Title: "The Percussively Coital Proposition"
Description: She foolishly thought it was some sort of musical booty call.
Fandom: The Big Bang Theory
Genre: Comedy/Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Characters: Sheldon/Amy
Word Count: 1200
Disclaimer: The Big Bang Theory is an American sitcom created by Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady, and produced by them along with Lee Aronsohn. It is a Warner Brothers production and airs on CBS. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of the fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from the story.
Rating: T

Amy was awakened by a sound that could only, really, mean one thing…

The Apocalypse was beginning just outside of her door.

Historically, she had never been one for unjustified socializing, and was now ruing the fact that she didn't have the phone numbers of her surrounding neighbors. In the event that she survived whatever mayhem this night would bring, number collection would be her next order of business. Like all proper apocalypses, it sounded with a foreboding rhythm—starting from afar—until it grew in volume and suddenly was upon her, signaling its foreboding doom.

(It's worth mentioning that it also crossed her mind that the sound could be the harmless playing of bongo drums in the middle of the night. It was a delightful instrument that she had taken up one whimsical summer, and she could easily see the appeal of someone enjoying its charms in a moment of musical impulse.)

More likely, of course, it was something much more dastardly: a serial killer that had the custom of striking in the night, not content with just assailing his victims without subjecting them to rhythmic taunts of cacophony as he violated them and their homes. Or it could have been a high-tech band of burglars involved in a large-scale heist where no one in the entire building was safe, and thus stealth was of no importance.

Or it could be the Apocalypse.

Just then, there was a knock at the door!

Yep, it was definitely something bad.

Steeling her nerves and rallying her courage, she grabbed the baseball bat her mother had encouraged her to buy and keep at hand for just such an occasion. She had thought the purchase foolish at the time, but she was glad that, for once, she had listened to her mother. She crept to the door, wielding her wooden weapon, and peered through the peephole. All she could see was the top of someone's head. There was another knock. Then she heard someone chant:

"I play my bongos standing outside my girlfriend's apartment while she sleeps inside."


She swung open the door to find the one thing (minus the bongo drums) that she didn't expect.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

A perplexed look came across his face and looked away in thought. "I'm not sure."

"How did you get here?"

"I ambled through the streets for about twenty minutes before a taxi pulled over. I got inside and quickly remembered I'd left my wallet at home. I told the driver so and (after berating me with some rather choice words) he let me out after only four blocks of service. I then found myself walking the rest of the way here."

"Aw," poor thing she said, and taking his arm, ushered him inside. "Why didn't you knock?"

"I did."

"I mean your normal way?"

"Because I'm embracing the chaos." He looked down. "Why do you have that bat?"

She leaned it against the wall and walked towards the kitchen to prepare a beverage. "Because I thought you were some kind of assailant. Or the Apocalypse."

"Why would you think that?"

"The question is, what else was I to think? That my boyfriend was standing outside my door for some kind of musical, boo—" She looked up and examined Sheldon again: he was wearing pajamas and slippers, his hair was sexily disheveled, he was sweaty and lethargic, and he was radiating vulnerability and need.

And those drums.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Sheldon you aren't here for what I think you're here for, are you?"

"That depends: what do you think I'm here for?"

"For…" she said, raising her eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

Sheldon looked on with confusion. "Finishing that statement would serve the dual purpose of making your thoughts known and actually giving me an idea as to the purpose of my visit."

She sighed. "Nevermind." She brought him a glass of iced tea, and then thought better of it.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you appear to be somewhat distressed; would you prefer I brought you hot tea?"

Sheldon hesitated, and then took the glass from her hands. "Only hours ago I would have answered with a 'yes', but why worry with convention when it is all for nothing?"

There was so much sadness in his voice her heart nearly broke. She touched his arm. "What is the matter, Sheldon?"

"Amy," he explained. "You know I always try to keep my life in order to ward off the forces of chaos and entropy all around us?"

She nodded. "And you do a wonderful job. I can't help but notice, however, that you have on your Tuesday pajamas. But everyone is entitled to a mistake."

"It was no mistake, Amy," he said. "This situation with my hair has taught me that all my efforts at maintaining order apparently had no purpose. I'm six days into my werewolf transformation and the beat goes on." He tapped his drum.

Amy sighed. "I see your point now. But, you should know that this upsetting episode is actually an excellent opportunity to learn about balance."

"How's that?" he said.

She went to answer, but yawned instead. She glanced at the clock: it was 4:14 AM. "Sheldon, how about you come to my room and I explain it there: a bit of pillow talk if you will."

Sheldon shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because that chair in your room is hardly fit to be sat in, much less to sleep in."

"I meant you could lie in the bed."

He was startled by the suggestion. "Oh, no," he said.

"Well, why not?"

He turned away pensively, and then turned back. "But where would you sleep?"

"In the bed, too. We'd sleep together."

His eyes grew large and he shook his head.

"You didn't even think about it."

"Amy, despite my efforts to embrace the chaos, I am not ready for all out anarchy. A measure of propriety is still in order."

"Fine then," she said. "We'll have to continue this conversation in the morning. I have work in a few short hours, and I'm rather tired." She rubbed her eyes.

"Amy?" he began sheepishly. "May I sleep on your couch?"

She nodded. "Of course you can."

"Thank you," he said, clutching his drums as if they were a stuffed animal.

"One moment." She walked to the linen closet and pulled out a few sheets and a pillow case, then dressed the couch as best she could. "Okay," she said after she finished, "Hop in."

He set the drums on the end table, then tentatively walked over to the couch and lay down.

"Goodnight, Amy," he said, contented and drowsy.

"Goodnight Sheldon," she said. She stooped down and kissed him on the forehead. Then she walked over to the light and turned it off. She blindly groped towards the bedroom. "If you change your mind about the bed, you're still welcome… I'm just saying,"

"No thank you," he said. "I'm nice and comfy here."

She nodded, because she was tired, and then walked back to her room.

She wouldn't remember in the morning, but she dreamt all night of Sheldon.

And bongos.