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He doesn’t think before he loses consciousness. He can’t think.
So consumed by his own rage and pain that everything else seems to melt into an abyss.
Part of him contemplates the fact he should probably be afraid. But his mind won't allow it. Every inch is agony, his face oozes down onto him, warm and acrid. His mouth is on fire, his gums and his jaw pulsating viciously and try as he might, he can’t talk, can’t breathe. His limbs spasm, giving way beneath him, they twitch and contort. His muscles refuse to contract in the way he tells them to. His head lolls and his mind grows more vacant by the second, like he’s losing the ability to process what is happening around him.
Sabini’s mouth moves before him, he’s speckled in blood and it takes Tommy a moment to realise that it’s his blood that Sabini is wearing. Fuck, that's a lot of blood. The Italian's voice ebbs around him, reducing to just a dull hum. It's cadence barely even registering as noise.
With a twinge of surprise, Tommy realises he’s forgotten to capacity to even recognise language and distantly it occurs to him… whatever crosses his mind does so in French. Broken, half cuts of mangled pidgin that he was taught by the Poilu’s in the trenches.
There’s a rush in his ears, tinny. Like static from an untuned radio. It hums lowly and then suddenly cuts out. His incoherent vision begins to darken. One moment Sabini’s face rages against his own and the next, he is consumed by an abyss. He tries to blink, tries to force his eyes open to retain some level of cognisance but his lids grow heavier by the second. Keeping them open is an impossibility.
It’s with surprise that he realises he’s dying. Slowly, agonisingly, his body is shutting down. He tries to formulate a sentence, a word, anything. But all that comes out is a distant moan of agony, a wretched broken sound he doesn’t recognise coming from himself. He’s actually... dying.
A single word passes through his mind, Merde.
His body rushes, what little air remains in his lungs falls from him in a wheeze. Like he has fallen from great height.
Suddenly, he is consumed. He tries to move but finds himself locked within paralysis, tries to breathe but finds only liquid in his lungs. His eyes fly open and to his horror he is back in the tunnels. The dense, heady air makes it difficult to breathe and the wet smell of the earth permeates his nostrils. He chokes out, suffocating.
Worse yet, he suddenly realises, he's buried.
Muddied clay water engulfs him, weighs down on top of him like rocks and he can't move. Helpless to do anything but lie beneath it and watch what is going on beyond the surface of the water. Like he's staring through the wrong direction of the looking glass. The dull glow of the paraffin lamps that light the shaft reflect in his vision. He throws his hands up in desperation, trying to claw at the dirt and water to free himself. But he’s too deep.
He writhes, trying to scream for help, but stagnant standing water fills his mouth and he chokes it down. It’s putrid but he's helpless but to breathe it in.
Hands lunge for him, clasping the collar of his undershirt but they can’t gain traction. He’s too deep, too wet, too heavy and they let him go. He hears tinny screams of his name, maniacal desperation filling the voices of those that surround him and then suddenly the whistle. They’re going over the top. His body contracts, writhes. The ceiling above begins to crumble.
They’re coming. They’re coming.
Digging echos around him, the dull crunch of picks reverberating from every angle. Bayonets suddenly lunge down through the water, one stabs him through the shoulder, a second through the stomach. He’s engulfed by pain and he finally manages to battle his way through the water. With a grunt, he manages to crawl up to the tunnel. It runs with his blood.
The scream that falls from him is visceral, it surges from him like a war cry.
“HELP ME!”
And the world falls silent.
For a moment, he is positive he is dead. But when soothing fingers smooth gently against his aching skull, he finds himself forced to reconsider. A damp rag presses to his burning forehead and he gasps in relief.
Low humming interspersed with an old folk song echoes melodically in his ear. With a twinge, he recognises the voice. Smooth and calm, it reverberates around him like a healing ritual. At the sound of her, he finds the strength to force his eyelids open.
The dim light from the lamp at his bedside illuminates the room into view. Grace gazes down at him, a look of relief on her face at the sight of him. Her fair hair is curled in a halo around her face, she's wearing the burgundy cardigan and embroidered blouse like she knew it was secretly always his favourite.
‘I thought I’d sing a sad song.’ She murmurs, gently. ‘You like the sad ones better.’
His gaze flickers to the room around him. He's down to his underwear, lying in her bed in her rented room in Small Heath. The covers are tucked around him and she perches on the edge of the mattress. He tries to sit up but the ache of his bones overwhelm him. She drops the cloth into a metal bowl on the table beside her and smooths his burning skin.
‘Easy, Tommy.’ She urges. ‘Just relax.’ A hand comes to his cheek, fingers stroking the skin like he’s something precious. His lips are swollen, he finds it difficult to talk but his pain is minimal beneath her touch. He sinks against her.
‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ He manages, voice strained.
She leans down and kisses his forehead and momentarily his eyes sink closed at the interaction. Fuck he's missed her.
She strokes his hair from his face.
‘Tell me, Tommy Shelby.' She urges. 'Where else would I be?’ She asks. He reaches with a leadened arm to touch her. His fingers make contact with her cheek, and she rests her head against his hand, leaning to his palm. She feels like a sanctuary from the world.
‘I thought I’d never see you again.’ He breathes, his voice catches and his eyes swell.
There's a crash from the window and he glances towards it, realising with gut-clenching terror that beyond her window the war rages. His rationality is lost. His hand drops like he's been scalded and his fingers plug his ears in desperation. His eyes screw shut and he flinches, curling into a ball against the wall, his fear visceral. He cowers, the agony is physical in his chest.
