Disclaimer: I own nothing but my terrible fiction. I profit from none of this (come on, let's be realistic) and I mean no offence through opinions expressed in the characters' point of view.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the positive feedback (and some good old Freudian dream interpretation! ;) ), I'm glad you enjoyed that first chapter. So here's the second one – this time from Sheldon's POV, and a lot saucier! Here's to hoping you will enjoy my word vomit.

Warnings: Awkward masturbation, ahoy! Sorry for the spoiler. Also some explicit hints of Leonard/Penny. What's that called? Peonard? Lenny?

II.

At first glance Dr. Sheldon Cooper appeared to be a reasonably ordinary man – looking considerably younger than his age, clean shaven, tidy, sporting a vintage Lego man hairstyle, with a fondness for superhero t-shirts, long sleeves and checkered trousers.

And then he would speak just a few words, and cause an interestingly heterogeneous mixture of reactions in unsuspecting interlocutors and those who happened to be at earshot.
Heads would often turn, and those who already knew him also knew well to steer clear of him; something which most would do unless they happened to be in the cafeteria staff, contractually yet begrudgingly bound to serve him his infuriatingly elaborate lunch.
If statistics were to be drawn up detailing the most popular sentiments to come to the mind of those who found themselves in the presence of Dr. Cooper , the general feeling would be something along the lines of 'what an insufferable oddball', closely followed by 'what a giant, pompous douche'.

But it wasn't entirely correct, and that was a fact only a few were privy to, a few who were both cursed and blessed by the almost impossible-to-attain honour of being in Dr. Cooper's close circle of 'friends'. Armed with an infinite supply of patience, they would often claim that he didn't know better, that he did not behave so rudely on purpose, that his air of dismissive superiority was something he could not help – that he was loveably weird.

And then there was Amy Farrah Fowler.
Quite possibly the only person who, in Sheldon's magnificently brilliant mind, could hope to match the homo novus' intellectual prowess.

When he first initiated their friendship, Sheldon had hoped to establish a relationship based solely on their shared interests on an intellectual level; it had worked beautifully at first, communicating on a daily basis with face-to-face meetings no more than once a week, sharing opinions on the world around them like curious but detached observers of a decadent spectacle.
They were raised above the crowd, the two of them, and she'd easily gained a comfortable slot in his scarce collection of friends.

Then things had started to change, and Sheldon was not a fan of change of any kind, being a creature of precise schedules and impeccable routine. He believed that owing to Penny's noxious influence Amy had started to morph into someone different, into a coquettish vixen with a fixation for the mundane and social conventions, and was slowly retreating to that tedious box wherein the rest of the world bustled about like a busy ant-hill, limited by their own narrow perception; what Sheldon failed to acknowledge, however, was that it was neither Amy nor himself who were undergoing a metamorphosis, but the nature of their progressing relationship.
He'd hoped for it to be stagnant and immovable; certainty gave him comfort, and the thrill of the unexpected was not so much a thrill as a frankly terrifying dive into the abyss of the unknown.

He had not been without faults of his own. He'd let it happen. All of it. He'd initiated their friendship, and he'd initiated their relationship by officially requesting she become his girlfriend.
He had been afraid to lose her, and had proven willingness to make exceptions in order to accommodate her presence in his life.
He kept telling himself that it would have been a true shame to let all that effort into getting to know each other go to waste, after all, especially since the haughty scientist had more than just a little trouble with establishing bonds of trust.

And now that things had changed, he had been unwilling to go back and terminate everything.
Moreover, the thought of Amy having what they had with some other man did things to his bile he did not want to linger on particularly.

"You're distracted."

Amy's delayed voice droned from the speakers of Sheldon's laptop.

"Mh." he gave her a look, at a loss for words that could explain his behaviour.

"I guess my research on the effects of opiates addiction on primates is beneath you." she sounded snappish and irritable. Always a troublesome combination in a woman.

"Well, yes—" he began, but instantly earnt a scathing glare from the neurobiologist who was taking up his entire screen and was, quite frankly, a little grotesque. "But that does not make it less impressive." he quickly added, not sounding entirely convincing; but he guessed that was enough for Amy, who conceded a shrug after a thoughtful pause.

"It's getting late. I'm going to bed." she announced, showing she'd had enough of Sheldon's apparent indifference; the brilliant scientist, however, preferred to think of it otherwise, and conceded that she must have indeed been very tired.

"Well, alright." he inclined his head at the screen, flashing her a somewhat condescending smile. "You go get an adequate and satisfactory amount of rest, Amy Farrah Fowler."

