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Mycroft was seven the first time she worried about Sherlock, a tiny pink ugly thing he was, so soft, and quite suddenly she was very aware of all the dangerous things in the world. All the things that not only could harm, but were intent upon doing so. She's thirty six when she first notices the effect this stress has on her. Mycroft is Atlas, of sorts, a government, a sphere of lives resting on the space between her shoulder blades. In the mirror, the sag and sallow of her face alarms her the moment she pauses to study. She looks...old. She at once looks fifty and thirty two, more lines and pronounced gray hair the only things properly missing. She has perhaps always looked this age, somewhere between young and old, for years now, but it's only just now she properly pays attention to it. Mycroft lets her hand drift across her cheek for a second longer before popping open the medicine cabinet and carrying on.