peaky blinders imagines

the measure of a man; john shelby

You sat by the fire, eyelids drooping closer and closer to being closed as you tried valiantly to stay awake until John came home. He'd promised he'd be back by one, and it wasn't yet gone midnight, so if you had to pinch yourself and drink ungodly amounts of caffeine to be able to greet your husband when he came home, so be it.
The kids had driven you nearly up the wall all evening, unable to cope with not being able to go outside in the bitter cold. They'd pulled the dogs tails and screamed at each other for hours until you snapped, sending them to bed directly after supper. Though he denied it, you knew they liked John better.
A knock at the door sounded throughout the house, and you had half a mind to slap whoever it was for being so loud. When you opened the door, the jet-black muzzle of a gun was pointed directly at your face.
You froze, raising your arms as the man behind the gun gestured towards them. He stepped into the house, followed by a companion.
They were both fairly short and stocky, the one with the gun wheezing as he ripped doors open and demanded where to find money.
Emboldened by the apparent incompetence of your would-be robbers, you shook your head and refused to divulge. He laughed at you and fired his gun straight into the wall connecting the kitchen and living room.
There was a stirring upstairs from the bedrooms of your children, and your heart sank in despair as the criminals realized you weren't home alone.
Their smirks only grew as there was a pitter patter of footsteps on the stairs, and your youngest daughter came face to face with the giving end of a pistol.
She froze, looking to you for insistence, and you hissed a "Go back upstairs!" in her direction, but it was too late, as the rest of your brood had joined her.
It dawned on the leader of the two robbers that he was facing a mother alone with her children, and so he grew more confident, leaving his gun on the table sauntering into the parlor and calling out "Will you tell me where the money is, or will I tear this chicken coop apart trying to find it?"
You didn't respond at first, moving so you could hover over your crowd of children.
"Will you tell me," the man repeated, "or will my friend here get to pick which of your brats eats the dust first?"
Moving even faster than your brain could compute your actions, you tucked his gun into the waistband of your skirt and walked out to meet him.
"It's in our bedroom," you told him. "I'll show you."
Pleased by your apparent display of obedience, he gestured upstairs, saying "After you," and grabbed the sleeve of his companion to follow.
You lead them straight into your bedroom, opening the closet door and taking out an old, green-stained, padlocked chest. It was actually currently holding your wedding dress, now nearly ten years aged, but your contemporaries didn't know that.
"The key's up there," you said, pointing to the top of the doorway, and they turned to look, you shot them both in the back of the head in quick succession.
A number of things happened in rapid pace; your children started screaming in a canon from downstairs, the clock chimed midnight, the front door creaked open, and it occurred to you that John was home.
His voice was gruff as he attempted to calm his kids, nearly yelling to be heard over the cacophony.
You sprinted down the stairs, and his face went ashen at the sight of you. You glanced down at your dress and realized some of the blood from the now-deceased robbers had spattered onto you.
John leapt forward, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you as he asked what happened.
"I'll tell you when they're in bed," you said in a sharp tone, ushering your children upstairs again and entrusting your oldest to closing up the household for the night.
Your husband wrapped his arm around you and walked into the living room, sitting on the armchair while you perched on the sofa opposite. He grasped your hands, asking "Why were they screaming? Why're you bleeding?"
"It's not my blood," you rushed out.
"Two-two robbers broke in, started threatening to hurt the kids, so I shot 'em."
John's forehead dropped to your intertwined hands, placing a kiss to your knuckles as he swallowed hard.
"Are they dead, then?"
"Yes," you replied, a single tear escaping your left eye and travailing down your face.
Without thinking, he reached a hand out to your face, wiping the tear away.
"That's too bad. I'd have liked to rip out their ribs one by one for coming into my household and trying my patience."
"Do you know who they were?" He asked, meeting your eyes.
"No," you said, "I don't think they realized I'm a Shelby."
"Well then what the FUCK-" at his loud expletive, he lunged upwards off his chair, staggering towards the wall-"is the bloody surname good for?"
He cut off his sentence abruptly, balancing himself against the wall with splayed hands as his shoulders began to shake.
You rushed towards him, placing a hand on the small of his back in a comforting gesture, but he shrugged you off.
"What kind of a man am I if I can't keep my fucking wife and kids safe?" He spoke to the wall.
"Should've left them alive, love. Should've let me made them scream for mercy."
John pivoted away from the wall, pulling you into his chest and letting you tuck your forehead into his collarbone. He rested his chin on your hair, and absentmindedly stroked your shoulder as he tried to pretend he wasn't crying.