her mates just under the window, and he'd become someone she called out to in her imaginary games, someone she couldn't comprehend as real if she couldn't see him for herself.

Little Della rode that high for weeks after her birthday, waltzing round number six like she was floating on air, a constant grin on her small face, boasting to all her little mates that she'd a letter from her very own father whom she hadn't fully realised was real.

And Adeline wouldn't know until much, much later that of all the letters they received, none of them — not one — was ever from Thomas Shelby.

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On Derby Day, Tommy was writing two letters.

The first for safety.

The second for goodbye.

This goodbye would be his first letter to his daughter, and his last letter ever, if today went badly.

There was work to be done. Arthur would be freed from prison today. John and Finn were getting the Small Heath Rifles armed. Polly would meet them at the track. Michael would have a decision to make. Tommy himself had a lot to do. He would make another deal with Alfie Solomons. He would attend Epsom Races to reclaim the tracks. Then he would follow Campbell's orders and he would kill a man.

For Adeline's sake. For his own.

Housed in his sister's apartment, Tommy had her sit down at the table beside him so he could say, "Ada, if anything happens to me today, I need you to post these letters. Stamp's already on the first. Don't ask any questions, it's... to do with insurance."

His younger sister picked up the letters and peered down at them. One was addressed to his daughter and the other was addressed to an editor at the New York Times. These were his last words and his final wishes. Whatever business he was involved in, he was thinking there was a high chance he'd not make it out of this. Ada had never really seen her big brother like this before. It scared her.

Slowly, she shook her head.

"Look, Tommy... Whatever it is you're involved in, just tell us." He said nothing, and she scoffed quietly to herself, "God, you never let anybody in."

Still, there was nothing.

Ada pushed on emphatically, "We love you, Tom."

Now, he looked up at her. Silent and sharp.

It wasn't clear if Tommy believed her or not.

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The race was about to start.

Tommy and Campbell stood on opposite ends of the hightop in the bar tent.

It was nearly time for the Shelby man to go — to get the major's dirty work done. Lizzie would be distracting the target right about now, preparing him so Tommy could sneak in and then dispatch him. Simple as that. Outside, the cheers of the crowd began to build. He wasn't sure his horse was going to place. He wasn't sure what to do about Grace and the shocking news she'd brought with her. He wasn't even sure everything would go according to plan. But as the national anthem began to flood the entire track and stadium, Tommy knew one thing for certain:

This would be their last ever conversation.

"This I know..." Campbell leaned most of his weight on the bartop, rumbling voice turning disgustingly self—righteous, "Ahead of you is damnation, but I have the love of God, and the certainty of salvation."

The anthem came to an end.

Tommy threw back one last sip of whiskey, turned his entire body, and faced the inspector for one last time. His usual blue eyes were blackened with danger. The man stalked slowly forward, each heavy step thudding against the wooden floor beneath them.

"I know what you did to Polly. I know what happened to Michael in jail. I know what you did to my daughter." Listing even the barest of sins the major had committed, Tommy leaned close to murmur one last threat, "Today, it'll be me dead, or you... But whoever it is, gonna wake up in hell tomorrow."

Then Tommy turned round, left the tent, and he set out to kill a man.

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Adeline Shelby was being watched.

Back in Small Heath, on a street called Watery Lane, a girl of eight years played with her own little gang, giggling and laughing, covered in dirt and making mischief as usual. Her family was away at the races. Her father was making everything well. They'd all be back to celebrate at the Garrison later.

She wasn't worried. She trusted him.

But waiting across the street, near a telephone booth, Mister Ross had his men ready. They would detain the girl as soon as they received word from the major at the Epsom Races. They would detain her, put her in an institution to recivilise her, and then she would be given a new family. If Thomas Shelby did not complete his mission, if his job was not done, then his daughter would be a Shelby no more.

The girl didn't hear it when the telephone began to ring.

Mister Ross held the cup to his ear and asked, "Sir?"

"It's done," said Chester Campbell, "Leave the girl be."

The call ended.

