Michael Gregson had expected his apartment to be empty when he returned late that night after some of the worst years of his life. He was certain that it took longer than three years to declare a missing person dead. He had every reason to expect that he would be able to pick up everything where he had left it, his apartment, his magazine, his money. His life.
And his lady - or rather Lady - Edith Crawley. Although he hadn't even tried to get a divorce from Lizzie, which was a complication.
But he was sure Edith would understand why when he explained it to her. And perhaps Lizzie had died while he was away. Her health was rather fragile, it wasn't only her sanity that was failing her.
So to find this very unfamiliar young man in his home was a very unpleasant surprise to him. The only familiar thing about him was actually the dressing-gown.
It was even worse that the man was threatening him with a lifted poker. Michael's own poker on top of everything else.
It was so late and he was too tired to deal with something like that.
Who was this man? What was he doing here? Why did he behave as if he owned the place?
...
The two men looked at each other for a long, long time. Neither of them found a single word to say.
Bertie was the one to finally break the long silence.
"Mr Gregson, I presume", he said, though Gregson was hardly a Doctor Livingston. Then he let his hand with the poker sink.
It was obvious to Michael that the young man knew who he was. Perhaps he had been hired by someone to keep an eye on the apartment?
"That is my dressing-gown you are wearing", was all Michael said as a confirmation. "I don't really like that."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Mr Gregson", Bertie said. "I didn't think you needed it since you have been away for so long. Perhaps you would prefer me to be naked?"
Michael actually thought that over for a second or two. No, he didn't like this man and he would like him even less without clothes.
"Point taken", he said with a sigh. "You can keep it for now."
...
There was a long silence between the two of them again. Once again Bertie was the first to break it.
"Strictly speaking the dressing-gown isn't yours but Edith's", he said with a friendly smile.
Michael just stared at Bertie. He didn't return Bertie's smile.
"You are dead", Bertie added as an explanation. "They even held a memorial service for you. The Sketch did, but it was owned by Edith by then. Many literary celebrities attended it. They said some very nice things about you, according to Edith."
"Obviously I'm not dead", Michael said in an irritated tone. This young man was really getting at his nerves. "I wouldn't be here if I were, would I?"
"You are declared dead", Bertie corrected himself. "You will have to be undeclared, I guess, if they do such things. I have never had that kind of problem, so I don't know the legal implications of it. I don't know if you will be able to get anything back, either. You did write a will to let Edith inherit you, and she accepted it all in good faith. But I'm certain she would be generous."
"But I'm not dead!" Michael said, too tired to wonder why this man talked about Edith as if he knew her very well. "It's absurd. I'm not dead! How many times do I have to tell you that?"
"They found your dead body", Bertie explained with a new gentle smile. "You had been killed in the Beer Hall Putsch, although they didn't find your body until much later."
That made Michael Gregson silent. This was all too much for him. And it was none of this obnoxious man's business.
"I wonder who the poor sod was", Bertie added as an afterthought. "And why they thought he was you."
"Oh, I don't know. And I don't care. I just want to get some sleep. Just let me get into my bed, I will have to sort this out in the morning."
"Edith's bed", Bertie corrected him. "And she is sleeping in it right now. I'm certain that you don't want to shock her by waking her up in the middle of the night. Not when she believes that you have been dead for many years."
"I know she loves me", Gregson said lamely, but it was obvious that the young man wouldn't allow him into the bedroom. And he still had the poker in his hand.
...
So they both went into the kitchen to solve their problem in the way most English problems are solved.
With a nice cup of tea.
AN: Thank you for reading! Thank you for the many kind comments to last chapter! And please keep writing them! Reviews are the fuel that keeps the fanfiction writer going.
...
I actually feel rather sorry for Gregson here. It isn't all that easy to return from the dead.