Boots echo on the steps outside the room and the tunnel flashes before him. They've come for him.
He lunges forward, burying his face into Grace's lap.
‘I don’t want to go back!’ He begs, tears leaking from beneath his eyelids, falling down his cheeks hot and heavy. He trembles, shaking his head. ‘I can’t go back down there, Grace, don’t make me go back.’ He feels her hands reaching for him, clawing at his bare back desperately but he knows if raises his head he's going to be back in the tunnels. He breathes in the smell of her, desperate to hold onto every last moment. Suddenly, it turns putrid, standing water fills his nostrils.
'Thomas!' She calls, shaking him. Her voice is urgent. 'Thomas, look at me! Thomas, stay with me!'
He shakes his head desperately. Screaming out, his body writhing. 'Grace, I'm not going down there! I'm not fucking going down there!'
Dense mud suddenly packs his mouth and he tries to spit it out, but it chokes him. Beneath his eyelids the opening hatch to the tunnel suddenly looms. With terror, he realises he's back in his uniform, around one ankle there is a shackle connected to a chain, it drags him through the mud to the ladder. He claws at handfuls of mud to try and prolong his descent. His feet begin to descend the hatch. Freddie stands half way up the ladder holding out a hand to him.
Suddenly the sound of singing overtakes him, the same song as before. Low and melancholic. Then Grace's voice again, soft and compelling.
‘Look at me, Thomas.’ She calls. 'Tommy, look at me!'
His eyes spring open and suddenly the world has fallen quiet again. He cowers in her lap, there's no tunnel. Only Grace. She reaches down, curls herself over him. She shushes him, rocking gently. He gasps, his ragged breath echoing.
‘Tommy, you’re staying with me.’ She repeats. She rubs his back as she holds him, soft hands smoothing over his bare skin. He lifts his head slightly, glancing to see where his dream has taken him. He's back in her small, safe room. 'Lie down.' She breaths and lifts him ever so gently back against the pillows. With the pads of her thumbs, she smooths the tear tracks away from his face.
He gives a breath and slowly she lowers her lips against his. With a surge, the tunnel falls away. The shackle disappears and the uniform is no more. The war continues to wage from the window but she shuffles, blocking the view from his sight. There is only Grace, here in this little room. There is only he and Grace.
She pulls away and light eyes gaze down at him. Se holds his face defiantly.
‘No one will take you away.’ She swears. ‘I found you.’
He nods weakly and she leans to kiss him again. Soft and slow and he is helpless to her embrace. The warmth of her body leans into him, she’s heavy and real. Every ache in his bones begins to melt away. He feels the war ebbing from the window. The hatch lid slams down on the tunnel, locked from the inside. He couldn't get in if he wanted to.
He reaches for her, hands cupping her face. The scent of her engulfs her, floral and warm. It calms him, reminding him how his lungs work. He breathes.
‘You found me.’ He whispers, gazing up at her in desperation. 'How did you find me?'
She smiles. ‘I'll always find you.’ She breathes. 'There's nowhere I won't find you.'
'Do you swear?' He begs and she nods.
'I do.' Her voice is low, softly she begins to hum, her hand returning to his hair as she begins to stroke it. Smoothing it out the way like his Mother used to do for him as a boy, her fingers skirt over him in the way when someone loves you unconditionally. ‘Sleep, Tommy.’ She murmurs. 'I'll stay right here.'
Slowly he blinks, his vision growing hazy. He fights to open them but when he does, he can barely make out the outline of her. Just the glow of her loose curls. Lulled, his eyes sink closed to the sound of her singing.
Tommy squints against the glare of light from above him. He winces, letting out a low groan, pained and slow. The singing has stopped.
‘Grace…’ He stammers. ‘Turn the… turn the light off.’ The bed beneath him is rolling and suddenly pain overwhelms him. He moans again, the sound falling from him is broken and desolate. The stench of blood and ammonia make his head ache. He blinks wearily, staring up at a tiled ceiling. His head lolls to the side. ‘G… Grace?’ He murmurs desperately, blood trickling out of his mouth. A figure strides above him. He reaches blindly, crying out against the agony of his chest.
He tries again, fear beginning to engulf him. 'Grace?'
The figure above him comes into view and he flinches. A doctor wearing a head mirror leans down to him, too closely.
‘You’re in hospital, Mr Shelby!’ He calls and the intrusion makes him cower against the bed he's led on. He rolls his head, glancing to the other side. Grace?
Another doctor follows.
‘Mr Shelby, do you remember what happened?’ The first doctor’s voice is loud and he glances back, gazing up with bleary eyes. He catches the reflection of a sea of crimson in the mirror on his head and he distantly wonders where the blood has come from.
‘Gr… Gra…’ He chokes against the feeling of wearing another man’s teeth until slowly, his cognisance begins to grow. The image of Sabini flashes before him. A knife in his mouth gouging, fist after fist after fist. He feels his lungs burning. His bones throb agonisingly. He is in a hospital.
The bed is not a bed at all, it is a stretcher.
Grace is not here. She is in America. With her husband, the banker.
He huffs. The feeling of loss is desolate and the pain is overwhelming.
‘We’re upping your morphine, Mr Shelby!’ The doctor continues, distantly. ‘We’re taking you through to surgery!’
Without fight, he sinks his head back against the pillow beneath him. A hot tear leaks from his eyes. The morphine begins to take hold and it makes his mind bleary. The sound of singing echoes in his mind and Tommy relishes the feeling of his eyes sliding closed again. When the darkness comes again, he recognises it this time.
He just hopes wherever it takes him, he'll be going back to Grace.