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Mycroft knew the tells. When he first ran his gaze over a person, he would linger on the base of the throat, the width of the hips. He saw other things, as well- stains of hasty meals, wrinkles from an uncomfortable desk chair, fingertips stained with nicotine and the clip-on tie. These things he taught Sherlock when he was very young, and these things Sherlock took to like a fish in water.
Before leaving his office, his bedroom, his house, Mycroft would stand before a mirror and assess himself. Clean shaven, hair perfectly smoothed back from his face, collar pressed and unwrinkled, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Down, then, to his tie- straight, his waistcoat- buttoned, his jacket- buttoned at the beginning of the day.
Trousers styled to emphasize the length of his leg and play down the width of his hips, shoes with soles half an inch thick to make him taller. A long, slim umbrella to give his overall bearing an extra push towards length over width. With it in his hands, he felt cool, composed, and collected- everything he aimed to be.
This look, he reflected, as he fastened his cuff links, practically screamed premeditated masculinity- and yet, no one ever noticed. He smirked at his reflection, straightened his tie again as he stepped out the door.
He had been Mycroft, in every sense, for almost thirty years. Today would no different.