A/N: For my own reasons, I have decided to have it in this story that Tommy/Lizzy never really happened – therefore Ruby does not exist in this timeline either.
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"It's lovely to meet you, Mr Shelby."
Thomas Shelby found himself looking at a woman. That was one thing he was not expecting.
Not that he was in complete objection to the fact a woman could be a psychologist, it was just he had built the entire foundation of his pre-composed idea of this experience on the image that he would sit down with an elderly gentleman and be told what to do regarding his troublesome mental problems.
She was a woman of average height. Fairly slim built, but not incredibly skinny as she clearly filled out the curvaceous shape of her carnation pink blouse and A-line grey skirt that finished just below the knee. Her small feet were encased in a pair of black stilettos, high enough that it complimented her femininity – but not so that she might fall and break an ankle.
Since she'd stepped into the room, Tommy realised he had not said a thing. It was rare he felt so dumbfounded and rather stupid. He was usually a man with a wit as sharp as his cap razor.
"Dr Grant?" he asked, just to be sure that this wasn't the psychologist's secretary or something to that effect.
The woman smiled, her dark hair set in loose curls that sat over one shoulder as she crossed the space of the office towards the grand oak desk, heels clicking loudly with each step, the unmistakable sound reverberating off the high walls.
"Yes, Mr Shelby," she confirmed, walking around to her side of the desk – her figure momentarily silhouetted against the large window. The sky's ominous rainy grade shade and dull downtrodden sunlight cast into the room, otherwise hugging her figure in a cast of momentary shadow whilst she faced the decanter and went about pouring herself and her client a glass of water.
"You seem surprised, Mr Shelby?" Dr Grant spoke out after a minute, placing the first crystallised glass of water down on Tommy's side of the desk before she poured her own and lowered herself into her highbacked leather chair opposite him.
Shelby looked over at her, there was no point in trying to cover it up with some stupid lie in order to avoid offending the lady.
He cocked his head slightly, his cool icy gaze flitting down to the clear water in the glass just in front of him.
"I won't lie to you. I wasn't expecting you to be a woman." He voiced, his gaze fleeting up to the psychologist who just seemed to be sitting there receptively of his words. "But there we go. I can't be right all the time."
The slight air of crass and dry humour to his tones made the psychologist smile as she slowly started to piece together this infamous man in front of her. All she had known of Tommy Shelby previously was every bloody article plastered in the paper, slandering him for all sorts of reasons. Reasons the woman had never fully understood and didn't care to. She wanted to view her client with fresh eyes – no prejudgement.
"Is it a problem?" she asked, lifting the glass to her dark red lips. The tyrannical businessman cocked his head and narrowed his icy glare, his guard already up. He hadn't come here for questions or to play games – he wanted his head fixed.
"Is what a problem?" he asked obvious, just to see if he could provoke a reaction.
The psychologist stopped and set her glass down onto the oak desktop with a gentle thunk, leaning back in her chair as she pursed her fingertips together in a steeple shape, long red nails gleaming like a dewy summer cherry in morning sunlight. She could already begin to read him – it was obvious that Thomas Shelby was obnoxious, guarded and put up a front of this dry sarcasm in order to protect deeper feelings.
"Is it a problem that I am a woman?" she asked, rolling her lips together momentarily before continuing, "I've had male clients in here before who have walked out because they feel it is inappropriate for a woman to be dealing in such matters."
Thomas cracked a small smirk at the mental image of some man throwing a temper tantrum, feeling he had been falsely lured in and tricked. He then shook his head softly in response to the doctor's question.
"I don't know if you know very much about me, Dr Grant." He started, reaching into his suit jacket pocket for the all-important case of cigarettes he was never seen without. "But I try to consider myself a modern man." He said, opening the case and placing the unlit cigarette between his lips, "And I say, if you've got the qualification – who cares what's between your legs."
A small humoured frown and smile was visible for a few seconds on Dr Grant's face before she decided that was a better answer than some she had received before. At least Mr Shelby was good at one thing, saying it how it was. He didn't dress it up or sugar coat it – it was plain and simple. If he was willing to open up about past difficulties with that approach, then perhaps working to resolve any problems he had might not be so difficult.
After a few moments, he picked up the water and examined it questionable as if to ask 'why isn't this whisky?' before taking a small sip, and looking back across at Dr Grant who hadn't said anything in a number of moments. Tommy was a little irritated and puzzled to say the least, when was she going to tell him how to get better?
"So, what is it I need to do then, love?" he started, his irritability shining through as he was hoping rather than sitting there with a bit of a smile on her face, that she would have started saying something by now. "How do I stop all this shit going on in my bloody head?"
Dr Grant shrugged, which only further pissed the Peaky Blinder off.
She was doing it to help provoke his mind to search for the answers himself – whereas Tommy just thought this was a smug gesture. The two of them were completely at separate ends of the pole at the moment.
