aFireFist
Cameos in The Big Bang Theory
Chapter 11 - Part 2
There was a pause. Leonard kept walking. A car passed with its headlights still on.
"A dog is operating laboratory equipment," Sheldon said.
"Yes. Centrifuges. For blind scientists. They can't see the balance, so the dogs are learning to listen for the beep. It's complicated. I can't leave."
"That is an inefficient use of canine cognitive capacity. Dogs lack the fine motor control required for precise rotor loading. Also, the ethical review for animal-assisted instrumentation would have taken months." Sheldon coughed once, wet and low. "My temperature has been rising since approximately two a.m. The curve is consistent with exponential growth. Mucus has transitioned from clear to a milky green. I need soup."
"Make soup."
"There is no soup in the apartment. I checked the cabinets and the refrigerator. The only liquids present are water, orange juice, and the remaining gelatin, which is not soup."
"Order it."
"I cannot reliably operate the telephone while febrile. My hands are unsteady and my vision is affected by the sinus pressure. Also, I may pass out on the way to the door. You should return."
"I can't. The dogs." Leonard turned the corner and kept walking. The sidewalk was empty. "Rest. Fluids. I'll check in later."
He hung up before Sheldon could list more symptoms. Two blocks later he sat on a bench outside a closed coffee shop and called Howard. The bench was cold through his jeans.
Howard answered on the fourth ring, voice low. "If this is about the thing from last week, I'm not—"
"Code Milky Green," Leonard said.
Howard went quiet. In the background a woman's voice asked who was calling and whether he wanted eggs or the waffles from yesterday. Howard covered the phone. The muffling was imperfect. Leonard heard him say it was work.
"Code what," he said when he came back.
"Milky green. Sheldon's sick. Actual sick. Mucus color changed. He's already asking for soup and a blanket adjustment. Fever since two. He sounded bad."
"Jesus." Howard's mother said something else, closer to the phone this time. He ignored it. "How long."
"Eighteen to twenty-four hours. Maybe less if he sleeps. We do not go back until the fever breaks or he stops calling. That's the rule."
"Raj?"
"Calling him next. Planet of the Apes marathon at the Rialto. All day. Ape masks in the lobby if you want them. They had them last time."
Howard exhaled. The sound was tired. "My mother is making breakfast. I'll be there by nine. Do not answer if he calls again. If you answer, he'll keep you on the phone until the soup arrives."
"I won't."
Leonard called Raj from the same bench. Raj answered on the second ring, listened without interrupting, and said he would meet them at the theater. He did not ask how bad it was. They had used the code before. The rules were simple and had been written on a whiteboard once before someone erased them: do not enter the apartment, do not accept a request for soup, do not let Sheldon hear your voice if you can avoid it.
At the theater the lobby smelled like popcorn and the carpet cleaner they used between shows. The smell was stronger near the concession stand. Howard arrived with a paper bag and an expression that said he had left mid-argument. His hair was still damp at the edges. Raj was already in line for tickets, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, shoulders rounded like he was trying to take up less space. Leonard bought three tickets and they went in.
The first film started at ten. They sat in the back with the masks on their laps. The seats were worn. On screen, Charlton Heston rode through the desert. The image was bright enough that Leonard could see the fine scratches on the print. Howard leaned over, voice low.
"He called me twice while I was in the car," he said. "I didn't pick up. Voicemail is full of mucus updates. He described the color three different ways. One of them involved a paint swatch."
"Good," Leonard said.
Raj nodded. He had the mask in his hands and was turning it over, looking at the elastic. "We're clear until at least dinner. Maybe later if the marathon runs long. They usually add a short between the third and fourth."
Leonard's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked the screen under the edge of his jacket, saw Sheldon's name, and turned it face down on his thigh. The vibration stopped. On the screen the apes were already winning. In the apartment, Sheldon was still under the comforter with a tray of lime gelatin cultures and a measuring cup that had once held pancake batter. The sticky note was still on the tray. The time had not changed.
He would get up eventually. He would want soup. He would remember that Penny worked at a restaurant that served it. Leonard did not think about that yet. He watched the movie and kept his phone on silent and told himself eighteen hours was a reasonable amount of time to be somewhere else. The desert on the screen kept moving. Howard passed him a napkin from the paper bag without looking away from the film. Raj put the mask on, adjusted the elastic, and took it off again when it fogged his glasses. None of them answered when Leonard's phone lit up a second time. The vibration died against his thigh. On screen the apes kept winning.
Sheldon made it to the bus stop with the comforter still around his shoulders and a tissue box under one arm. The morning was bright enough to hurt his eyes. He kept his head down and breathed through his mouth because his nose had stopped working somewhere between the apartment door and the sidewalk. The tissue box was half-empty already. On the bus he sat in the front row and did not touch the rail. The plastic seat was cold through the thin pajama pants. Two stops later a woman got on with a toddler in a stroller. The child coughed once. Sheldon shifted the comforter higher around his neck and stared at the floor until they passed him and sat three rows back. He counted the stops in his head and did not look up again until the Cheesecake Factory sign appeared through the front window.
