The Quest of Sheldon Copper

A/N: Disclaimer- The Big Bang Theory belongs to CBS, Warner Bros, Chuck Lorre, Bill Prady. This story is meant simply for entertainment purposes. I would also like to apologise for any spelling, grammar or word misuse errors that occur in this story, I have mild dyslexia, and as such despite my best efforts, they maybe such errors in said story. Now on to the story:


Chapter One: The Hit Man

9:47 22nd September 2018

It was a cold miserable night on the dim streets of one of the smaller cities, somewhere in the south of Oregon. The rain had already started and a then out of the night, a man walked into a bar. He wasn't tall but he was bulky, he had black hair and brown eyes. He was somewhere in his early thirties, he was also reasonably muscular. He was dressed in a trench coat with a fedora making him look like something out of the forties. Slowly he walked up to the bar.

He tapped on the bar; the barkeep looked up, "evening mate," he said calmly, "what's your poison?" "Just give me a pint," the man said calmly, he had a gruff voice. The man handed him his drink, "I'm looking for someone." He said calmly, the barkeep looked up, "who?" he asked suspiciously." "Him," the man said calmly taking a photo out. He tossed it over the bar. The barkeep looked at it before chuckling "oh you mean the Milkman, he's in a room at the back, he said someone might turn up looking for him, shall I tell him you're here and go get him?"

"No I'll see him myself," the man replied calmly, the bartender nodded. As such the man left, the only thought going through his head was why on earth he would call a man like the one he was hunting, "The Milkman?"

He entered the room, making sure to the close the door behind him. His eyes scoured the room, and there at the back, sitting at far a table alone was another man. The man looked at him surprised; it had been two weeks since he had been paid to kill this man, known informally as the "The Doctor," he had been warned this man was dangerous, ruthless, merciless and had destroyed dozens of men just like him and not to underestimate him for even a second. But nothing he saw before him matched any of his expectations.

The man he was facing was tall, but lean, to the point he appeared thin. He had neat brown hair cut in the style of some family friendly fifties TV series. Form his look he would have guessed he was in his late thirties. He had soft blue eyes; his skin was somewhat pale. He was also wearing a trench coat, only his was grey. He sat there seemingly oblivious. What really struck the man was the figure he was looking at was drinking milk. He also held a copy of some science fiction novel in his hand, which he was quickly reading through.

Slowly the man walked forward, he continued to until he was right opposite the table from him. It was a round table, not a very big one. As he stood there, the figure finally looked up and acknowledged his presence. He placed the book down, "yes," he said. He spoke with a slightly unusual accent, refined and probably upper class, yet with undertones that suggested it was fake. "So you're the doctor?" The man said coolly. "I never liked that title," the other man said, not even remotely interested in the use of the code name. "I'm not some time traveling mad man in a box," he said calmly, "I would prefer it if you used my real name," "I've got to say," the other man said ignoring his comments. "I've heard a lot about you," he fished a pistol from underneath his coat and pointed it at the other man's head. Neither man's expression changed.

"And I have to say, Doctor, I'm not impressed." "Very well," the other man replied, "I'm sorry to hear that, but then again why should I care what some street punk thinks?" The Hit man's eyes narrowed, he looked on at him trying to decide if he was serious or being flippant. "Any way, do you have any last requests before I blow your brains out?" The man asked coldly.

The other figure smirked, "you're really going to fire that thing, with everyone else out there and expect to get away with it?" he asked. The man shrugged, "I still get paid regardless, and with your reputation I don't somehow think self-defence is out of the question, though how you attained that reputation is beyond me, from the looks of you I doubt you can bring yourself to kill spiders."

The other figures smile faded, causing the man to smirk "not so brave are you?" he asked, "just one thing?" the other man asked "if I have to die, I would like to know who exactly is sending me to the seventh circle early, so who hired you?" The other man paused, "like I know his actual name, we only speak through a contact." "Then you're no use to me." The other figure replied.

Suddenly he threw his glass up at his face. The milk hit the man in his eyes. He was stunned partially out of loss of sight, mostly out of surprise. The other figure jumped to his feet; with his left hand he knocked the gun out of the man's hand. Before using his right to chop the man to the neck. He hunched down, grasping his neck. The man grabbed his empty glass and smashed it over his head. Knocking the Hit man down to the floor.

He ran round the table so he was behind the man. The man groaned and got to his feet, he was dazed from the trauma. He tried to fight back but the figure grabbed him and held him down, hunching him over above the table. He was stronger than he looked. The next thing the man knew the figure was holding a knife to his throat.

"Now tell me about that contact, or I'll gut you like a fish." The man said, his voice had changed, he now had a deep rural southern accent, normally it would have sounded sweet or at least pleasant the way those accents do, but in the circumstances, following the sudden, blink and your miss it change in the balance of power and the fact he could now die, the man found the change nothing but spine chilling.

"He's a local, called Joe Vancia, middle aged man, of Italian decent," the man sputtered, "your find him in the dark part of town, near the bridge." "Thank you," the other man said calmly, his voice returned to its original accent. "Just one more thing," he said calmly, "I want you to think about every story you've ever heard of about me, every single one, no matter how obscure or strange, no matter how disturbing or unusual or how many different versions of said story there are out there on the streets. Are you thinking about that? Good."

He cleared his throat before continuing; "Now I'm going to tell you something very import, so I want you to listen carefully, making sure you don't miss any details, are you listening?" There was no reply, "I said, ARE YOU LISTENING" he barked. The hit man gulped, sweat pouring down his brow, nothing he had done before had prepared him for this. This guy was clearly a psychopath. "Yes," he managed. "Good," the other man said calmly. "Now here it is… Every single one of those stories you've heard… every last one of them… there all true."

The man gulped and the other man smiled, "Now then, now you have that in mind, I want to let you know I'm not going to kill you." The man let out a sigh of relief; thank God he was going to live. "After if I killed everyone, who would tell the stories," the other man continued "and that's what I want you to do, tell this story, spread it to all, to everyone and keep on spreading, that way the people I'm coming for will know I'm coming for them and they will also know just what I'm capable of."

The hit man couldn't nod, but made it clear he understood. The other man smiled. "Just one thing," the Hit man managed, still scared, "Who are you?" he asked in a quavering voice. The other man snarled, before calming down, smiling and then leaning in close. "My name…" he whispered, he paused for a second before carrying on "and make note as I'm not going to repeat this," he paused again, "Is Doctor… Sheldon…Lee…Cooper."

And with that he suddenly pulled the knife back and smacked the figure on the back of the head. He was knocked down into the table and was unconscious instantly. Sheldon looked down, and shook his head, just another Hit man who thought he had hit the jackpot. He pocketed his knife and took the mans gun. He first emptied then pocketed the magazine. He then grabbed his book, turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Leaving his wannabe assassin to sleep.

He walked passed the bar, "hang on you haven't paid," the bartender shouted, Sheldon turned, "don't worry," he said, "my friend said he would pay for the drinks, he should be out in a moment, he was just finishing his." He said this before turning and quickly walking out in the cold rain. There was work to be done.


Well that's the first chapter; sorry its short, but I decided it was for the best to see if anyone is interested in this sort of story, before I wrote it. As such I assume you have a lot of questions, and if enough people are interested, I will answer them all in the second instalment, which I should publish soon, assuming that is, enough of you want to read it.

As such please review; whether or not I scrap this storyline depends on it.