"Yes. Goodnight, Sheldon." she was quick to close the lid of her laptop. A little too quick.
Sheldon frowned at the screen for a few moments, wondering if he'd said or done something wrong. Moments later he dismissed it with a roll of his shoulders and shook his head resignedly, exclaiming an exasperated "Ah, women!" to no one in particular – Leonard was in fact staying at Penny's apartment for the night (thankfully, he thought, since the noise cancelling headphones did very little to shield his precious ears from the unattractive howling and screeching they produced).

11:00 PM. He was lying in bed, perfectly supine and symmetrically aligned with the centre of the mattress. He'd gone through his nightly routine consisting of no less than 39 steps required to prepare for a good night's sleep and was very much ready to mentally recite the periodic table to soothe himself to sleep when it happened.

A loud thump against the front door. Sheldon held his breath, eyes wide and unblinking beneath his sleeping mask. He dared not move a muscle, suddenly terrified he was about to become yet another statistic in Pasadena's crime ratings. Owing to his 'Vulcan' hearing, however, he soon picked up on the clumsy but reassuring fumbling of keys being handled by hands guided by an alcohol-addled brain; after an excruciating barrage of giggling, growling, and drunken nonsense the merry couple finally managed to stumble inside the apartment before slamming the door carelessly, wholly inconsiderate of whomever might be trying to get some sleep.
Hint: a future Nobel-prize winner.

In less than two minutes Leonard and Penny had breached at least fifteen clauses in the Amended Roommate Agreement, modified to include a Penny specific section, but he was too tired to confront them and suspected they wouldn't be paying him much heed at all in the hazy blur of their drunkenness.
Then, after what Sheldon defined as a small eternity, the booze infested duo finally dragged their sluggish backsides over to Leonard's bedroom to continue their germ-ridden, drunken revelries therein, forcing the physicist to blindly reach for his noise cancelling headphones on the bedside table with an irritable huff.

He was about to slip them on when an audible female moan rose above the fumbling of bed sheets and the creaking of bedsprings. Here we go again, he thought. A full fifteen minutes of coital shenanigans and unleashing of animalistic urges to be expected.

His fingers, however, refused to move and comply. They deliberately ignored his brain's stern command. A grave frown crawled across his brow, and he insistently urged his central nervous system to resume working properly , but a string of disturbingly wanton mewls then insinuated themselves in his unsuspecting ears amidst ragged panting; Oh Lord, he thought, I don't think I ever got this far into it, and it is already driving me insane.

He began to experience those disturbing symptoms he dreaded and knew all too well, but had always fought hard to conceal and repress those base urges through the wise teachings of the Kolinahr ritual. Beads of sweat began to form in a circle across his forehead, the palms of his hands began to exude suspiciously and he felt an overpowering heat spread at an alarming rate in his lower regions and limbs, inflaming his nerve endings with a tingling warmth. No no no no, he thought, don't you dare rush downwards. Stay with me, right here, in the brain.

….

Oh, drat!
Foolish blood flow.

"Oh-oh fuck, Leonard-!" Penny's high pitched cry pierced through the wall and his sensitive ears, almost as fastidious as her coarse speech.

How shamelessly vulgar, he thought. Is that sort of filthy language necessary when engaging in coitus? If only she could hear herself when she's sobered up, she would be ashamed of herself. In fact, I probably ought to record this and-

"Mmnh, Oh-oh—Sheldon."

What.

Amy Farrah Fowler?

Get out of my head. You get yourself and your dangerously seductive ways out of my head now and go engage in some higher pursuit.

He really, really didn't want it to get to where he was forced to get out of bed and take the third shower of the day. It would be breaking his daily ablutions schedule and that was a no-no.

But darnit, he just couldn't stop thinking about her and her beautiful ches—mind. Her beautiful mind. But there was a woman beneath that lab coat. A real woman. A curvaceous, gorgeous seductress. And she was his girlfriend. Sheldon tried to forget that fact with all of his might, which admittedly wasn't all that mighty, but right now his ears were ringing with the rush of boiling blood and filled with the racket of next-door coitus, his cheeks were burning and his nether regions were throbbing relentlessly, shamelessly begging for his attention. There was no denying, coital urges struck down even the strongest when the right temptation was offered in the luscious shape of Amy Farrah Fowler.

