The small dinner held in Mr Wooster's honour, well-intentioned though it was, did nothing to raise my spirits. Mrs Travers and the rest of the guests were kind and carefully jovial, but the hotel room I had to return to felt cold and empty. Over the next weeks I spent little of my time indoors, preferring to take long walks under the pretence of needing some imagined necessity from the open markets.

As the summer transformed into a depressingly wet and chilly autumn I found the urge to return to work overwhelming, despite the fact Mr Wooster's assets had left me with more than enough to live off. To keep busy was an imperative, and I felt I would not be betraying Mr Wooster by seeking employment. My life had been one defined by work, and without it I felt lost.

I set out for the Agency in September, head bowed against the onslaught of rain, which did nothing to dampen my determination. Mr Miller was the man who assigned valets, and I knew him well; he had more than once found me a position, including Mr Wooster's.

"Terrible business," was the first thing he said upon my arrival. "A young man like that."

I murmured assent in the hope he would move on from the subject, but to no avail.

"It must have been difficult for you to adjust. How long was it you were with him? Five years?"

"Six."

"That long?"

It had never seemed like an extensive amount of time to me. I had been labouring under the delusion that it would never end.

"And before then…" Mr Miller flicked through his file, which was substantial; before Mr Wooster, there had been very few employers with whom I found myself able to coexist. I stared at my lap as the pages ruffled, trying not to blink too frequently. The rain hammered on the windows.

"Mr Jeeves…are you perfectly sure you're ready to come back?"

I looked up hastily, taking a deep breath. "I do not wish to be idle."

Mr Miller inclined his head, jotted something down on a piece of paper, and handed me an address on a slip of paper. "Mr Harris. Elderly bachelor, mild-mannered, likes to play the piano. London-based; you won't have to go out of your way."

Mr Miller was giving me an easy position, one that had probably been reserved for the inexperienced valets. Part of me was inclined to take offense that he did not trust me, but I did not let it show; he was only doing what he thought was right.

I took the slip of paper and tucked it in my breast pocket.

Mr Harris was, indeed, an easy position. He had a moderate taste in cravats and jackets, quiet mannerisms and a tendency to fall asleep for most of the afternoon, leaving me to my own devices. I was to cook simple meals that would not offend a frail constitution, do light housework, and make regular cups of tea. As positions went, it was a perfectly acceptable, even desirable one.

It might have been enjoyable, if my intention in returning to work had been to sit agitatedly on comfortable chairs and attempt to read improving books which could no longer hold my attention. Any small noise – the opening of a window across the street, or the sound of Mr Harris's stick against the carpet – would jolt me out of even the most engaging material, and for a moment I would truly believe I was hearing Mr Wooster coming through the door.

It was never him, of course.

It took me less than a week to come to the conclusion my situation was intolerable, and less than a day to debate whether it would be unkind to leave my new master so soon, lest he feel it was due to some shortcoming of his own. In retrospect, I doubt the concern was necessary; Mr Harris, though kind, was unobservant in his old age, and I would be very much surprised if he noticed I had been replaced.

Mr Miller was nothing less than genuinely surprised at my return to his office, but after listening to my quiet explanations, he obligingly sent me to another master. The Watford-Smythe residence was an immensely large dwelling situated well out of London, exceedingly beautiful, and exhausting for the staff to maintain. It certainly provided the distraction I had been craving.

In the end the reason for my leaving was not the workload, nor my master's dress sense, nor any of the other trivial issues that had often caused me to leave someone's employ in the past, but the fact that my master was too well behaved. He did not have friends who tried to convince him to steal semi-precious items. He did not get engaged by mistake. My body was drained by the work, but my mind continued to stagnate. The lack of pleasant conversation or interesting puzzles made my continuation impossible.

It did not help that the flowers in the garden were the same white roses Mr Wooster used to wear in his buttonhole.

From that moment I moved so frequently from master to master that I could hardly remember their names. It was irrelevant; none of them was Mr Wooster, and I could not bear them because of it. Mr Miller soon had nothing left for me. I could have been in employed in a heartbeat had I gone to one of Mr Wooster's friends, but I was certain the constant reminder of his death would be too much.

I gave up looking for work and began to walk again – the October chills were a small price for some peace of mind, brief though it was. It was fortunate Mr Wooster had left me his money; my shoes were worn down at such a rate I was forced to buy new ones.

