Long Live The King (Peaky Blinders)

I've got you

(Tommy's P.O.V.)
The sterile, white walls of the hospital felt suffocating to me as I followed Reynolds through the dimly lit hallway. Each step echoed like a reminder of the weight that bore down on me, of the life hanging by a thread just beyond the door at the end of the hall. I hadn't seen Nick since the attack—hadn't even had the chance to breathe properly until now. And now, standing at the threshold of the room, the tension was suffocating. The air felt thick, every breath coming too fast, too shallow. Reynolds didn’t speak as we neared the door, his stride purposeful, unshaken by the uncertainty hanging in the air. I, on the other hand, couldn’t settle my nerves. My hands twitched at my sides, my mind racing with a mix of dread and hope. What would I find behind that door? As Reynolds opened the door, the dim light from the hallway spilled into the room, casting a soft glow across the figure standing by the window.

Nicky!

I felt a surge of relief when I saw him standing there—alive. His silhouette dark against the London skyline. My chest tightened in a rush of emotion, a desperate need to rush to him. Nick was here, alive, and that was all that mattered. The overwhelming urge to just hold him, to fix whatever had gone wrong, surged through me like a tidal wave. But just as my feet started to move, Reynolds's hand shot out, firmly gripping my arm. I froze. I hadn’t expected that. I felt my chest tighten as Reynolds stepped in front of me, his hand a subtle but firm barrier between me and Nick. For a second, I wanted to push past him, to rush toward Nick and make sure he was really here, really alive. But then I saw it- the way Nick stood motionless by the window. At first glance, he looked fine. Alive, yes. But as my eyes took in the details—Nicky's stiff posture, the faint trembling in his shoulders, his head twitching slightly, the low mumble that slipped from his lips—it was clear that something was wrong. It was as though he wasn’t there, as though he was somewhere else entirely. "Stay here" Reynolds ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. He didn't let go of my arm immediately, his grip firm, eyes locking with mine for a split second that felt like an eternity. I opened my mouth to protest, but the words died in my throat as Reynolds took a step back, his hand releasing me and gesturing for me to stay put. A single, subtle motion. But one that communicated everything I needed to understand. Reynolds wasn’t giving me a choice right now. He was taking control of the situation., again. Reynolds’s eyes never left Nick, his movements slow and controlled, as if he were walking on thin ice, trying not to disturb a fragile balance. I wanted to push forward, wanted to break the distance between me and the man I loved. But Reynolds’s quiet command stopped me. Stay here. It wasn’t just his words; it was the way he held himself, the way his focus never wavered from Nick. He didn’t need to say it again—stay here was all I needed to hear. He was telling me, in the calmest of tones, that I wasn’t the one who could handle this. I stood frozen in place, my chest tight with uncertainty, my hands trembling at my sides. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Nick, but it was like looking at a stranger. His lean back was turned to us, but I could see the tremors running through his body. His head twitched every few seconds, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts, as though the very act of breathing was too much for him to handle. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed the gun in his hand. It hung loosely, but with a tension that felt wrong, dangerous. His grip tightened and loosened as though his hand didn’t know what it was supposed to be doing, as though he didn’t even recognize the weapon he was holding. I couldn’t imagine what he was seeing, what he was hearing. The war, the past, the present? What was he seeing. I wanted to run to him, to take the gun from him, to hold him in my arms and tell him it was over, that he was safe now. But I knew better. I wasn’t in control of this situation. Not like Reynolds was. Who had undoubtedly seen this before. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, every second dragging like an eternity as I stood there, frozen, watching Nick unravel before my eyes. He stood there, shaking, his face pale, eyes wide with fear as though the world he knew had fractured and was slipping through his fingers. The trembling of his shoulders was subtle but telling. The gun in his hand only added to the heaviness in the air. I wanted to step forward so desperatly. To do something—anything—but Reynolds had held me back, had made it clear I wasn’t the one to handle this. And as I stood, I realized why. Nick’s voice broke the silence, faint but desperate, as though he was clawing for a way out of his own mind. "I'm having a hard time thinking. I’m losing my mind, Reynolds" Nick's words were fragmented, trembling with panic, like they didn't belong to him. His voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill. Reynolds’s response was calm, steady—too calm for what was happening. "It’s Tuesday morning, zero-nine-hundred". I noted how Reynolds used the Military time. "You’re in London, and your name is Nicholas Henry Hanover. The King of the United Kingdom". Nick’s eyes flickered with confusion, then with anger, and before Reynolds could get another word out, he snapped, his voice sharp with defiance. "No! I’m the Prince of Wales!" His face contorted in pain, like his very identity was slipping away from him. Reynolds remained undeterred, his voice unwavering. “You are the King. Your father, King George V, passed a few years ago". Nick’s expression faltered, and he trembled as he struggled to make sense of it. "No, he’s at Buckingham" Nick whispered, barely audible, as if convincing himself. Reynolds’s next words cut through the room like a heavy, unyielding truth. "King George V is dead, Your Majesty". The confusion in Nick’s eyes turned to horror, and before I could fully understand what was happening, Nick broke down, his sobs wracking his body with a force that shook him to the core. "No... he can't..." he sobbed, his voice cracking, barely coherent. Reynolds, still as steady as a rock, said softly, "he passed away on the 2nd of June, 1920". Nick’s whole body stiffened, a ragged breath escaping him, and the panic clawed at his throat. "No" he whispered, trembling. "No, you’re lying. Please don’t lie to me". The denial in Nick’s voice was like a punch to my gut. I knew, in that moment, he wasn’t just lost in the past—he was fighting against the truth, refusing to let go of what was comfortable in his mind. Reynolds didn’t waver. His tone softened, but there was no hesitation, no pity. Just the steady authority of someone who had been trained for moments like this "he's gone, my friend". Nick’s reaction was a gut-wrenching scream, one that echoed through the room, filled with terror and loss. "They are coming for me too. They want me dead too..." His voice was choked with panic, the words spilling out in a desperate rush. His grip on the gun tightened again, his fingers trembling against the cold metal. My breath hitched as I realized what was happening. Nick wasn’t just caught in the memory of the past—he was still trapped there, fighting ghosts that also belonged in the present. And the gun was no longer just a weapon in his hand. It was a lifeline. A tool of protection against the demons in his mind. "Nicholas" Reynolds’s voice was steady, cutting through the chaos. "Nick, you are panicking. I want you to hand me the gun". Nick froze in place, his eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils dilated. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his body stiff, like a coiled spring ready to snap, as he struggled to make sense of the present. His chest heaved with each panicked breath, his hands clenching around the weapon as if he didn’t know whether to fight or surrender. My heart ached, the sight of Nick like this tearing at something deep within me. But Reynolds didn’t let his emotions cloud his judgment. He knew what this was. Nick’s head twitched again, his eyes wild, unfocused, the gun shaking more violently now. Reynolds carefully stepped closer, hands open and non-threatening. He couldn’t rush this. One wrong move, one misstep, and Nick might lash out in fear. Reynolds didn’t panic. Not once. He moved like a man who had seen it all before, a man who knew how to handle this. He wasn’t like me. He didn’t need to rush in, to charge in with fury. He knew how to calm the storm. Nick’s voice cracked again, low and frantic "help... me". I saw Reynolds take another step. He moved slowly, deliberately, not even a hint of fear in his eyes. Not rushing, not overbearing. Just… steady. His hand moved with precision, and before Nick could even fully register it, Reynolds was right beside him. "Nick" he said again, quieter now, coaxing. "Give me the gun. You don’t need it". The next few moments seemed to stretch on forever. Reynolds didn’t take the gun by force. He didn’t grab for it aggressively. No, he was smarter than that. I saw him shift just slightly, his fingers moving behind the trigger, finding the right place—the right angle. His index finger slid into position behind the trigger guard, so that if Nick did try to pull it, the weapon wouldn’t fire. A small, careful move. A silent promise to Nick that he wasn’t here to hurt him, but to bring him back.