The restaurant was already open for brunch. The host stand had a short line of people in regular clothes. Sheldon walked past it in his pajamas and the comforter and stopped at the edge of the dining room. A server in a black shirt looked at him, then at the host, then back at him. The host opened her mouth. Sheldon did not wait. He stood there with the tissue box under one arm and the comforter slipping off one shoulder, eyes half-closed against the overhead lights.
Penny came out of the kitchen with a tray of waters. She saw him and stopped. The tray stayed level in both hands. Her work shirt was the usual black, fitted across her tits, sleeves rolled once so the cuffs sat just below her elbows. Her jeans were the dark pair she wore on the floor; they sat snug on her ass and thighs when she turned, the denim pulling across the curve when she shifted her weight. A few strands of hair had come loose from the clip at the back of her head.
"Sheldon."
"I require soup," he said. His voice was thicker than it had been on the phone, congested and low. "You are the carrier. I am now symptomatic. The restaurant is at risk. Customers should be informed."
A couple at the nearest table looked over. The woman had a fork halfway to her mouth. Penny set the tray down on an empty stand and crossed to him, steps quick and quiet on the tile.
"You're in your pajamas," she said, low enough that only he could hear. "And you're sweating through that blanket. Sit down before you fall down."
"I cannot sit in the dining room. I am shedding. Proximity increases transmission probability."
"Then sit in the back. Come on."
She took his elbow through the comforter and steered him past the host stand, down the short hall that led to the employee bathroom and the dry-storage door. The hall smelled like the lemon cleaner they used on the floors and the faint grease from the kitchen. The bathroom was single-occupancy, white tile, a paper-towel dispenser that never quite closed. The mirror had a water spot near the bottom. She locked the door behind them and pointed at the closed toilet lid.
"Sit. I'll get you soup. What kind."
"Split pea. Small frankfurter slices. Homemade croutons. My mother made it. The croutons were cubed and toasted with butter."
Penny's mouth tightened. She crossed her arms under her tits. The shirt pulled. "We have chicken noodle and tomato. That's it until the lunch specials go up. No split pea. No tiny hot dogs. No homemade anything."
Sheldon considered this with his eyes half-closed. The fever made the calculation slower than he liked. His head felt heavy. "Chicken noodle is acceptable if the broth is not overly salted. I did not consider delivery. That is an error. The fever is already affecting executive function. I should have accounted for third-party logistics."
"Yeah. I got that." She wet a paper towel at the sink and pressed it to the side of his neck. He flinched at the cold, then stayed still. The paper towel darkened against his skin. "You look like shit. Why didn't you stay home and wait for Leonard."
"Leonard is training dogs to operate centrifuges. He is unavailable. Also, I may lose consciousness on public transit. Organ harvesting is a documented risk in that scenario. Unattended febrile individuals on buses have been targeted."
Penny stared at him. The wet paper towel dripped once onto the comforter. "You're serious."
"I am always serious about organ harvesting. The statistics are not encouraging."
She exhaled through her nose. "Okay. Soup. Then you're going home. I'll call Leonard myself if I have to. Sit there. Don't touch anything else."
She left him on the toilet lid with the wet paper towel and came back six minutes later with a bowl, a spoon, and a stack of napkins. The soup was hot enough to steam. The smell of chicken and noodles cut through the lemon cleaner. Sheldon ate three careful spoonfuls, blew his nose into a fresh tissue from the box, and held the tissue up between them.
"Is this closer to sage or to chartreuse," he asked. The mucus was thick. The color sat somewhere between the two.
Penny looked at the tissue, then at the ceiling, then back at him. "It's green. Eat your soup."
He ate. Between bites he listed symptoms in the same tone he used for lab notes: temperature trajectory since 2 a.m., mucus viscosity, the precise location of the sinus pressure behind his left eye, the way his chest felt tight when he inhaled. Penny stood with her arms crossed under her tits and listened because leaving him alone in the employee bathroom felt worse than staying. The fan hummed. Outside, a server called an order number. When the bowl was half empty he set the spoon down. Broth clung to the side.
"I require additional care," he said. "My chest is congested. Manual percussion would help mobilize the mucus. Also, the fever is producing an atypical physiological response that I would prefer not to address in the dining room."
Penny's eyebrows went up. She uncrossed her arms. "What kind of response."
Sheldon adjusted the comforter across his lap. The front of his pajama pants had tented under the fabric. The outline was clear. He did not look at it. "Increased blood flow to the genital region. It is not uncommon during febrile states in some individuals. Peripheral vasodilation combined with elevated core temperature can produce the effect. It is inconvenient. I cannot return to the apartment in this condition without risking further public exposure."
For the Full 9871 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!