If I recall correctly, it was mid-November when, on one of my extensive rambles I decided to return to the flat, triggered by a sudden downpour that soaked me to the skin as I was passing and allowed me to convince myself that going in was simply a matter of convenience.

The door was difficult to open, and I had to force it with my shoulder as it jammed on the letters that had been posted. I could not bring myself to pick them up.

Dust lay like a duvet over every surface, springing up whenever my hand brushed a sideboard or table. The kitchen was in the poorest of conditions – the teapot still had leaves clustered dryly in the bottom, any trace of moisture having dried up long ago. The food in the cupboards was stale or mouldering. Everything smelled spoiled.

Spoiled was the most apt word, I thought, retreating to the lounge with my dusty gloves clasped in my hands. Until that day in August, my life that was comfortable, entertaining and, more than anything, happy. I had always known my contentment had rested somewhat on Mr Wooster, but it was only after he was gone that I had come to realise how much that was the case.

Entering Mr Wooster's bedroom posed no problem for me – I had so often stepped through it with his morning cup of tea whilst he was alive that doing so when he was dead felt like routine, although I had no tea to offer the empty bed. The sheets were perfectly folded, the wardrobe doors closed. Only the chrysanthemums in the blue vase showed how much time had passed; they were so withered that even the stalks had crumbled.

Mr Wooster's ties were still hanging forlornly on their rack, arranged as I had left them in order of size and colour. All were accounted for, apart from the pale green one Mr Wooster had been wearing on the day he died. My fingers hovered over the dove grey with the pink lozenges, one both I and Mr Wooster had shared equal fondness for. It was mine, now. Everything was mine, and I wished with all my heart that it wasn't – that Mr Wooster would want to wear the tie for dinner that evening.

Perhaps it was because I had closed the bedroom door, or because I was not expecting anyone to enter the flat, but it was only when I heard footsteps on the lounge carpet that I realised I was not alone. My first emotion was shame; that anyone should see the miserable state of the place made my insides coil like hot wires. Nevertheless, I held my head high and pushed open the bedroom door. There was no reason I should not be here – this was my flat now, much as I hated owning it.

"I say Jeeves, you've gotten awfully thin."

I am not ashamed to say I lost my self-control to such an extent I looked both alarmed and gratified in the same instant – so rarely had I allowed even one emotion to cross my face that two seemed to stretch my skin to its limits. I was convinced, until Mr Wooster stepped forward from the doorway and knocked over a brass ornament, thus proving he was of living flesh, that I had either gone insane, or was experiencing the effects of the supernatural.

Mr Wooster brought his hands to his face, which was paler and more lined than I remembered. "Dash it! This isn't how I planned, and now I've gone and spoiled it all."

I did not follow what he was saying, but I could not find the voice to say so.

"I rehearsed it in the lift, but then I saw you standing there like one of those whatsit statues you find in rotten museums…"

"Sir?"

"The thingummies, where they don't show anything but the cove's head and shoulders and they stare at you like Aunt Agatha on a bad day."

"A bust, Sir?"

"That's it!" His face came alight with the satisfaction that always came to him when I took the words from the tip of his tongue and offered them to him. When I scanned his features I could see no sign of deceit. This was not an elaborate prank, and Mr Wooster did not intend to make fun of my grief – that was not in his nature. I remained silent, awaiting his explanation. Doing so was easier than trying to comprehend the situation by myself.

It was only in that moment I realised the clock on the mantelpiece no longer ticked. It had wound down in our absence.

"You're looking rather pale, Jeeves. You can sit down if you like."

"Thank you, Sir." If I sounded curt, it was not intentional – I was simply baffled beyond eloquence. I found a chair and sank, as quickly as I thought proper, into it. Mr Wooster chose the one opposite and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The position was so characteristic of him that it was both heart-warming and painful.

"I mean to say, this is probably a bally shock for you."

Despite my distress, my mouth twitched. "You could say that, Sir."

Mr Wooster's tale ran thus: that, on his way to the Drones, he had been accosted by a gentleman with a pistol, who had forced him into a car and driven him to the countryside in order to take his jacket and all its contents far from the prying eyes of the midday crowds. He had, after the robbery, struck Mr Wooster a severe blow to the head. The details of how the same man ended up in the London Thames I can only guess, though I take the liberty of assuming his intended next victim had been rather more than he could handle.

