A/N: This fic will be a collection of short kidlock shots about Sherlock growing up gifted, because if there was one way to describe that sort of childhood, I would have to say in the words of Adrian Monk "It's a gift and a curse," and I haven't seen a lot of fics that specifically deal with "giftedness" rather than his general genius. I'm terribly sorry if any of the process in this chapter is incorrect (aside from the obvious stubborn differences in the case of Sherlock's test.) I was very young when I myself was tested, and don't really remember most of what the process of testing entails. Thanks for reading!

Please tell me what you think!

Sherlock Holmes was three years old when he was officially identified as gifted.

As his mother gestured for him to come up the steps to the building where he was to be tested, his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. It was simple enough for anyone to tell that Sherlock did not have the mind of an ordinary three-year-old, but that only made it worse because despite his age he had no shields of childlike ignorance to stop the weight of the moment from crushing him.

"My!" Sherlock whimpered, and his older brother wrapped his tiny hand in his.

"Sherlock, come along!" growled his mother, irritably.

"Can we have just a moment, please?" Mycroft asked her politely, "I'll deal with it."

Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes but went ahead impatiently into the building, more than happy to let Mycroft handle her more difficult son.

The youngest Holmes gave another frightened little squeak.

"You okay, brother dear?" Mycroft asked, bending down to his level and giving him a measuring glance.

Sherlock shook his head. "What if I fail My?" he whispered in horror, blue-green eyes wide, "What if I'm just… ordinary?"

His older brother bit back a snort of laughter. At eight-years old, Mycroft had endured plenty of interaction with other children, and was completely certain that his little brother was no less than extraordinary. However, Sherlock had not yet experienced much of life beyond the Holmes estate, isolated completely from other children, and would, he realized, have nothing to base such deductions off of.

"You won't," Mycroft finally said, "Not you. Not ever."

"How would you know?!" Sherlock whined, "What if I'm not?!"

"Look Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, "Mummy doesn't really care about the results. She only likes to put a label on things. No matter what happens, we'll simply accept the result. It's not as if it will have any real bearing on your life."

"But My-"

"No matter what, Sherlock, I'll still be your big brother, gifted or not."

"But I don't want to be… ordinary…" he whispered.

"Who ever does?" Mycroft pointed out, sensibly. "It'll be fine, you'll see."

Sherlock nodded, and took a deep breath before letting go of his brother's hand and striding with all appearances of confidence into the testing room.

"Name?" asked the tester.

"Sherlock Holmes," the little boy proclaimed.

And not too soon after, it had begun.

Sherlock was quickly bored by the questions asked to him, and even a little bit insulted. He had been doing Pythagorean Theorem over the summer and now he was being asked if he could count to ten? It seemed a bit ridiculous, really.

And Sherlock wasn't one to hide his opinions.

"Excuse me," he interrupted the tester.

"Hmm?" she asked distractedly, scribbling something down on a clipboard.

"It's just that this test seems a bit flawed," Sherlock sighed, "I mean, how are you to tell if I'm gifted if you only ask me stuff like that? Shouldn't you be asking me things that are actually advanced?"

"That was advanced, Mr. Holmes," she replied, "We will be getting to the even more advanced questions as the test goes on."

"Well could we skip over a few bits? I don't want to be here all day."

The woman's lips tightened. "Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid that if you want your score you will just have to patie-"

"I believe that eighth year questions could be a suitable starting point, don't you?"

"I'm sorry dear, but there are certain standards that-"

Sherlock sighed dramatically, rolled his eyes and stood up on his chair, a small smirk lacing his lips, "He's cheating on you, you know."

"What?" she asked, dropping her papers.

"I said he's cheating on you!" he repeated, a bit more loudly.

"Whatever are you talking about, sweetie?" she asked, playing nervously with her hair.

"Ah," Sherlock said, easily noticing the common nervous habit, "So you'd suspected. Your boyfriend is indeed cheating on you."

"Mr. Holmes!" the tester yelled, "I don't know what you're playing at but-"

"And it was soooo obvious too!" Sherlock complained, "How could you have missed it?"

"Missed what?!" she asked, biting at her lip.

"Well if you do that, you won't have as much evidence!" Sherlock pointed out. "Didn't you notice the lipstick of another woman on his lips before you let him kiss you? The colors are about two shades off."

She let out a shout of horror and ran around the room searching for a mirror before Sherlock pointed out the reflection in the door.

"Child's play," he commented, "And I'm the one who needs testing?"

"Mr. Holmes…!"

"And then of course there was the receipt in your pocket for the necklace he bought you," Sherlock continued, ignoring her.

"What about it?!" she spat, "He wanted me to be able to return it!"

"I would," he commented, "You can see clearly that he bought it on sale and, perhaps more importantly, he bought another of the same; probably for Miss Blood Red."

She gasped and grabbed the receipt out of her pocket, reading it quickly over before storming over to him and brandished it in the toddler's face. "What do you think you're saying, kid?! How dare your mother intrude into my personal life just to allow you to-"

"Oh no," Sherlock was quick to correct her, "My mother played no part in this. I merely observed, and from what I observed, I deduced, just as I can deduce from the ash on your sleeve and the stench lingering in the room that you smoke, or that you have two cats from the different types of fur on your pants leg. A Russian Blue and a Persian, am I correct?"

She just stood there, staring open-mouthed at him. "I never told anyone about the smoking…"

"Well, you shouldn't have to. It's obvious," Sherlock sighed.

"But you're… But you're only…"

"Three-years-old? That is correct."

"H-how could you…? You… You freak…!"

"I told you," Sherlock groaned, "I merely deduced. This is boring! Can I go now?"

When Sherlock left the building, it was with a triumphant grin on his face, but a furious scowl on his mother's.

"Must you always embarrass me, Sherlock?!" she groaned.

"How are you embarrassed?" her son asked, innocently, "I passed!"