Author's Note: This fic is a coda to episode 7.05, "The Workplace Proximity."
Disclaimer: The Big Bang Theory is an American sitcom created by Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady, and is produced by them along with Steve Molaro. 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.

Sheldon had made his weekly call home as his mother prepared a red velvet cake for the women's ministry study group that was due at her house within the half hour. He was excitedly reaching the climax of his story when she popped it in the oven.

"...At which point," he said, "she began to kick me under the table—a perplexing response that I could only guess was a new form of 'physical contact,' though it was considerably more painful than the others I had mentioned. Naturally, I kicked her back, which made her—"

"I'm sorry, Shelly," Mrs. Cooper said, licking a bit of vanilla frosting off of her finger. "Who are we talking about again?"

"Amy, Mother," Sheldon said, taken aback by this lapse in attention. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course I am," she said, "but your stories have a way of just going on, and on, and on...and on."

"I'm doing my best to keep it brief, Mom, but I swear that woman is nothing if not completely mystifying. It's a wonder I can make heads or tails of what going on in that wily little brain of hers. Lucky for her, she's otherwise delightful or I would have abandoned this exercise in confusion long ago."

"Delightful, huh?" Mrs. Cooper said, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

Sheldon furrowed his brow. "You zero in on the oddest details," he said. "She kicked me under the table!"

Mrs. Cooper ignored the comment. "Let me ask you a question, Shelly," she said, clearing her throat. "When are you and Amy going to stop goofing off and get down to brass tacks?"

Sheldon found this non sequitur perplexing for more reasons than one. "Brass tacks? They are a very antiquated method for posting information. You'll find that Amy and I use FaceTime, Skype, Facebook—and in moments of true silliness—Instagram to keep each other abreast of our goings on. Join the 21st Century, Mom; Missy already said that if you upgraded your phone she would show you how to video chat with me instead of leaving me voice messages saying, 'Read your email.'"

"Dear Lord, I'm not talking about literal brass tacks, Shelly," Mrs. Cooper said. "And for the record, Missy will trade in my phone over my dead body. It took me a long time to reach the python level in the game Snake, and if you think I'm going to throw away all that hard work, then you are as mistaken as you are silly. You play those little video games, so you should understand."

Sheldon sighed, defeated.

"Anyway," Mrs. Cooper said, returning to her original point, "I want to know when you and Amy are going to, well, you know."

Sheldon gasped. "Not you too, Mother! Why is everyone so preoccupied with when we're going to engage in coitus?!"

"COITUS?!" Mrs. Cooper said, nearly knocked from her chair. "I wasn't talking about coitus, sweetheart, although I'm glad to hear y'all haven't defiled your relationship with illicit relations. I just meant that you two should start thinking about, you know, getting engaged, getting married, maybe finding a little house."

"Good Lord," he replied, no less alarmed. "Amy and I have only been together for three years, five months, and 17 days. I ask you: what is the rush?"

"No rush. No rush," Mrs. Cooper said, her brain ticking. "Though, if I'm being honest, it does make one wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"Well, when a man truly cares for a woman, that fondness usually is accompanied by certain...desires."

"Desires," Sheldon repeated calmly. "Like the desire to collaborate on a joint paper?"

"No, no," she said. "More like doing stuff for married folks." She paused. "Shelly, remember that time your dad took you and your brother out to tell you all about the facts of life?"

Sheldon thought a moment. "I do," he said with surprise fondness. "Dad loved that program. He said that you could sign him up for any show that had schoolgirls running around in uniform."

Mrs. Cooper exhaled deeply. "I'm not talking about the show Facts of Life; I'm talking about the other facts of life." She brought the volume of her voice down. "You know, sweetheart—about the hair growing on your little boy parts."

"Ohhh!" Sheldon said, finally realizing what she was referring to. "I remember that night as well. Dad parked outside Uncle Bubba's house and told us, 'Remember sons: no glove no love or she could end up knocked up and you could end up locked up.' Then he took us inside to his poker game. Junior ended up winning a hundred bucks and a pin-up calendar while I was holed up in the bathroom listening to Richard Feynman lectures on my CD Walkman."

Mrs. Cooper shook her head. "That explains a lot," she mumbled.

"A lot about my love for Quantum physics?"

"No. About Junior's love for...well, a lot of things." She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. "Sheldon, I'm trying to make a point here."

"Which is?"

"Do you like Amy? I mean, really like her?"

"Why, of course I do," he insisted. "I told her so just the other night, a fact you would have known if you'd let me finish my story."

"That's fine and dandy, Shelly," Mrs. Cooper said, "but you have to show her."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first off, when y'all're together, you should make her feel like the only woman in the world: wink at her when she's across the room, give her little peck on the cheek when you greet her, or show up to her job sometimes with a bouquet of flowers."

Sheldon snorted derisively.

"What's so funny?" Mrs. Cooper asked.

"Not only are those ideas terribly clichéd, but I think Amy would positively hate them."

"Do you?"

"In fact," he continued, "I can do much better than that."

Mrs. Cooper took a deep breath and crossed her arms. "Let's hear it."

Sheldon nodded, suddenly becoming giddy. "One of the professors at the University is from England and is an old friend of Julian Fellowes."

"Who's Julian Fellowes?"

"The writer for Downton Abbey."

"What's Downton Abbey?"

"A television program Amy's attached to."

"I didn't realize she was one of those rosary rattlers." She tapped her chin. "Or what did Leonard say they were called again?"

"Amy's not a Catholic, Mom; it's just the name of the estate. Keep up. I asked the professor if he would be willing to forward a fan letter from Amy to good ole Mr. Fellowes and—wouldn't you know?—he agreed to."

Mrs. Cooper waited for what surely must be something more, but nothing came. "That's all?"

"That's all? That's all? You haven't heard the best part," he said, literally moving to the edge of his seat. "In reality, the 'fan letter' is a scathing memorandum and withering critique of the plummeting plot points, serious continuity errors and flat-out character abuse that Fellowes has introduced over the course of the last season. More promisingly, it offers some pointed suggestions as to how he can write himself out of this mess."

Mrs. Cooper began to chuckle to herself. "What makes you think he's going to listen to you two?"

Sheldon scoffed. "When confronted with our dazzling ideas, he will be left with little choice."

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. "And Amy will like that?"

Sheldon squinted. "Will she li—. Did you hear me? The letter actually includes suggestions."

Mrs. Cooper smiled in spite of herself as she rose from the table and flicked on the oven light, checking on the cake. Sometimes she worried about him, about whether he'd ever find love or someone to grow old with. Maybe, though, he already had it all figured out. "You know," she said, "you two really are two peas in a pod."

"A most unfitting analogy," he said, "as pods usually contain between eight and twelve peas. Honestly, two people in our relationship are more than enough."

"Like I said," Mary muttered, "two peas in a pod."

"Mom," Sheldon said, remembering something, "I know what I meant to ask you. Were you aware that the phrase—pardon my French—'Don't defecate where you work,' is an expression that suggests one should not work with someone with whom they are romantically involved?"

"Yes," she said dryly. "Why?"

"Because that's another thing Dad told us that night." Sheldon laughed. "I just realized he was talking about you."

Mrs. Cooper closed her eyes and sent up a quick prayer. "Forgive me, Lord," she said, "but I'd be much obliged if you could bring that man back to life so I could kill him all over again."

END NOTE: Thanks for reading and for the reviews. I love y'all.