Thomas Shelby Fanfics

Till Death do Us Part

setting: season 3

word count: 2535

smut: no

proofread: no

edited: no

notes: 3rd person! More from Tommy's perspective- involves death, death by illness, swearing, angst, sadness, it's sad. I started writing this before quarantine begun/lockdowns ensued and this was the only fanfic I really liked out of the drafts I'm unsure of posting. But it's better than nothing I suppose! It's pretty unfortunate the times we live in now- while in quarantine I've started a number of chapters I have to finish edit still- I'll try to post them as soon as I can. But wow!! I hit 1k reads! This is amazing! Thank you so much for reading and enjoying my writing! I love you all :)

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"Thomas," Micheal was out of breath, coughing and spluttering as he doubled over, his cap pulled from his head and clutched in his hands. He had run with such urgency and intensity that his lungs burned- like the first time he smoked a cigarette. He took deep gulps and breathed heavily, feeling his mothers comforting hand rubbing his back to help him breathe. He straightened, still gasping for air as his older cousins eyes met his. There was blood on his face- a cut on his cheek just under his eye with some purple swelling, as well as splattered on his face, clearly from the almost corpse sitting in the chair in front of him, "It's happening," he choked,

"What is?" Thomas asked. There were few things that scared Thomas Shelby, king of Birmingham,  nowadays and one of them was not knowing things. When his answer didn't immediately make an obvious connection to anything happening around him at the moment, his heart begun to thump in his chest and ears. He almost couldn't hear Micheal over the drumming,

"She's... Got really bad Tom," his words were airy and breathy, but stress laced them together, "Worried 'bout you-"

"What did you fuckin' tell her!?" Fear and rage overtook him, the clatter of the razor he used to threaten the man on the chair echoed through the halls of the basement they were in, blood splattering off it,

"I said nothin'!" Micheal yelled back, the same emotions filling him as his cousin begun to walk towards him, his face darkening, "She... She was sayin' she ain't seen you in ages. That she's worried 'bout you and what's happenin' to you. I tried... I tried to tell 'er you were doin' your business but she started cryin' Tom. Proper sobbin'. Heartbroken. Then she started coughin' up blood," He shook his head; Thomas noticed his eyes squeezing shut as if the image flashed before his eyes, "A-and she said she couldn't breathe, so I called the doctor in. Your telephone wires are down and I couldn't phone you," He quickly informed as Thomas took a sharp inhale. He closed his mouth, his lips in a tight scowl, "I dunno how she is now, but you should-" Tom grabbed his blazer from the hook he had discarded it on and was already striding past Micheal,

"Arthur, clean up the fuckin' body," He could feel his hands beginning to shake as he ran up the stairs and out the door of Small Heath. He slammed the door to his car and drove out of the shithole he once called his home. The overwhelming urge to smoke filled him, and he cursed under his breath. This all had to coincide in the worst way possible. Not only did he have to deal with the damn Russians, his brothers not listening to him, but also his wife's illness.

And he had to hide all his problems from her, and stay strong. 

He parked the car in front of Arrow house and flung the door open, his footsteps thundering through the extravagant home in desperation to get up to her room. It pained him to call their bedroom that but it was true- she was trapped inside the room in fear she would get worse, and he hardly ever slept nowadays, feeling like they were always watching him, studying his every move. Perhaps why he was fueled by rage. He pushed past the doctor and reached for the door to her room when he felt an arm on his shoulder. It took him all the strength he could muster to not turn and punch him,