PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER

       ❝I am almost impressed.❞

    Oh, now Holmes wants his suggestions. Merlin might just perish on the spot. It takes all his strength not to sigh long-sufferingly as he quickly books a thirty-minute consultation for later on in the evening, sending the appointment straight to the official’s calendar. Look at him---a personal assistant to a stuffy, neurotic Sassenach. His ma would be so proud. ❝It’s the very least I could do, Mister Holmes. After all, I did crush your rosebud.❞ As terribly cliched as said blossom was, he had no right to destroy it.  ❝And I’ll make sure your fiance is nowhere near the shop when you come in. I’d hate to spoil a surprise.❞

    ❝Is this a matter of Crown and Country? Is his correct size the code to all your intelligence? If not, it’s not your issue, Mister Holmes.❞

   So just the past ones, then?

         Agreed.

     ❝So the lad wants to be a braggart. It still has nothing to do with you. You’re not the one who will disappoint his bed partners in the future, are you?❞

   For someone who doesn’t want people to talk about his cock size, you allude to it well enough.

     Again, I don’t care.

      His size has nothing to do with you. Need I remind you that you have a fiance?

     I don’t care.

     wisely cuts feed before the urge to smash his head into his desk grows.

   Is rolling his eyes too unprofessional? Too late; it’s happening. ❝I’m not suggesting a new suit, Mister Holmes, but rather a much-needed alteration to the one you have.❞ There. He has said his piece. Merlin is not going to waste his breath convincing the other when his heart is barely into the conversation. There is, however, one easily-to-remedy mistake he can correct right now. Gingerly, Merlin uses his pen to wriggle the blossom out of the official’s buttonhole and crushing it under his heel. ❝Whoever you are seeing will not care about whatever flower you have hanging off you.❞

    ❝If you’d like a consultation to Kingsman, it can be arranged even on such a short notice.❞  Merlin’s not a tailor; his sartorial input is less ‘romantic evening’ and more ‘combat ready practical’. Coupled with his disdain for this sham of a holiday, he is not the right person to handle this weird discussion of feelings. He looks up from his clipboard, fingers paused over the surface. ❝Say the word and I shall book you.❞

     He’s not.