A well-fitted suit did wonders, in Mycroft's opinion. Better than any baggy shirt or double layer of binders, a well fitted suit could add shoulder width, subtract hip width, disguise curves in a blink.
The first time he'd gone to be measured, nervous of taking off his clothes because then the tailor would see his binder, he'd sat in his car for almost a half hour, smoking tar-free cigarettes and trying to work up the nerve to go inside. The lady who took his measurements didn't make a single comment about his "special vest", except to inquire as to whether he'd like to keep it on for the fitting. When he said yes, he would, and chose a man's suit, she plucked up her measure and set to work, measuring crotch length, shoulder width, and his hips around.
Mycroft sighed in relief when she stepped out of the room, and dressed again in the off-the-rack suit he'd worn for interviews.
A new suit could make a man feel very, very safe in his own skin. It took Mycroft several minutes at the fitting to work up the nerve to leave the dressing room and approach the mirror, but when he finally did, Mycroft found he didn't regret it a bit.
Charcoal gray wool, wide and straight across the shoulders, slim at the hips, a perfectly fitted waistcoat, a red silk tie against a white shirt. His umbrella completed the look, and Mycroft almost turned to look over his shoulder for the man who must be standing there.
But no. This was him, wasn't it? This had always been him.
A/N: Yeah, it's short. Concrit and britpick welcome. :D