Well, I went up to the caravan, sir, but there was no-one there.

Have you thrown the tinkers off the top field yet?

Well, go back up there and set fire to the fucking thing.

Yes, sir.

Have you filled the car with petrol? I said, have you filled the car up with petrol?

How was the wedding in Berlin? I hear Chancellor Hitler himself was the best man.

You've been my doctor now for three years. Never knew you were so well connected.

Oh, and the doctor at St Thomas's who you sent me to for the second opinion, second set of X-rays? A maid of honour at the same wedding. All so very well fucking connected.

On your knees, Holford.

I'm guessing you people all decided that the only person who could ever kill Tommy Shelby is Tommy Shelby himself.

You made me believe death was coming. Let my nature do the rest, eh?

You may not have tuberculoma, Mr Shelby, but you are sick. I know you. You are sick with guilt. Sick of death at your own hand. Sick of who you were.

You are no longer the kind of man who would kill another man in cold blood.

Tommy, you have been on a journey from the backstreets to the corridors of power. You cannot go back. You are a different man. The gun no longer belongs in your hand.

Oh, but I am back. Back from under the ground.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes.

[A bell tolls. Tommy checks his watch.]

The eleventh hour. Armistice. Peace at last. Peace at last.

[Tommy fires his gun to the side, sparing Holford's life. He walks away.]

[Tommy rides back to his caravan to find it on fire. He watches it burn and then rides off on his white horse.]