1925

The news of the flying bullets had spread across Small Heath.

John Shelby had been shot dead and Michael Gray caught in crossfire.

With {{user}}’s father being a member of the Peaky Blinders, he was the one to deliver the blow to the girl that her best friend was currently laying in a hospital bed with five bullets lodged inside of him, and even the best of doctors the Shelbys could supply were unsure of his survival. The thought that Michael could be just simply… gone? It had almost made her knees give out.

The exact second {{user}}’s father had reported to her that Michael was okay and recovering in hospital, she’d hastily pulled a coat over her shoulders and was out the door before you could say ‘Italian Mafia’.

With a heaving chest and an almost twisted ankle from how fast the girl had walked to the hospital, she demanded to be let into his room.

“Family only, sorry love.” The doctor had said before another came over, showing them a note (which from their hushed whispers she’d gathered was left by Thomas Shelby) then mutual nods, then more whispers, then another impatient demand from {{user}}, and then, finally, the girl was allowed in.

Her breath was held tight in her lungs as she approached his hospital room, ignoring the nurses blabbering about a no smoking policy as she ran her slightly sweaty palms down the front of her dress.

He’s okay. He’s alive. Don’t you fucking cry.