'Little' Sheldon was winning this one. And it hadn't happened since that damnable occasion back in 1995, 3rd of January, a cold winter's night, wherein it had gotten so out of hand that he had been forced to resort to the only available solution when Kolinahr inexplicably failed and a freezing shower was out of the question; namely, taking it into his slightly inexpert hand(s). Scientific curiosity had lent the aid he needed in order to thereafter justify it as an experiment, even though it had been the fifth time that year.

You can do it, Sheldon. This should be easy.

He inhaled a deep, deep breath. Oh sweet Lord, this is ridiculous. So damnably juvenile.

Shut up, Sheldon Lee Cooper. Get to work. It's as easy as a staircase. Up and down, up and down.

Trembling fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, hesitant and clammy. Meanwhile Leonard and Penny were reaching the peak of their brief crescendo, culminating their coital interlude with some disturbing mesh of asthmatic grunting and coyote-like howling.
The damage, however, had been done. Thank you very much, you ridiculous insatiable horn-dogs.

But the blame was better pinned on that vixen who now haunted his thoughts—or rather, Sheldon's strange version of what would normally be classed as sexual fantasies, something which he hadn't conceded himself since he kind-of-sort-of hit puberty in a brief spurt and never spoke of it nor thought about it again. That had been an embarrassing bump on the road to growing up.
But here he was, many years later and fallen prey to that hideous trap again, like an inexperienced novice on the way of perfectly emotionless excellence, devoid of any physical urges.

Meanwhile his fingers decided they'd had enough of Sheldon's brain blabbering and had mindlessly wrapped around the pulsing girth of his swelling erection, something he could no longer ignore given that it was taking up all the painstakingly measured space of his pyjama bottoms, rendering his sizing chart utterly futile, much to his dismay.

Drat.

But oh, did it feel sinfully good. A tantalising shiver borne of pure electricity snaked down the entire length of his spine, sizzling through the ramifications of his nerves, leaving a heated, tingling wake of unbridled sexual pleasure. He was barely able to stifle a suffered groan, inwardly chiding himself for almost letting an involuntary noise slip out.
No. You're already breaking your precious vows of abstinence. You're not allowed to do that whilst sounding like a common gigolo, Sheldon Coope- nngh! Oh-!

It had been slow and tentative at first, almost sluggish and unconvincing; but now he was picking up speed and a firmer, more regular pace in his clumsy strokes, with fingers curled in a tightening cage around his hard shaft, occasionally squeezing the velvety flesh to elicit more of that forbidden friction. Muscles tensed and quivered as he inadvertently lifted his thighs from the mattress, hips begrudgingly bucking into his hand, snapping upwards in erratic thrusting as instinct gradually took over and compelled him to do what felt good, and do it fast before his mind regained control.

What made it better and worse was the vivid image of Amy Farrah Fowler's invitingly soft figure, her curves barely outlined by her oversized lab coat, her chocolate-brown hair gently draped over her slightly hunched, round shoulders and touching her collarbone, mere inches above her supple bosom. The sheer horrifying shame of defiling the brilliant woman's beautiful mind and their platonic connection somewhat sped up the process, guilt galloping alongside an unstoppable excitement; it was odd how shame and guilt were directly proportional to arousal and a successful ejaculation.

He was panting heavily now; fingers worked faster, frenziedly as he lost his rhythm to jerking motions made frantic by the approaching ascent to his inevitable release, which had been building up for quite some time now and threatened to be quite fierce in nature. A few short, quick strokes later Sheldon's entire body stilled to reach the maximum point of tension before flashes of blinding white streaked his vision, teeth fiercely sank into his lower lip to stifle a strangled moan, and his thick manhood twitched and pulsed beneath his fingertips, shooting his hot seed in abundant spurts against the tenting front of his bottoms.

It took him precisely twenty-three seconds to wind down from the post-coital bliss, regain control of his breathing and feel his seed pool into an uncomfortably cold and sticky mess on his lower abdomen and form an irritating wet patch on the fabrics of his jammies, right over his now perfectly content, perfectly sated and flaccid member. The damnable rapscallion. The consequent release of endorphins was short lived, and not as enjoyable as it could have been. A shameful guilt in fact suddenly assailed him, making his gut churn uncomfortably and his chest tighten.
He couldn't think about her without feeling overwhelmingly nauseated, instantly reminded of how he'd sullied her image with his disgustingly juvenile and hormone-dominated fantasies. How on God's sweet Earth was he going to be able to look at her in the eye after what he'd done to their supposed 'relationship of the mind'? She could not know of this. Ever.

Oh, perfect (That was sarcasm). Now I have to take three showers and change into a clean pair of pyjamas.

End of Chapter II.