"Mr Shelby," she started, getting up from her chair with a softened sigh as she could see the evident frown forming like thunder on his face. Fingertips gracing the top of her chair, she then turned to face the outside world, watching an old couple wandering down the drenched street outside.
"A poorly mind is not like a sprained ligament." She started, her well-to-do London accent clear and concise enough that even the most clueless minds could gather sense from what she was saying. Turning on her heels, she faced the Brummie again with a more tepid and encouraging smile.
"In order for you to start feeling mentally well again, we need to work together." She said encouragingly, slipping back into her seat and engaging eye contact with Thomas, gathering that he was in fact listening to her now as smoke plumed absently from the end of the cigarette.
"I can't just tell you to do things and magically it's all better. Improving your mental health requires patience, time and the ability to open up and dig through past issues in order to find ways to let things go – move onto the future."
Hearing this, Tommy scoffed to himself in bitter disbelief. He hoped this would be a quick fix, yet it sounded to laborious to even try. His mind was like a locked chest, bound in several entwining layers of thick set chain, all padlocked and battened down. As far as he was concerned, there was no getting in.
"Then I'll be wasting my time, won't I?" he started, standing up and pushing away from the desk as if he was about to take his leave.
"Thank you for your time, Dr Grant. But I don't see this working for me." He announced, his face slightly devoid of any emotion aside from anger – and disappointment. A disappointment that Dr Verity Grant saw right through.
As Thomas Shelby's looming, darkly dressed figure sauntered quickly across the room to the door, Dr Grant made no attempt to flag him down. After all, she could not force him to engage with the psychological therapy. All she could get him to do was think about the things he was saying, the things he has done and the things he wanted to do.
"You appear frustrated about this, Mr Shelby?" She called out, just as Thomas' hand closed around the brass door knob to twist it open. His face crumpled into a frown against the sheltered seclusion of the door, before the blinder turned around to face the psychologist who sat in her chair, legs crossed over the glass of water in her hand.
He paused a moment, thinking whether you just walk out of the door or actually stay and see what exactly the idea was with this mysterious woman.
"Yes, I am frustrated." Tommy started, hand falling away from the door knob as he remained firmly planted in the floor beside with the clean, white door. "Frustrated it isn't going to be easy like I assumed it would be." He added, again, those stoic looking blue eyes gave away little information.
Verity knew she had her work cut out.
"You should know by now, Mr Shelby – that very little in life is easy." She proposed, gesturing her head to the chair opposite where he had formally sat minutes ago. "Take a seat, we'll start again. If you want, we can talk about some of the things that are bothering you."
Tommy scoffed again at her words – start again. How he wish he could have done. Lived that simple life he had the smallest taste of before the war. Worked with horses like he had so wished do as a child.
His gaze diverted to the floor, presumably in thought. The next few seconds were spent mulling over his options. Dr Grant could see his brain was considering it – fight these anxieties and face getting some help, or flight – run away and go back to his life being haunted by all these things that were breaking him down.
Dr Grant broke out into a quiet smile as she watched the feared gang leader make his way back across the room, and resume his seat opposite at her at the desk.
"Fantastic." She smiled invitingly, having another sip of her water. "Where shall we start?"
"Can you get me a whisky rather than this shite?" He gestured to the glass. It was funny, his language choice was abrasive yet his tone delivered the words with this casual crassness that rather watered it down. The psychologist had to laugh as she stood up and went back to the cabinet by the window, where she kept various bottles of alcoholic tipples.
"Irish?" Verity called over, standing up as she lifted the bottle out of the cabinet and showed it to Mr Shelby, to deem whether it met his standards.
"Yes. That will be fine." He said rather flatly, watching intently as the psychologist leaned over slightly against the cabinet and filled up two glasses – one with the brownish-amber liquid – and the other with clear liquid from a bottle he recognised immediately. His gin.
"So, you're drinking your client's gin?" he announced sarcastically, and was that the smallest quirk of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Is that very professional, Dr Grant?"
"Please," she started, dropping a few ice cubes into the gin and topping it up with some elderflower tonic. "Call me Verity." She clarified, her heels echoing loudly off the parquet flooring as she carried the two small glasses back to the desk and setting them down in their respective place.
"It's clear you're not a man for forced 'polite' professionalism, Mr Shelby." Verity remarked, raising her right brow and studied his response
"What do you mean by that, Verity?" he said, stressing her first name with a level of cynicism.
Licking her lips after the first refreshing sip, Verity settled her glass down and lifted her hazel eyed gaze to that of Mr Shelby's.
"You have been testing me since you sat down in here. Making remarks and comments to try and break the wall of formality, because you don't like seeing people put up those polite 'fronts'." She analysed, "In that case I assumed we would work better on a less formal basis. A discussion over a few drinks, first name basis. It might feel more... friendly, and less clinical." She suggested, cocking her head questionably. "Would you agree with me, Thomas?"
