It's the roaring twenties in Birmingham, the Peaky Blinders exist alongside God but they were much, much closer at hand than Him. Mercedes de Silva, thornless withered rose, petals filled with sorrow. Thomas Shelby, ruthlessly ambitious, conflicted...
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THE WORLD WAS MADE FOR THE BRAVE AND STRONG, and Mercedes wasn't either of those two. She was weak—a coward, and if she had been brave enough, she wouldn't have had to run away from the very beginning. The façade she put whenever someone's around her was too brittle, and she has no idea if she can hold it anymore. But, what she and Ada did earlier was not bravery—stupidity was the perfect word. They could've died, and thank God, they didn't.
"Someone get a fucking rum for me!" Mercy hollered as they dragged Thomas into The Garrison, John quickly followed her order and went behind the bar. "Arthur, find some bandages or clothes, I don't bloody care which one as long as it's clean!" she yelled at the eldest Shelby as they helped Thomas sit on a chair.
"Can you find some spoons, Jeremiah?" she didn't want to yell at the pastor, so her tone became low.
"Aye," he replied before leaving them.
Mercy took off his coat and unbuttoned the inner garments. Her hands moved quickly, she was afraid that Thomas might die from blood loss and Mercy doesn't want him to die. She's a nurse— she's supposed to saves lives.
Thomas is not going to die.
She's not letting anyone die anymore.
Not anymore.
Once John handed her an open bottle of rum, she poured it over her hands and over the gunshot wound, making Thomas grunt in pain. Mercy examined the area and breathed a sigh of relief when she realized it wasn't too deep. Despite the situation, John couldn't help but laugh when Mercy said, "You're fucking lucky Kimber's a cross-eyed bitch."
"Here's the spoon, miss," the pastor waved the utensil before placing it on the table. She muttered thanks and gave him a half smile.
"Hold him tight," she said, nodding at them before returning her gaze to Thomas. "It's going to hurt like a real bitch," the woman pointed out, earning a quick nod from him as she stared at his cerulean orbs. He inhaled through his nose, sweat beads dripping down his brow.
"Hold him fuckin tight," Mercy repeated, the men grabbed each part of Thomas eagerly.
She doused the utensils with rum, especially the handle part. "I'm going to take the bullet out on the count of three, aye?" the woman informed the leader of Peaky Blinders. Thomas, you see, had faith in her and her abilities.
"Stay still, Thomas," she whispered, staring once more at his face, "One," she grabbed the body of spoon in each hand.
"Two," she dug in the end of the spoons, and Thomas' ringing screams echoed throughout the pub. "No!" he howled in agony, and she cringed at the sight of Thomas squirming and panting, but she had a job to do: save him.
"Bloody hells, Jen. Ya said on the count of three," John's face contorted as he murmured.
"Hold it in, Tommy!" Arthur yelled, their grip tightening as he continued to writhe in pain. "I can see the bullet!" said Mercy, her hands working gracefully despite the fact that this was her first actual surgery. Back in London, she was only there to assist the doctors.