From across the street, Adeline Shelby turned and she watched with a small smile as the parish men disappeared down the street. They'd have a nasty surprise when they found all four tires of their motorcar punctured and their exhaust pipe stuffed with firecrackers. And not a minute later, all the way in Epsom, Polly Gray put a bullet through Major Campbell's heart.

Don't f—ck with the Peaky Blinders.

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"So f—ckin' close."

Tommy hadn't been able to stop it.

For all his schemes and plans and countermeasures, he still ended up in the back of a paddy wagon with f—ckin' guns pointed in his face. Campbell had outsmarted him. Adeline would be safe and Polly would finish the major off, of that he had no doubts, but not 'fore Tommy himself ended up in the ground. A prisoner of the red right hand, they called him. It didn't matter what they'd call him; prisoner, sergeant major, gyspy, whatever. None of it had any meaning now.

He'd lost his cap. He'd lost his gun. Now he had nothing.

"Nearly got f—ckin' everything!"

He screamed at the sky and he smoked his final cigarette and he tossed his belongings into the dirt. They already had a grave dug for him, in a field in the middle of nowhere, where nobody would be able to find him. Burn him. He'd just spend eternity trapped in the wet mud once more. As he felt the short barrel of a revolver aim at the back of his head, thoughts of her threatened to consume him.

Not of Grace. Not of May. Just Adeline.

But he shouldn't think of her. Because she made him weak, didn't she? Made him realise he had something to live for and something to lose. If he realised that, he wouldn't be able to do what needed to be done. So he shouldn't. There'd been so many times he'd been staring death in the face — every day in France, during his moves and countermoves with Kimber, Sabini, Solomons, even Campbell, and each time he'd tried not to think of her.

For the first time, he allowed it.

Adeline, his little Del. She wouldn't know what happened to him. He'd just be gone. Dead, maybe. But always just... missing. Never coming back home. She'd grow up without him. It was a shame, really, it was a shame he didn't die back in France. If he'd died when he was supposed to, she never would've known him and she never would've known to miss him. Now, she did know and she'd know what she'd lack. She was only eight years old; she had a lot of years left to grow. And he wouldn't be there to see them. He wouldn't be there to protect her.

He'd always been ready to die.

But this realisation hurt more than he thought it would.

It was a good thing he was going to hell. At least this way, he'd never have to face Greta in heaven. Tommy would never have to face her disappointment in all the ways he'd irrevocably f—cked their daughter up.

On his knees, he closed his eyes and he waited to die:

"In the bleak midwinter."

But then a boot planted itself on his shoulder and then kicked him into the dirt just as the third officer shot bullets into each of his companions. Bodies fell all round him while Tommy cowered in his grave. He peered through the arms over his head, blood on his face, chest heaving for air.

"At some point in the near future, Mister Churchill will want to speak to you in person, Mister Shelby." The officer stood over him, gun still in hand, "He has a job for you. We will be in touch."

Tommy gaped at him, gasping and unable to move.

"Get out of the grave, tinker." The officer snapped, "Be on your f—cking way!"

Tommy obeyed. With numb and shaking limbs, he forced himself to move. The man slipped and fell out of his grave, keeping his eyes on the final officer as he warily backed away. With a low gasp, he turned and trudged onward. He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel his hands. All he could feel was the rapid flood of blood to his head from his heart.

Alive, alive, alive.

His boots slid in the sludge of the field and suddenly he tripped into one of the ridges, landing face down in the mud. Only then, with his face hidden against the earth, did he let himself weep. He clenched mud in his pounding fists and he screamed as loud as his raw throat would allow. Then the man struggled back to his feet, spit and tears running down his cheeks, as he cried out loud.

Dirt and blood and tears still on his face, Tommy sobbed to himself, "I'm coming home, Adeline, I'm coming home..."

━━━━━━ annie speaks ━━━━━━

does anyone else need a tissue? this last scene will never fail to make me cry. this one is such a shortie but hopefully you felt like it wrapped up that final episode while still being emotionally damaging lol. we didn't have any tommy and del scenes in this one but it still felt very heavy this chapter which i hoped you liked. did you like that flashback? it destroyed me :) soooo,, who's ready for del to meet grace??

act two, here we come...