Title: Forgetting
Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, really.
A/N: Why does it always turn out depressing? Why? T-T Please read and review.
It was a pity Mr. Wooster had gotten so peculiar these last few years, thought Mary. She'd known him for nearly ten years, known him before Mr. Jeeves had died. She'd taken care of both of them for almost four and a half years.
Those had been good times, really. Mr. Jeeves had been much to old to help her cook and clean, but he'd always insisted on making tea himself, in that quiet way he had. It'd offended her at first, as if her tea wasn't up to standard, but she'd gotten over it, and Mr. Jeeves really had made very good tea. (She made the tea now, but she wasn't sure if Mr. Wooster could tell.)
Back then Mr. Wooster had been, well, himself. Cheerful, goofy, and very kindly. It was a pity he'd never had kids, Mary thought. He would have made a wonderful grandfather.
But she'd known about that, too. It was hard not too, living in the same house. They'd slept in the same bed, after all. She hadn't minded, the dear old things, and she'd never have told anyone; they'd trusted her. (Or more importantly, Mr. Jeeves had trusted her. Mr. Wooster trusted nearly everyone.)
Perhaps their… closeness was the reason Mr. Wooster had gone all funny when Mr. Jeeves had died. It was bad, right afterwards, when he'd sat slumped in his armchair for days at a time, only leaving to go to bed or the bathroom. Mary had thought he'd die, pining away like that. His health had certainly taken a turn for the worst. But he'd hung on, and it was almost worse, now.
He was much more forgetful, which was hard, as he'd been extremely forgetful before. But now, instead of forgetting words, or where he'd put his glasses, he'd forget that Mr. Jeeves was dead. He'd forget for hours at a time, and Mary had seen him, several times, having a conversation with the thin air. It'd only gotten worse as time went by.
Now, when Mr. Wooster was so frail that he was bedridden, he seemed to see Mr. Jeeves all the time. Mary could tell by the way he smiled and talked to himself when he was alone. It made her sad when she thought about it too much, so she tried not too.
Mr. Wooster didn't have anyone. His friends were either dead or too far away, and his relatives were that weren't dead were too distant to really care. She didn't count, because she was employed, for heaven's sake. And the one person who'd always, always been there for Mr. Wooster, Mr. Jeeves, was also gone. But Mr. Wooster didn't think so, and she was glad of that, at least.