Mr Wooster had found himself, a fortnight later, ensconced in the local hospital ward with no memory, not only of what had happened to him, but of his own identity. Without his pocket book or watch, the nurses had no chance of ascertaining who he was. His presumed death had received only light coverage in the papers, which had moved to more sensational stories by the time Mr Wooster awoke. He had, as a result, been forced to remain in the hospital for the duration of three months, until his memory returned sufficiently for him to recall his name and address.

"It's a bally odd thing," Mr Wooster murmured. He was still sitting in the chair opposite, although I had provided the both of us with a stiff brandy before he began his tale. The glass was resting loosely in his hands, which were bonier than I would have wished to see them; Mr Wooster had always been slender, but I had never seen him so sharp. "The nurses kept banging on about the memory coming back of its own accord, but I must say I didn't quite believe them. I had snatches; childhood stuff and what-not, Aunt Agatha for one, though I couldn't for the bally life of me remember her name. And then a beazle came to visit an aged r. of some shape or form, and she dropped off his hat. An awful lot like the one you wear."

"A bowler, Sir?"

"Exactly. It gave me a kick, I can tell you. And after that the memories kept pouring in; no stopping them. I could barely sleep for waking up with some new morsel or other. And as soon as I had my name, I found myself in the papers. When I read about it…" He let out a sigh uncharacteristic of his unfailingly cheerful nature. "Well, I charged round as quickly as I possible. I even wrote down the address, to make sure I didn't forget it on the way. Couldn't bear to keep you labouring under a…oh the whatsit. Miscellaneous. Misty. Mis-something."

"Misapprehension, Sir."

"Yes. That." He gave me a watery smile that I felt was more for his benefit than my own. "I am sorry, Jeeves."

"You need not apologise, Sir. It was not your fault."

"Aunt Dahlia always said I was a sickly specimen. Aren't gentlemen supposed to be able to fend off the fiends of the human race with their umbrellas or some such rot?"

"I highly doubt it, Sir."

"You haven't missed me so much, I suppose. Been busy? Reading? I left you enough to buy every Spinoza book under the sun, if you wanted to."

I looked around the glaringly neglected flat – even the chairs we were sitting on were layered in dust – and placed my brandy glass upon the nearest table. Even well after the event had passed, I could not find the appropriate words to describe the melancholy that had oppressed me since his disappearance.

"I have missed you terribly, Sir."

His face softened. "I've missed you too. Missed this – bally hospital food isn't a patch on your eggs and b."

I wanted to smile, but I did not let myself – there was still one question to ask. "Sir, may I enquire-"

"Enquire away, Jeeves."

"Why did you leave your assets to me, and not your family, or your friends?"

There was a pause. Mr Wooster's hands shifted in his lap, picking at threads as the silence stretched, until I thought he was not going to answer at all.

"Dash it – they all already have money. You don't. As far as friends go, I know it probably offends your feudal s., but you're one of them. Perhaps the best – never once have you asked me to steal a cow creamer. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Set up."

"I could have found employment, Sir. I enjoy my work." It was a lie – I enjoyed my work only when it was with him. "You need not have worried."
His face fell. "Did it offend you, Jeeves?"

I shook my head. "Your will was extremely generous, Sir – I appreciate it immensely." I rested my hands on my knees and resisted the urge to grip them tightly. "But I would far rather have remained in your employ. These past six years have been worth more to me than any amount of money."

Mr Wooster's head came up, and this time his smile was perfectly genuine. I had missed that perhaps most of all, but I think I only realised it then.

"I say…that is to say…well, Jeeves. That makes it a bit easier, then."

"Sir?"

"Well, legally, I don't have a place to live and…I was rather hoping I could stay here until we can get this mess sorted. Only, I mean, you are the owner of the place now, and it's only polite to ask."

I raised an eyebrow a measured half-inch, and allowed myself the liberty of a smile. "I would like nothing better, Sir."

That's all! I may come back to this story and do an epilogue and/or sequel sometime in the future, but it probably won't be for a while; I'm snowed under with uni work, and this was intended just to be a short thing to get me into the characters.

Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!

The End.