He simply smirked. She had done well. He was actually quite surprised at how receptive she was, but he wouldn't let that show.
"Yes." Was all he said, swirling the whisky at the base of the glass as he watched the liquid's golden gleam against the smart crystallised glass it was contained within.
--
Verity had some questions as to whether the alcohol had loosened Thomas Shelby's tongue – or whether it was her new, more relaxed approach to his therapy. She had only allowed him the one glass of whisky, as more than that – he could become too 'unhinged' – which wasn't good for the session.
No, she wanted him to share. But not overload himself, let his emotions get the better. At least whilst he was still mostly sober, his brain was actively in control of what information was released.
In the space of forty minutes, they had covered Tommy's early childhood, his relationship with his mother, his siblings. It seemed Tommy was happy child, but going into teenage years that was quickly spoiled by the war. The man's eyes glossed over with a level of forced detachment over his brief coverage of what happened in France. He did not go into too much detail, but made it clear it was an awful experience in his life. All through it, Verity offered little spoken word. For this session, it was best she listened. They could work on conversational aspects later on.
Taking slow sips, Verity studied the face of the grandfather clock as Tommy had gotten as far as his current issues – having covered most of everything else up until now. His deceased wife Grace, and brother, John – his son Charlie. All the bad business he'd had.
"I hear her voice a lot... see her too." Tommy explained to Verity, talking about Grace. Verity nodded intently in acknowledgement. His tone remained level despite how obvious it was to the psychologist that this matter troubled him.
"She often says things to me, to come back to her. Forget everything and come back to her."
Going back to an earlier subject he'd covered, Verity took a deep breath and sighed outwardly.
"Mightn't these auditory and visual hallucinations be somewhat... enhanced by the opium use?" she offered, met with an understanding nod from Tommy.
"My sister, Ada... she tried to get me to throw the stuff out. I just don't feel like I can manage without it right now." He said simply, a gentle suggestion to Verity that he didn't plan on getting rid of it, it numbed him in times when he needed numbing – or so he thought it did, but really it was just provoking these visions and thoughts.
"Maybe one day I will be able to." Tommy said, his eyes blankly staring out at nothingness, lost in his mind. He held a smoking cigarette between his fingers, continuing to gaze out in a trance for a few more seconds before he obviously snapped back, focusing back into the room as he directed a now collected Gaze at his therapist.
Lifting the off-white cigarette to his lips, his gaze flitted over her in a figuring fashion.
"Are you married, Verity?"
She was surprised by the question, and was quick to answer with a shake of her head. She was suspicious as to why this question had come to his mind.
"Have you ever been?" he asked again.
Verity swilled the last of her gin and tonic around the bottom of the glass and shook her head again, and cracked into a small smile.
"No, Thomas I haven't." she laughed in some disbelief. "I hardly see why this is relevant." She replied back in a friendly and jesting manner, watching a coy flicker of a smile flash on the Shelby's face.
"I thought we were having a friendly informal discussion, love." He remarked, tapping the cigarette over the ashtray as the small ashy black bits crumbled into the glass dish. "If you get to know so much about me, I hardly think it's fair you get to play the mysterious type." His rather playful tone roused another small bout of warming laughter from Verity – he was actually really quite funny in such a dry way. It seemed he didn't like to be openly hilarious.
Thomas Shelby quickly eyed the clock and noted the time – he'd already been there for well over and hour and it was now dark outside thanks to the miserable winter season.
"I've wasted enough of your time this evening; I'll see myself out before I start oversharing." He said in a dry tone, standing up and slipping his cap over his cropped dark hair. Verity raised from chair out of politeness, following Tommy to the door.
"There is no such thing as oversharing in here, Tommy." She reminded him with a gentle smile that was offering some congratulation to him for taking the difficult first step – that was reaching out.
"I'm not sure, I might change your mind over that one, love." he replied in his accented voice, laying a hand on the brass door knob and looking back at the psychologist who was merely 3 steps away from him with a thoughtful smile on her face. Tommy was so surprised at how subtle her tactics were – but she was incredibly effective. He'd shared pretty much his entire life story. It wasn't often Tommy Shelby was impressed.
Verity sensed his thoughtful lingering and cleared her throat softly, watching him snap back into reality.
"I shall meet you here, the same day and time – next week?" she suggested to him, stood with her feet crossed and her hands neatly linked, resting just above her abdominal area.
Tommy nodded in agreement, guiding the door open and tucking his pack of cigarettes back into his coat pocket.
"Sounds fine." He announced, clearing his throat as he stepped onto the landing and made his course for the staircase.
Verity watched the very complex Shelby heading downstairs, just out of sight – she went to shut the door when she heard him call out teasingly:
"Just don't be late next week!"
Dr Verity Grant laughed quietly to herself as she closed her office door to, perhaps there was further hope yet she could work to help crack the ever-complicated Tommy Shelby.